Ve Centuries of English Verse - Forgotten Books

VE CENTURIE S OF

ENGL ISH VERSE

IMPRE SS IONS

W ILLIAM STEBBINGHON . FE LLOW OF W ORCESTE R COLLEQE , OXFOR D

AUTHOR OF‘si R W ALTE R RALEGH : A B IOGRAPH Y .

‘TRUTH S OR TRU ISMS ’

PART S I AND 1 1

IN T W O VOLUMES

VOL. 11 : W ORDSW ORTH TO T ENNYSON

REVISED ED IT IONOF

‘ THE POETS : CHAUCER TO T ENNYSON

IMPRESSIONS

HENRY FROW D E

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON,EDINBURGH ,

GLASGOW

NEW YORK,TORONTO , MELBOURNE ,

BOMBAY1 9 1 3

B Y THE SAME AUTH OR

THREE ES SAY S : P o sthumo us Fame , T o le r atio n , and B r ill ian t Fai lur e s . C r . 8vo . 6d . n e t.

TRUTHS OR TRUISMS (Part 8vo . 43 . n e t ;

also o n Oxfo rd Ind ia paper , 63 . n e t.

CONTENTS : The D ead Hand—N e cessar y Nuisances— H ow to

Quarrel— Counsels o f Pe rfection —Eccen tr ics —Great— Freedom-Do ing W ithout— Clerical Err o rs— Cour tesy— Self-deceptionThe Mar riage Lo tte ry—A N ew Law o f Libel—T empe rflD e

Jure D e Facto—The!E lder Sister— H ow to Make the M o st o f

Life— Memo ry—August 29 , 1 905— Putting the Brain in to C om

mission—Thro ugh W ho se Glasses —Cupbo ards —In since r ities—Popularity .

TRUTHS OR TRUISMS (Part I I). 8vo . 43 . n e t ;

also o n Oxfo rd Ind ia pape r , 63 . n e t .

CONT ENTS : Vices we co uld spare—Our great Pr o se Po em

Pauperizing Dinne r-table T alk Co n cern ing W ar— Atoms

W ith o ne Consent they mad e Excuse —The Shadow o f Crime

—June 2 2,1 9 1 I

—Readable— Sophists—Sen satio n s Even as

this Publican —Pleasure in Art— C rue lty— The Ideal N ews

paper Les grands H ommes Méco nnus VVhy—H ow—and

W hom It is mo re Blessed to G ive than to Rece ive - Shake

speare’

s B ro the r-Dramatists—Inconce ivably Incompatible— Man

Anticipated—A newCirculating Library .

VOL . I I

TABLE OF CONTENTS

WILLI AM WORDSW ORTH

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGEROBERT SOUTHEYVVALTER SCOTTJAM E S HOGGWALTER SAVAGE LAN DORTHOMAS MOORELEI GH HUN TLORD BYRONPERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYJOHN KE AT SCHARLE S WOLF E

HENRY HAR T MILM ANJOHN KEBLEJOHN HENRY NEW M ANTHOMAS HOODELI ZAB ETH BARRETT BROW NIN GCHARLE S KIN GSLEYRALPH WALDO EM ERSONEDGAR ALLAN POEHENRY WADSW ORTH LONGFELLOWJAM E S RUSSELL LOW ELL

EDW AR D FITZGERALD

4 CONTENTS

COVE NTRY PATMOREDANTE GABRI EL ROSSE TTIWILLI AM MORRI SALGERNON CHARLE S SW IN BURN EARTHUR HUGH CLOUGHMATTHE W AR NOLD

ROBERT BROW N IN GALFRED TENNYSON

UN CLASSEDCON CLUSION S ”

8

INDEX OF FIRST WORDS 415—431

BIB THS AND DEATHS 435—440

FIVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE

lVlLL IAM VVORD SW ORTH

1 770— 1 850

AN Evange list among the heathen fo r thirty years .

Supreme Pon tifi fo r twenty . W hat is he n ow ?

No student o f lite rature can do ubt what he was . Inthe histo ry o f learning Crusade s are n o no ve ltie s . The

clo se o f the e ighte enth an d e arlie r part o f the ninete enthcenturie s had a monopo ly o f crusading in po etry . Go e thean d Schi lle r in Ge rmany ; d e Musse t , Victo r Hugo ,

withthe Romanticists

,in France ; Wo rdswo rth

,at the head

'

o f

the Lake Scho o l , in England , sang an d fought,sang to

fight . Elizabe than po ets waged n o wars they we re disco vere rs without be ing

,in the realm o f fancy

,buccanee rs

,

as some o f them we re o n the Spanish Main . These o the rswe re invade rs o f e stablishe d kingdoms

,as we re the Israe l

ite s o f Canaan . Of all the combatant po e ts Wo rdswo rthhad se t himse lf the harde st task , an d wo n the mo st signalvicto ry . His hand was against eve ry man . In the rudebattle he d id n o t shun to wound anatural ally— a fo re runne r ,like Cowper

,in the onslaught upon po e tic diction

,an

Obse rver o f rural life,like Thomson A fanatic doubtle ss

at once o f wide views , an d narrow ; but it was he who ,

though in the panoply o f a Captain; fighting fo r the mo stpart alone

,taught how to replace po e tic phrase s an d

commonplace s by po e tic id e as clo the d in plain,pure

English,with rhythm to matchf Abo ve all

,it is to him

6 FIVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE

mainly that lite rature owe s the so lemn inauguration o f the

wo rship o f Nature .

He thr ew down ,an d he built up . Though undo ubte dly

he ralde d by Cowpe r , he substantially opene d the n ew age

Of English ve rse , which clo se s fo r us with Tennyson . His

famous bre thren in song , mo re o r le ss unconsciously , evenmo cking Byron , underwent his influence

,while they vaunte d

the ir independence . The late r po e try o f the ninete enthcentury has been , as a who le

,though with an addition o f

me lo dy,o f hi s house an d lineage . He accomplished a grand

wo rk in virtue o f splendid poe tic gifts , extrao rdinary philosophic insight

,and o bstinate

,indomitable courage . As

ne ce ssary a property fo r him,I fear

,was

,as fo r many great

po e ts,an abso lute

,an d

,in his case

,inno cent

,incapacity

fo r re cognizing the existence o f singe rs be side s himse lf .Is it an inte lligible contradiction in te rms to say that ,whi le he was addicte d to warm mo ral indignation

,an d

admiration,he had a co ld heart ? An absence o f the

sense o f humo ur was a part o f his e quipment which was ,pe rhaps

,e ssential . If it blinde d him to absurditie s in the

exaggeration o f his critical pr in ciple s , it also ste e led himagainst igno rant ridicu le . Gallantly he flung down befo readve rsarie s

,whom his inspiration bewilde re d an d enrage d

n o le ss than his e ccentricitie s,the gauntle t o f his Pe te r Be ll ,

weather co ckless Kilve,Childle ss Timo thy

,Expo stulation

an d Reply,with divers mo re as strange Then

,when the

po e t ceased to sing un le ss to an inne r circle,what wisdo m

still , what understanding o f the soul o f things The prie stremaine d , with the inhe rent sanctity which had justified hiso riginal inve stitu re with the po e t ’s mantle . W e fe e l himre ady to go on prophe sying shou ld the commission berenewe d ; blissfully unconscious o f the prbbable Ne ve r .Lite rary histo ry shows few mo re pathe tic figure s than the

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 7

o ld man,when visible within the diminishe d circle o f his

disciple s a righte ous witne ss an d zealo t,eager to de fend

the cause o f poe tical truth as in youth ; with n o fo e s tomo ck an d pe rse cute him none fo r him to ban an d burnclad in sace rdo tal robe s above his armour ; se eming toa care le ss

,un grate fu l wo rld to be sacrificing co ld-dead

victims on a co ld -dead altar .I canno t but re co gni ze that the mass o f his ve rse has

ceased to please . That is the common fate o f po e try inbu lk . It must be conce ded that the ru le applie s e speci

ally he re . Ordinary reade rs even with a taste fo r po e tryare satisfied with a fraction o f hi s . As it happens

,the few

favourite s are generally the fruit o f earlie r years . Butcomparisons o f age may we l l be o f inte re st fo r students o flite rature ; they d o n o t affe ct the que stion o f abso lutemerit . W hen I am cho o sing pie ce s to make my own

,an d

lo ve,I d o n o t conside r date s . Similarly I d o n o t conce rn

myse lf with Wo rdswo rth ’s phi lo sophy,unle ss so far as it was

the mo tive fo r a po em,an d co lo u rs it . As it happened , the

philo sophy was o f a kind to bear a ve ry intimate re lationto the po e try . The scheme o f it was the pre -e xistence Of

spirit in an ange lic state ,'

an d its n ew birth into a n ew

o rde r o f Nature prepared fo r it by the Divine Archite ct .The fabric

,with its appo inte d centre an d lo rd , was de signe d

to be admirably fair an d happy .

'

I n all its constituents , fromman to beast

,to the flo we rs o f the fie ld

,mo untain an d

valley,winds and wate rs

,it was me ant to deve lop by the

law o f its be ing into beau ty,mutually grate ful loving-kind

ne ss,sympathy

,symme try

,an d harmony .

As a thinke r he se ems to have fashioned fo r himse lfsome such system as this fo r o ur globe . Be ing a poe tbo rn he was in the habit o f summo ning inspiration to

mini ste r to the ide a . I can unde rstand the fascination to


his e le ct disciple s o f watching the re lation in his ve rse o f

the two powe rs , the two characte rs . A distinct chapte rin psycho logy might be devo ted to the manne r in whichthe the o ry n ow an d again subdue s imagination to itsse rvice n ow an d again

,though mo re in youth than age ,

while answe ring the summons , snatche s up the Philo sophe r ,an d carrie s him ,

n o t whe re he , but whe re the Po e t , would .

It is n o t our pro vince here to inqu ire whe the r he wereprimarily Po e t be cause Phi lo sopher , o r Philo sopher be causePo e t . Fo r o ur pu rpo se it is enough to appre ciate hisdo ctrine that Nature lo ve s to clo the all her wo rks withbeau ty ; that she wishe s he r principal creature ,

man,to

see it,enjoy it , comple te it ; to imitate he r in lo ve an d

go o dne ss to all ; that he o ught to learn from the

e xce llence— Of Divine o rigin— in he r an d he rs,how clo se ly

he is linke d to Heaven . W e ne e d n o t,to di sco ve r the Po e t

in him,endeavour to pie ce to ge the r a comple te system o ut

o f his verse . Let us de light o urse lve s with its charm ,

whe reve r we fin d it— n o t quarre lling with the swe e tne ssbe cause the honeycomb may be hidden among the bone so f a de ad lion o f thought .To take Offence at Wo rdswo rth be cause the philo so phe r

in him is,it must be acknowle dge d

,ne ve r very

'

far o ff,

wo u ld be to banish ourse lve s from his kingdom o f po e tryaltoge the r . Ideas

,vast an d lo fty

,ar e constantly discernible ,

willing to ho ld alo o f o r approach,as the reade r will . Whe re

an y o f them insist upon asso ciating themse lve s with themelo dy, we lcome them ; fo r the claim pro ve s them an d

the inspiration to be o n e . Throughout ample space s o f

garden-land whe re he re igns,thought

,even fo r tho se who

d o n o t de lve an d mine in it,adds atmo sphere an d a sense

o f myste ry . W ho can account it ill in a po e t that to hiseye s Nature is always longing to d emonstrate he rse lf to


be bo th de lightful an d be n e ficen t I In a legion o f instance she cou ld n o t have done be tte r po e tically had he be ensearching fo r beau ty with as little he ed to a le sson fro mi t as an Elizabe than minstre l o f lo ve . He could havepro duce d n o mo re spontane ous apparitions o f me tricalswe e tne ssLucy is n o t the le ss lyrically lo ve ly that she impe rsonate s

Nature ’s ideal wo rkmanshipThe floating clouds the ir state shall lendTo he r fo r her the willow bendNo r shall she fail to see

Even in the mo tions o f the Sto rmGrace that shall mould the

'

Maiden’

s formBy silent sympathy.The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her and she shall lean he r earIn many a secret placeWhere rivu lets dance their wayward round ,An d beau ty bo rn of murmuring soundShall pass into her face .

1

Do om to an e arly death has n o t the le ss patho s in itthat it may exemplify Nature ’s se rene compo sure inbringing fo rth flowers n o t the le ss exquisite that they willfade °

She dwe lt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove ,A Maid whom there we re none to praiseAnd very few to loveA vio le t by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the ey e

Fair as a star, when only o n eIs shining in the sky.

She lived unkn own, and few could knowWhen Lu cy ceased to be

B ut she is in he r grave , and ,Oh,

The d ifie re nce to me 1 2


He re is an analysis o f the stage s o f pe rfe ct wo manho o dShe was a Phantom of de lightWhen first she gleamed upon my “sightA love ly Apparition, sentTo be a moment’s o rnamentHer eyes as stars of Twilight fairLike Twilight’s, too , her dusky hairB ut all things e lse about her drawnFrom May

-time an d the che erful DawnA dan cing Shape , an Image gay ,

To haunt, to startle , an d waylay.And n ow I se e with eye sereneThe very pulse Of the machine ;A Being breathing thoughtful breath,A Trave lle r be twe en life and deathThe reason firm , the tempe rate will,Endurance , fo resight, strength, and skill ;A perfe ct Woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfo rt, an d commandAnd y et a Spirit still, an d brightWith something o f ange lic light.3

With its wealth o f insight,it stands o n a leve l

,ne ithe r

highe r n o r lowe r,in po etical enchantment— since bo th are

in that supreme— with the vision o f the unknown Highland Reape r

Beho ld he r , single in the fie ld,

Yo n so litary Highland lassReaping an d singing by herse lfStop here , o r gently passAlone she cuts an d binds the grain ,

And sings a me lancho ly strain0 listen fo r the Vale pro foundI s overflowing with the sound.

"

NO Nightingale did eve r chauntMo re we lcome no tes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Ar abian sands ;

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

A vo ice so thrilling n e ’

e r was heardIn spring-time from the Cucko o -bird

,

Breakin g the silence o f the seasAmongst the farthest Hebrides.

Will n o one te ll me what she singsPerhaps the plaintive numbersflowFo r o ld , unhappy, far -o ff thin gs,And battles long agoOr is it some mo re humble lay ,Familiar matter of to d ay 7Some natural sorrow, loss o r pain,That has been, an d may be again

Whate ’

e r the theme , the Maiden sangAs if her song could have n o endingI saw her singing at her wo rk,And o ’

er the sickle bendingI listened , mo tionless an d stillAnd, as I mounted up the hill ,The music in my heart I bore ,Long afte r it was heard n o more .

4

0 Nightin gale thou sure ly ar tA creature o f a fie ry heartThese no tes of thine— they pierce an d pierce ;Tumultuous harmony an d fierceThou sin g’st as if the Go d o f wineHad helped the e to a ValentineA song in mo ckery an d despiteOf shades, an d dews, and silent nightAnd steady bliss, an d all the lovesNow sle eping in their peace ful groves. 5

1 1

The fu ll o rche stra pro vide d fo r the po e t by his wingedne ighbours in hi s native dale s has a wo rld Of variousmeaning fo r him . Ye t how simply

,an d unsystematically,

swe e t,is e ach seve ral caro l !

stirring the re stle ss blo o d,which the sto ck -d o ve wo uld

so o the

The N ightingale plays at


The Skylark teache s that lo ve may bo th aspire an d sto opE thereal minstre l pilgrim of the skyDo st thou despise the earth where cares aboundOr , while the wings aspire , ar e heart an d eye

Bo th with thy nest upon the dewy groundThy nest which thou canst drop into at will,

Those quivering wings composed , that music stillLeave to the nightingale her shady wo odA privacy o f glo rious light is thineWhence thou dost pour upon the wo rld a flo odOf harmony, with instinct mo re divin eType o f the wise who soar, but neve r roamTrue to the kindred po ints of Heaven and Home l 6

The Linne t se ems to preach n o t at all,but has his le sson

to o— that Nature commands to be gladOn e have I marked , the happie st gue stIn all this covert of the blestHail to thee , far above the restIn joy of vo ice an d pini onThou , Linn et 1 in thy gre en array,Presiding Spirit he re to -day ,

Dost lead the reve ls of the May ;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds an d butterflies, and flowers,Make all one band of paramours,Thou , ranging up an d down the bowers ,Art so le in thy employmentA Life , a Presence like the Ai r ,Scatterin g thy gladness without care ,To o blest with any on e to pairThyse lf thy own enjoyment . 7

Fit companion is he'

in his airy pu lpit fo r the joyouswild flowers that the po e t surprised , reve lling to o

,o n e

spring o n the sho re s o f GrasmereA ho st, o f go lden daffodils,Beside the lake , ben eath the tre es,Fluttering and dancing in the bre e ze .

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1 3

Continuous as the stars that shine ,And twink le o n the milky way ,They stretched in neve r-ending lin eAlong the margin o f a bay ;Ten thousand saw I at a glance ,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance ,

The waves beside them danced but theyOutdid the sparkling waves in gleeA po et could n o t but be gay ,

In such a j o cund company.8

Unive rsal nature ,in his cre e d

,was de signe d to re jo ice

,an d

insists on re jo icing ; but n o inve stiture with a prophe t ’smantle is re quired to qualify lo ve rs o f inspired ve rse tofe e l the magic

,the e xu lting happine ss , of the strains in

which the Po e t Of Nature pro claims his faith and glo ry inher be auty an d tende rne ss .

Commonly it is po ssible to be thus sensible o f the simplesinge r

,apart from the see r

,in W o rdswo rth— n o t always .

I canno t pre tend to pre ss an indiscriminate re so rt to him fo rthe amusement Of an idle ho ur . He has strains o f a grandeur ,a beauty o f sublim ity , which it seems pro fane to rehearseunle ss as anthems chante d by wo r shippe rs with bare fee tbe fo re an altar . From how far away se ems to e cho the

so lilo quy

Earth has n o t anything to show more fair ;Du ll would he be of soul who cou ld pass byA sight so touching in its majesty ;This City n ow do th, like a garment, wearThe beauty of the mo rnin g silent, bare ,Ships, towers, domes, theatres , an d temples lieOpen unto the fie lds , and to the skyAll bright and glitte ring in the smoke less air .

Never did sun mo re beautiqy steepIn his first splendour, valley, ro ck, o r hill ;


Ne’

e r saw I , neve r fe lt, a calm so de epThe rive r glide th at his own swe e t willDear God the very houses seem asle epAnd all that mighty heart is ly ing still 9

Again,his is a Vo ice in the wilderne ss which ,

n o t affe ctingto be able to cure the di sease , pro te sts against personalcontamination by the prevailing rebe llion Of fle sh againstspirit

,o f Earth against HeavenThe wo rld is to o much with us late and so on,Ge tting an d spending , we lay waste our powe rsLittle we see in Nature that is o ursW e have given our hearts away, a so rdid bo onThis Se a that bares he r bosom t o the mo onThe winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up

-gathe red n ow like sle eping flowe rsFo r this, fo r eve rything , we are out of tuneI t moves us n o t .

— Great God I’

d rathe r beA Pagan suckled in a creed o utwo rnSO might I , standing o n this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that wou ld make me less forlo rnHave sight o f Pro teus rising from the sea

Or hear o ld Triton blow his wreathed ho rn 1 °

Listen finally t o the two emu lo u s spiritual rivals fo rcontro l o f Wo rdswo rth ’s sou l— Thought the pro founde st ,Imagination at its lo ve lie st— co ale scing

,as in the mighty

Ode ,into a long-re sounding peal o f music

,realizing the

Miltonic vision o f Philo sophy,ce le stially harmonious

The Rainbow comes and goe s,And love ly is the RoseThe Mo on do th with de lightLo ok round her when the heavens are bareWaters o n a starry n ightAr e beautifu l an d fairThe sunshine is a glo rious birthB ut ye t I know, where ’er I go ,That there hath past away a glo ry from the earth.

W ILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Our birth is bu t a slee p and a fo rge ttingThe Sou l that rises with us, o u r life ’s Star,Hath had e lsewhe re its se tting ,And come th from afar

No t in entire fo rge tfuln ess,And n o t in utte r nakedness,

B ut trailing clouds o f glo ry d o we comeFrom God , who is our HomeHeaven lies about us in our infancyShades o f the prison-house begin to clo seUpon the growing B oy ,

B ut he beho lds the light, and whence it flows,H e se es it in his joy ;

The Youth, who daily farthe r from the eastMust trave l, still is Nature ’s Priest,An d by the vision splendidIs o n his way attended

At length the Man perce ives it die away,And fade into the light o f common day .

0 joy that in our embersIs some thin g that do th live ,That nature y e t remembe rsWhat was so fugitive

The thought of o ur past years in me do th bre edPe rpe tual benediction n o t inde edFo r that whi ch is most wo rthy to be blestDe light and libe rty, the simple cre edOf Childhoo d, whether busy o r at restB ut fo r those first affe ctions,Those shadowy re collections ,Which, be they what they may ,

Ar e y e t the fountain light o f all our day ,

Ar e ye t a maste r light of all our see ingHence in a season of calm weathe r,Though inland far we be ,

Our Souls have sight o f that immo rtal seaWhich brought us hither,Can in a moment trave l thither,

1 5


And see the Children sport upon the shore ,An d hear the mighty waters ro lling evermo re .

And 0, y e Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,Fo rebode n o t any severing of our lovesYe t in my heart o f hearts I fe e l your mightI on ly have re linquished on e delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway.Thanks to the human heart by whi ch we live ,Thanks to its tenderness, its jo ys, an d fe ars,To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that d o Often lie to o deep fo r tears.1 1

A conse cratio n Of music,as in this marve l

,to the e vo lu

tion o f abstract thought must in the nature o f things bee xceptional . Y e t the pur suers afte r me lo dy may fin d

the ir reward in explo ring e ven the co ld , dry place s in theMaste r ’s philo sophy . Grace an d fire frequently will revealthemse lve s in un expe cte d spo ts . They light up n ow an d

again a dogmatic defiance o f the into lerant literary canonso f his youth

,like Pe te r Be ll— the butt of Byron

In vain, through every change fu l year,D id Nature lead him as be fo reA primrose by a rive r’s brimA ye llow primrose was to him ,

And it was no thing mo re .

At no on, when by the forest’s edgeHe lay beneath the branches high,The so ft blue sky did neve r me ltInto hi s heart ; he never fe ltThe witchery o f the so ft blue sky 1 1 2

An aspiring reflection will without warning breakgentle song

The bees that soar fo r bloom,

High as the highest peak of Furness Fe lls,Will murmur by the hour in foxglove be lls.

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What man has made o fman

he re cognize s with de light that , neve rthe le ss ,W e have all o f us o n e human heart.

He is grate fu l to Nature,an d to Natu re ’s source , that , in

impro ving e arth ’s surface into infinite lo ve line ss , they haven o t negle cte d the deve lopment Of man also . The re is

many a o n e who ,

do omed to go in company with Pain,An d Fear, an d Blo odshed, mise rable trainTurns his ne cessity to glo rious gain.

1 6

He thanks He aven fo r Milton , who sesou l was like a Star, and dwe lt apart ; 1 7

fo r Burns , whoshowed my youth

How Verse may build a prince ly throneOn humble truth ; 1 8

fo r the plough-boy ’s merry who op ; an d fo r the state lyBeggar-woman

a creatureBeautifu l to see— a we ed o f glo rious feature ! 1 9

fo r the pro o fs Of humanity ’s ability to rise supe rio r tofo rtune

,affo rde d alike by the Royal Swe de

,an d by the

le e ch -gathere r,mo tionle ss as a cloud

,o n the lone ly mo o r

I could have laughed myse lf to sco rn to findIn that de crepit Man so firm a mind 2 °

fo r Spring ’s be stowal o f a train o f flowe rsa mighty band,

Singing at my heart ’s command ;fo r the spirit breathed fo r mm in the wo o ds

,which made

the sounding cataractHaunt him like a passion ;

an d had justifie d his praye r an d hope,as he meditate s

grate fully o n the cho ir of Po e ts


who o n earth have made us heirsOf truth and pure de light by heavenly laysOh might my name be numbe red among theirs,Then gladly wo uld I end my mo rtal days .21

The re are po e ts who se wo rks are each a bo dy o f lite rature in itse lf an d Wo rdswo rth is o f them . Tho ugh I havedare d to touch various keys in his mighty o rgan

,I have

re fraine d from a hundre d mo re . With many a grie vinglo ok back

,I have passed the Yarrows by

,the vision o f

the Girl o f Inversn eyde , the Sonne t’s sonne t

,the o ve r

flowing music o f Bro ugham Castle ’s we lcome to its Shepherd Lo rd

,the high-minde d farewe l l to the wondro us

Po tentate o f E ild o n’

s triple he ight,the dramatic fo rce

an d generous appeal o f Hart-leap We ll,the patho s o f the

impro vised requiem on departe d fe llows in song,the grace

an d the passion o f Lao damia,wild -flowe r Ruth

,an d the

go lden Duddon chain,with numbe rle ss things o f be auty

and wisdo m be side s . Single pie ce s , like the great Ode ,ar e

matte r fo r entire vo lume s . Togethe r they refle ct the who lepo e try o f life as l ive d

,an d as it o ught to be live d . In

that unison I find in e ffe ct an explanation o f the commonind iffe rence to Wo rdswo rth ’s late r ve rse . He mixe d so

much o f his se lf-communings,the conviction o f his obliga

tion to rebuke,re fo rm

,an d teach

,that the Po e t o ften was

lo st to view in the Preache r . Is it to o much to assumethat to it also

,to the abso lute identity o f the man an d

his inspiration , the in defin able magic o f the earlie r po e trymust be trace d Nowhere in the English He licon is it harde rto track home the fascination

,by so much as it is always

harde r to analyse an autho r than his bo ok . When,how

eve r,it can be done

,an d is done

,when

,as in the mo rning

o f life,the po e t po ure d his who le so u l into his ve rse ,

whenhe fo llowed afte r e very aspiration with the ardo ur o f a

B 2


lo ve r as we ll as the patience o f a teache r , when he arraye de ach in diction as lo ve ly as it is simple , I d o n o t wonde rthat the be st o f the nation ’s yo uth rallied to his buglecall . Even from the far distance , be lieve me

, its e cho e senchant . Let an y submit themse lve s hone stly to the spe ll ,an d they wil l unde rstand .

The Po etical W o rks o f W illiam W o rdswo rth. Edward Moxon , 1 847 .

Thre e Years she Grew in Sun an d Shower (Po ems of the Imagination ,

2 Lucy (Po ems Of the Affe ction s, VI II ) .3 She was a Phan tom o f De light (Po ems o f the Imagin atio n , VI II ) .4 The So litary Reaper (Memorials o f a T o ur in Sco tlan d , IX).5 To a N ightingale (Po ems o f the Imagin ation , IX) .6 T o a Skylark (ibid . , XXX ) .7 The Green Lin n et (Po ems o f the Fan cy, IX) .3 Daffo d ils (Po ems o f the Imagin atio n , XI I ) .9 Compo sed upon W e stmin ster Bridge , Sept. 3 , 1802 (Misce llan e ousSon n ets, Part II , xxxvi) .

1 ° Son n et (Miscellan e ous Sonn ets, Part I , xxxiii) .1 1 In timation s o f Immo rtality from Reco llection s of Early Childho o d .

Od e , stan zas 2 , 5 , 9 , an d 1 1 .

1 2 Pete r Be ll, Part I , stan zas 12 an d 1 5 (Po ems o f the Imagin atio n ) .The Excursion , Bo ok IV.

1 4 Simon Le e , the Old Hun tsman , st . 12 (Po ems Of Sen timen t an dReflection , VI ) .

1 5 The Affliction o fMargaret, st . 1 1 (Po ems foun d ed on the Afi‘ ection s,

XXIV) .1 “ Character of the HappyW arrior (Po ems of Sen timen t an d Reflection ,

XX ) .1 7 Lon d on , 1802 (Po ems d ed icated t o Nation al In d epen d en ce , XIV) .1 8 At the Grave o f Burn s, 1 803, st . 6 (Memo rials of a Tour in S co tlan d , I I ) .

W ritten in March, an d Beggars (Po ems o f the Imagin ation , XVI

and XVII I ).2 ° Reso lutio n an d In d epen d en ce , st . 20 (ibid . ,

XXII ) .2 1 Personal Talk, st. 4 (Po ems o f Sen timen t an d Reflection ,

XI II ) .

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

1 772— 1 834

WHAT a po e t but fo r the me taphysicianA po e t fee ls ; a me taphysician reasons . The o n e leaps ; the

o the r digs . Without imagination ,the on e cann o t breathe

an d the o the r canno t gue ss at the direction o f a ve in o f

thought . But fo r the po e t,it is life fo r the me taphysician ,

a stimulant . In the same mind the two tendencie s confli ct ,unle ss o n e consent to se rve . To his friends an d the Highgate circle Co leridge was the mo re signal marve l be causehe united bo th . Fo r po ste rity he would have be en a pr o

founde r phi lo sophe r had he be en le ss o f a poe t . Had he

concerne d himse lf le ss with the so lution o f mental problems ,he must have fille d a wide r

,n o t a mo re exalted

,space in

the histo ry o f po e try .

His po sitive po etical care er was brie f . The quantity of

his wo rk in the pe rio d is mo de rate . Virtually the who lebears an unmistakable stamp o f high inte lligence an d

noble fe e ling . Re ligious Musings abound in grand image sand refle ctions ; as , fo r instance ,

o n the fo lly o f hatredwithin o ur Heavenly Fathe r ’s vast human family

No CainInjures uninjured— in her best aim’

d blowVicto rious murder a blind suicide

with the converse ,in the line s imme diate ly pre ceding

,

which Lamb de clared to be without a rival in the who lecompass o f my po e tical reading


There is o n e Mind , o n e omnipresent Mind,Omnific . His most ho ly name is Love .

Truth Of subliming impo rt with the whichW ho fe eds an d saturates his constant soul ,He from his small particular o rbit fliesWith blest outstarting From himse lf he flies,

’

Stands in the sun , an d with n o partial gazeViews all creation and he loves it all,An d blesses it , and calls it very go odThis is inde ed to dwe ll with the Most HighCherubs an d rapture -trembling SeraphimCan pre ss n o nearer to the Almighty’s Throne 1

and The Eo lian Harp ,in its autho r ’s be lie f , the mo st

pe rfe ct po em he eve r wro te

Such a so ft floating witchery o f soundAs twilight E lfin s make , when they at eveVoyage o n gentle gales from Fairy-landO the on e life within us an d abroad ,Which meets all mo tion an d becomes its sou l,A light in sound, a sound-like powe r in light,Rhythm in all thought, and j oyance everywhere 1 2

No subtle ty,the m o st intricate

,daunts his Muse

,when

the theme cro sse s her path ; n o t even David Hartley ’sAe ther

,with its

fluids, impacts, essences,Se lf-wo rking to o ls, uncaused e ffe cts, and all

Those blind omniscients, those almighty slaves,Un tenanting creation o f its God .

3

A reader stands amazed at the mo re than equal co uragethe Ne Plus Ultra

So le Po sitive of NightAntipathist o f Light

Fate ’s only essence primal sco rpion r od

The on e permitted opposite of God

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 23

Condensed blackn ess and abysmal sto rmCompacted to o n e sceptreArms the Grasp eno rm

The Inte rcepte rThe Substance that still casts the shadow Death

The Dragon fou l an d fe llThe unrevealable ,

And hidden on e , whose breathGives wind and fue l to the fires o fHe ll

Ah so le despairOf bo th th’

e ternities in HeavenSo le interdi ct o f all-bedewing prayer,

The all-compassionateSave to the Lampads Seven

Reveal’

d to none o f all th’ Ange lic State ,

Save to the Lampads Seven,That watch the throne o f Heaven 4

No twithstanding the encroaching wave s e ven here o f

wr angling po litics,the Ode to the Departing Year is a re lie f

to the brain,with its invo cation

O Albion ! O my mo the r Isle !Thy valleys , fair as E den

’s bowers,Glitte r gre en with sunn y showersThy grassy uplands

’ gentle swe llsE cho to the bleat o fflo cksThose grassy hills, those glitte ring de llsProudly ramparted with ro cksAnd Ocean mid his uproar wildSpe aks safe ty to hi s island-child .

Hence fo r many a fearless ageHas so cial Quiet loved thy sho re

No r eve r proud invader’s rageOr sack

’

d thy towers, o r stain’

d thy fields with go re .

5

Often to o sensitive an imaginatio n se ems to be seekingre fuge in an y casual topic fro m thoughts , like Fears inSo litude

,to o troubling . The theme may be simple landscape

painting mo o r and farmland


The fruit-like pe rfume of the go lden furzeThis burst o f pro spe ct, here the shadowy main,D im-tinted, there the mighty majestyOf that huge amphitheatre o f richAnd e lmy fie lds 6

fore st-scenery, where

with dun -red barkThe fir -trees, an d the unfrequent slender oak ,Forth from this tangle wild of bush an d brakeSoar up, an d form a me lancho ly vau ltHigh o

’er me , murmuring like a distant sea ; 7

C

an e ffe ct o f fro st at midnight , with its quie t which may be

fe lt’Tis calm inde ed so calm, that it disturbsAnd vexes meditation with its strangeAnd extreme silen tness. Sea, hill, and wo od,This populous village sea, an d hill, an d wo od,With all the numberless go ings-on of life ,Inaudible as dreams 8

a Knight ’s Tomb , conju re d up with the e legance of a Gre ekepigram , o n a We stmo re land hi ll-side

Where is the grave o f Sir Ar thur O’

KellynWhere may the grave o f that go o d man be

‘

Z

By the side of a spring , on the breast o f He lve llyn,Under the twigs o f a young birch tree

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,An d rustled its leaves in the fall o f the year,And whistled an d r oar

’

d in the winter alone ,I s gone—an d the birch in its stead is grown .

The Knight’s bones are dust, an d his go od swo rd rustHis soul is with the saints, I trust 9

a picture o f a mo the r with a n ew-bo rn babe



but a nightmare , which we ar e glad to fo rge t in the

sunshine o f

An Idyll with Bo ccaccio ’s spirit warm .

Imagination has transpo rted the Geo rgian po e t four longcenturie s back to a fate -de fying Garden an d its faeryto

The brightness of the world, 0 thou once free ,And always fair, rare land of courtesy0 Florence with the Tuscan fie lds an d hills

,

An d famous Arno , fed with all their rillsThou brightest star o f star-bright Italy 1Rich, o rnate , popu lous, all treasures thine ,The go lden corn, the o live , an d the Vine .

Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles o ld ,And forests, where beside his leafy ho ldThe sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,An d whe ts his tusks against the gnarled tho rnPalladian palace with its sto ried hallsFoun tain s, where Love lies listening to their fallsGardens, whereflings the bridge its airy span,And Nature makes her happy home with man

Where many a go rgeous flower is duly fedWith its own rill, o n its own Spangled bed .

Thine all de lights, an d every muse is thineAnd, mo re than all, the embrace and intertwineOf all with all in gay an d twinklin g danceMid gods o f Gree ce an d warrio rs o f romance ,See B o ccace sits, unfo lding o n his kne esThe n ew-found ro ll o f o ld Mae onidesBut from his mantle ’s fo ld, an d near the heart ,Pe ers Ovid’s ho ly bo ok of Love ’s swe e t smart .1 7

The tale o f Co le ridge ’s achievements in verse is,howeve r

,

far from to ld y e t . He cou ld d o anything with ve rse . Ifhe did n o t compo se an epic

,we may be sure it was n o t

be cause he could n o t . If his few songs are n o t perfe ct music ,


i t is that he wo u ld n o t sing witho ut thinking . He pro ducedplays

,which are po ems also ide al translations

,the

Picco lomini an d the Death o f Wallenste in and— be side spro digie s which I am ho lding o ve r in re se rve— thre e greatOde s .That to France ,

a so lemn music o f the wind ,is a proud de claration o f the supe rio rity o f his loyal faithin Fre edom to disenchantment by the gre edine ss o f renegade s seduced , as had be en Frenchmen ,

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,Ye ll in the hunt, an d share the murde rous prey.

No dithyramb o n the o ve rwhe lming glo ry of Alpinepeaks has ever surpasse d in splendo ur o f dictio n his Hymnto Mont Blanc . It is immate rial that he was indebte d fo ran o utline o f the po em to an o bscure Ge rman po e te ss .

That he had neve r se en the moun tain o r valley gaveadditional freedo m to his enthusiasm . As it is

,the con

ception mo ve s apart on a high leve l from which it neve rde scends

So le sovran of the ValeO struggling with the darkne ss all the night,And visited all night by tro ops o f stars,Or when they climb the sky o r when they SinkCompanion o f the mo rning-star at dawn ,

Thyself Earth’s rosy star, and of the dawnCo -herald wake , 0 wake , and utter praiseW ho sank thy sun less pillars de ep in EarthW ho fill

’

d thy countenance with rosy lightW ho made thee parent of perpetual streams ‘

2

And y ou , y e five wild torrents fie rce ly gladW ho call

’

d y ou fo rth from night and u tter death,From dark and icy caverns call

’

d y ou fo rth,Down tho se pre cipitous, black, jagged Ro cks,For ever shatter ’d and the same fo r ever 2


Ye ice -falls Ye that from the mountain’s browAdown eno rmous ravines slope amainTo rrents, me thinks, that heard a mighty vo ice ,And stopp

’d at once amid the ir maddest plunge

Mo tionless to rrents silent cataractsW ho made y ou glo rious as the gates of HeavenBeneath the keen full mo on ‘

2 W ho bade the sunClo the y ou with rainbows W ho , with living flowersOf love liest blue , spread garlands at your fee t ‘

2

God le t the to rrents, like a shout of nations,Answer an d let the ice -plains e cho , God ! 1 9

The perfe ction o f state line ss,though pitched to o entire ly

in on e key ! Ye t . n o t comparable,e ithe r fo r harmony o r

fo r thought , to the Od e to De je ction . Can that be givenhighe r praise than that it is wo rthy to rank be side theIntimations o f Immo rtality in the fo re front o f phi lo sophicalve rse ! If the scope is ne ce ssarily far le ss large

,an d as

ne ce ssarily the pro spe ct is darke r , the narrowe r plan is asexactly balanced ; an y propensity to rhe to ric is as we llre straine d . The me lody

,Of

\which alone I can in a frag

ment give an idea,is always admirable

What a screamOf agony by torture lengthen

’

d out

That lute sent fo rth Thou Wind, that ravest without,Bare crag, o r mountain-tairn, o r blasted tre e ,

Or pine grove whi ther wo odman neve r clomb ,Or lone ly house , long he ld the witches’ home ,Me thinks were fitter instruments fo r thee ,

Mad Lutanist who in this month o f showers,Of dark-brown gardens, an d of peeping flowers,Mak

’

st Devils’ Yule , with wo rse than wintry song,The blossoms, buds, an d timo rous leaves among.Thou Actor, perfe ct in all tragic soundsThou mighty Po et, even to frenzy bo ld

What tell’st thou n ow about ‘

2’Tis of the rushing o f a host in rout,


With groans Of trampled me n , with smarting wo undsAt once they gro an with pain, and shudde r with the co ldB u t hush the r e is a pause o f de epe st silenceAnd all that no ise , as o f a rushing crowd ,With groans and tremulous shudde rings— all is overI t te lls ano ther tale , with sounds less de ep and loudA tale o f less affright,And tempe r

’

d with de light,As Otway

’

s se lf had framed the tender lay ,’Tis of a little childUpon a lonesome wild ,

No t far from home , bu t she hath lost he r wayAnd n ow moans low in bitter grie f an d fear,An d n ow screams loud, and hopes to make her mo ther hear.20

I re cognize the to uch o f gre atne ss eve rywhe re : the

abo unding flo od o f maje stic tho ught an d image ry,whi ch

enrapture d friends,an d bewilde re d them n o le ss than foe s .

It is po ssible to d isse ct pie ce afte r pie ce,and demonstrate

the grandeur,the beauty . But the common re ade r o f

po e try who,like myse lf

,reads po ems to find o ut which o f

them he can love,is n o t drawn irre sistibly back . The se

noble Ode s,Hymns

,Musings

,Sonne ts

,even Epigrams

,an d

jeux d ’

e sprit are n o t in gene ral o f the po e try with whichwe care to live . An d why 2

De fe cts are visible o n the sur face of many . Often it ispreaching instead o f singing . Ext rane o us currents o f

thought are pe rmitted to encroach . Indignation,in itse lf

righte ous,may be in Oppo rtun e . It roars with a no isine ss

which fatigue s . The fault is as in penmanship ,when the

upstroke an d downstroke ar e equally dark . A suspicionis excite d

,as in the Chamo uni Pindaric , that the eagle is

flapping his wings to gain impe tus fo r theflight heavenwards . Imagination itse lf e fflo re sce s into a confusingexube rance— fancy upon fancy— refle ct ion upo n refle ction .

The congerie s is rathe r mate rial fo r po e try than poe try


itse lf . Po ems by o the r write rs have , it is true , maintainedthe ir place in popu lar e stimation in the face o f drawbacksas considerable . B ut in Co leridge I canno t but suppo sethat they grew o ut o f an e ssential misconception by himo f the rights o f ve rse o ve r the ve rsifie r . Po e try demandsthe cho ice st o f a man ’s powe rs ; if great powe rs , the greate st ,an d all o f them . He shou ld have a will

,an d the will to

mass the who le ,an d throw it into the lap o f his theme .

Co le ridge had n o sufficient since rity in his vo cation ,n o

full conviction o f the supreme o bligations o f the po e t ’smantle . Nature had be stowe d the gift o f ve rse upon himas his proper mo de o f expre ssion an d he use d it as lightlyas he came by it . Apparently he was n o t conscious thatthe re is agony as we l l as rapture in the due utterance o f

such a vo ice . A reade r like myse lf is liable to the di s

taste ful feeling that he has had o ffere d to him a se rie s o fexe rcise s instead o f inspire d me ssage s that they repre sentthe o be dience o f a marve llo us assemblage o f human energie sto the ir lo rd an d maste r

,an d n o t the empire o f his po e tic

spirit o ve r himse lf .The surprise is to turn a page

,an d be in a n ew wo rld .

Suddenly, with n o audible he rald to announce the advent ,English lite ratur e found enshrined in it The Rime o f the

Ancient Marine r , Christabe l , though de layed in publication ,The Tale o f the Dark Ladi e

,The N ightingale

,an d— l

be lated like Christabe l— KubIa-Khan . Each diffe rs in fe e ling , tho ught , tone , rhythm ,

from the re st an d all agre e inbe ing gre at , swe e t , an d satisfying . The Ancient Marine ris remarkable fo r mo re than its intrinsic merits ; it isphenomenal as be ing from Co leridge . Neve r was the repoet o r thinke r wi th a fondne ss like his fo r vaguene ss ,ragge d ends . No thing of that is he re n o t o n e incident ,n o r o n e emo tion, out of season an d place an d the tempta

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 3 1

tions to wande ring An infinite varie ty o f scene,characte r ,

impulse s , te rro r , ho rro r , romance , awe , remo rse , repentance ,

hope , disappo intment , the blissful calm o fHe aven ’s pardonand thro ugho ut the who le a captivating simplicityI know o f n o po em with mo re o f the divine endowment

o f neve r growing out o f date none which po sse sse s mo reo f charm alike fo r age an d yo uth . The me lody o f the

dirge sung by se raphs in token o f fo rgivene ss fo r the fateo f the Marine r ’s two hundred shipmate s , haunts an d en

chants . I t is like balm o n an aching wound’Twas n o t those sou ls thatfled in pain,Which to their co rses came again,B ut a tro op of spirits blestFo r when it dawu ’d— they d ropp

’

d their arms,

And cluster’

d round the mastSwe et sounds rose slowly through their mouths

,

And from their bodies pass’

d .

Around , around ,flew each sweet sound ,Then darted to the SunSlowly the sounds came back again

,

Now mix’

d , n ow on e by o n e .

Some times a-dropping from the skyI heard the Skylark singSometimes all little birds that are ,How they seem’

d to fill the sea and air

With their swe et jargon ingAnd n ow ’twas like all instruments

,

Now like a lone ly fluteAn d n ow it is an ange l’s song

,

That makes the heavens be mute .

I t ceas’

d yet still the sails made o nA pleasant no ise till no on ,

A no ise like o f a hidden bro okIn the leafy month of June ,That to the sleeping wo ods all n ightSingeth a quie t tune .

21


Had the Rime sto o d alone it must have immo rtalize dits write r ; but the same ye ar o r two which produced itbrought to light the e arlie r an d mo re impo rtant po rtiono f Christabe l . That is a po em fo r po e ts . Ye t The An cientMarine r

,which might have been suppo se d made to compe l

popular admiration , lay practically stillbo rn until thetwin inspiration

,printed nine te en ye ars late r

,called it

into acknowle dge d life . The two re semble on e ano the r inno thing except love line ss . The varie ty which di stinguishe sChristabe l has n o affinity to that o f its co eval in birthEve ry dive rse current in The Ancient Marine r se ts towardso n e inevitable en d . In Chr istabe l the re is n o ne ce ssity towo rk in any given di re ction . Ne ve r had a rich an d capriciou sfancy mo re libe rty . Neve r di d apparent trust in chancebe tte r justify its independence . Fancy rule s as irre spon

sible as the swaying o f a leafy bough . The re su lt is harmony ,neverthe le ss ; pe rfe ction in thought , image s

,n ew an d

fascinating flexibility o f rhythm .

It might almo st be Suppo se d that the po e t was impr ovising

,an d as unce rtain as his audience o f e ach next

musical e ffe ct till it cam eI t moan

’

d as near as near can be ,B ut what it is she cann o t te ll.On the o ther side it seems t o b eOf the huge , broad-breasted, o ld o ak tre e .

The night is chill the fo rest bareI s it the wind that moan e th bleakThere is n o t wind enough in the air

To move away the rin gle t curlFrom the love ly lady’s che ekThere is n o t wind enough to twirlThe on e r ed leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as o ften as dance it can ,

Hangin g so light, an d han gin g so high,

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.



be stil l wanting o f the pe rfe ction o f Christabe l , it is thattrue criticism has neve r regre tte d its incompletene ss . We llthat it remains a to rso incomparableI have classe d w ith them thre e o the r po ems an d they all

de se rve the ir eminence . First must stand the wondro u sVision— like Christabe l , a fragment . Exe crable

,unpardon

able,the busine ss pe rson fro m Po rlo ck who stifle d two

hundred o r mo re go lden dream -line s o f Kubla-Khan Agre at master of fiction ,

an d a po e t to o,as we walke d up

the hill at the fo o t o f which,alas ! he n o longe r dwe lls

,

once to ld me that he ranke d Kubla-Khan highe st amongCo leridge ’s poems . It was a parado x , though so far lite rallytrue that the dre ame r o f such a d ream is demonstrate dthe reby to have had po e try in his ve ry blo odThe me lo dy bubble s

,dance s

,reve ls

,laments

, an d

threatens

B ut oh that de ep romantic chasm which slantedDown the gre en hill athwart a cedarn coverA savage place as ho ly an d enchantedAs e ’e r beneath a waning mo on was hauntedBy woman wailing fo r her demon-loverAnd from this chasm , with cease less turmo il see thing ,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing ,A mighty fountain momently was fo rcedAmid who se swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vau lted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain ben eath the thresher’s flail ;An d

’

mid these dancin g ro cks at once an d everIf flung up momen tly the sacred river .Fiv e miles meandering with a mazy mo tionThrough wo od an d dale the sacred river ran ,

Then r each’

d the caverns measure less t o man ,

An d sank in tumult to a life less o ceanAn d

’

mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral vo ices prophesyingwar 24


By turns it falls , and,again

,rise s into an Abyssinian

maid’

s‘

so ng o f Mount Abo ra , with palace s built o f sunshine ,

o ve r cave rns o f ice ,an d yie lding de lights ineffably

seductive an d pe ri lous .

A dizzy singing trance ! Ye t hardly le ss . o f commondaylight t e xture than the e xquisite Conversational Po em

,

with its rivalrie s of many nightingale s amid tangle d wildwo ods

,inte rpre ted in blank ve rse honey-swe e t

Far and near,In wo od and thicke t, over the wide grove ,They answe r and provoke each o ther’s songs,With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jugjug,And one low piping sound mo re swee t than all

Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should y ou close your eyes, y ou might almostFo rge t it was n o t day On mo onlight bushes,Whose dewy leafits are but half-disclosed,You may perchance beho ld them o n the twigs,Their bright, bright eyes , their eyes bo th bright andGlistening , while many a glow-wo rm in the shadeLights up her love -torch.

A most gentle Maid ,W ho dwe lleth in he r hospitable homeHard by the castle , and kn ows all their no tes,What time the moon was lost behind a clo ud ,Hath heard a pause of silence till the mo onEmerging , hath awaken

’

d earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful birdsHave all burst forth in choral minstre lsy,As if some sudden gale had swept at onceA hundred airy harps An d she hath watch’

d

Many a n ightingale perch giddi lyOn blosmy twig still swinging from the bree ze ,And to that mo tion tune his wanton song ,Like tipsy joy that ree ls with tossing head .

25

. 0 2


As wo rthy ,still once mo re

,o f a place in the hierarchy

o f song,is the Introduction to the Ballad of The Dark

Ladie . The ballad , like Christabe l , is a fragment ; butthe pre lude ,

o n the varie ty Of ministe rs that Lo ve can

enlist— even a so ft an d do lefu l air , an o ld and mo vingsto ry — is as comple te in be auty an d co lo ur as a ro se

All impulses o f soul and senseHad thr ill

’

d my gu ile less GenevieveThe music and the do lefu l tale ,

The rich an d balmy eve ;

And h opes, and fears that kin dle hope ,

An undistinguishable throng ,And gentle wishes long subdued ,

Subdued and che r ish’

d long

She wept with pity an d de light,She blush

’

d with love , an d virgin shameAnd , like the murmur o f a dream ,

I heard he r breathe my name .

He r bosom heav ’

d— she stepp’

d aside,

As conscious o f my lo ok she stepp’

d

Then sudd en ly ,

'

with timo rous ey e ,Shefled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,

She pre ss’

d me with a meek embraceAnd bending back her head

, lo ok’

d up ,

An d gazed upon my face .

’Twas partly love , an d partly fear,And partly ’twas a bashful art ,That I might rather fee l than see

The swe lling o f her heart.26

Co le ridge ’s caree r as a wr ite r o f poe try te rminated bythe time he was thirty . The bo dy o f his po e tical wo rkis comprise d within thre e to five years . Had he die d in


1802 ,afte r the co mpo sition o f the Ode to De je ction

,he

would have le ft the wo rld o f po e try as rich as when hefinally departe d . As a thinke r he survived

,and re igned ,

fo r thirty-two ye ars mo re . Inspiration cease s fo r mo st inmidd le life . Few

,once inspired

,cease

,while they bre athe ,

fro m ve rsifying . They ve rsify be cause ve rse was wont tobe the ir highe st mental medium an d instrument . Co leridge , when n o longe r minde d to write Ancient Marine rsand Chr istabe ls

,had an alte rnative . He remaine d an

inte lle ctual auto crat,an d pro ce ede d to u tilize his o the r

gift , as a sugge ste r o f problems,a se tte r o f texts . If

lite rature canno t be said to have benefite d by the so lilo

quie s at Highgate,at le ast it has gaine d negative ly by the

e scape thro ugh that safe ty-valve fo r imagination from the

dange r o f a dilution o f po e tic gre atne ss . Having taste do f Co leridge ’s be st

,we should all o f us have be en grie vo us

suffere rs had we be en o bliged to put up with aught lowe r .

Be tter no thing if n o mo re o f Christabe l , o r her pe e rs

The Po etical an d Dramatic W orks o f Samue l Taylor Co leridge . Fo urvo ls . B . M . Pickering, 1877 .

1 Re ligio us Musin gs, vo l. i, pp. 93—4 and Lamb to Co leridge ,D ec . 10, 1 796. Memorials o f Charles Lamb , by Talfourd . Moxo n ,

1850, p . 59 .

3 The E olian Harp .3 The Destiny o f Natio ns.

Ne Plus Ultra (Sibyllin e Leave s ) .

5 Od e to the Depart ing Year .

3 Fears in So litud e .

7 The Picture .

8 Fro st at Midn ight.9 The Kn ight’s Tomb (Sibyllin e Leave s) .A Christmas Caro l (Sibyllin e Leaves), st . 3 .

Name s (Sibyllin e Le aves) .1“ Fire , Famin e , and Slaughter.‘3 To the Autho r o f the Robbers. Ko sciusko , Son n ets, V.

1 5 The Thre e Graves (Sibyllin e Leave s ) .N The Gard e n o f Boccaccio .


Fran ce an Od e . stan zas 1 , 4 .

Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale o f Chamoun i (Sibyllin e Leaves)Dejection : an Od e (Sibyllin e Leaves) .The Rime of the An cien t Marin er, Part v.Christabe l, Part i. 23 I bid .

Kubla Khan o r , a Vision in a Dream.

The N ightingale a Conversational Po em .

The Ballad o f the Dark Lad ie , In troductio n .

ROBERT SOUTHEY

1 77 4— 1 843

I W AS brought up to regard Southey as the pe e r o f

Co le ridge , Wo rdswo rth , Byron , She lley , and Keats ; n o t

ne ce ssarily the ir equal in degre e,but who lly wo rthy

to be ranke d among them . As a scho o lboy,an d as an

unde rgraduate , I read him with re spe ct , in so me so rt withadmiration . When I be came entitle d to cho o se Co llegeprize s

,a co lle ction o f his po ems was in my list . My

contempo rarie s would n o t have se le cte d him ; they didn o t think me e ccentric fo r my pre fe rence . I have sur

vived to find him utte rly o ut o f date,scarce ly place d o n

an uppe r she lf with the Ge o rgian classics . Even I myse lfhad ceased to re ad him since my Unive rsity days

,unle ss

when I wished to amuse my chi ldren with o n e o f his ballad s .Gho sts o f o ld asso ciations seeme d to rustle down abo u tme

,like last

'

year’

s le ave s from a wind -to sse d bee ch-tre ein e arly spring

,as mo re re cently I turne d o ve r the many

page s to try to disco ve r why his ve rse was current once ,an d n o longe r passe s .

The tide o f negle ct even has re ached , if n o t to the fu llextent

,the area o f his ve rse in which he is indi sputably

a maste r . Few English po e ts are his equals , ve ry few hissupe rio rs , in humour . Humo u r various an d singu lar at onceNeve r me re fun

,bo rn with a laugh ,

an d e xpiring in a yawn .

Po e try also,though with sentiment n o t unbe comingly

o btrusive . Abo ve all,an infinite capacity fo r inventing

o ccasions fo r itse lf , tho ugh from subje ct -matte r the mo stunlike ly . To give instan ce s o ut o f many as remarkable ,


the oppo rtunity may be supplie d by a henpe cke d Co rnishman ,

who se bride had unfairly taken t o the church a bo ttleo f the dominion -ensuring wate r , which he race d from the

altar to be first to drink at the We ll o f St . Keyn e .

1 It may

be the natural anxie ty o f pious countrymen to se cu re fo rthe ir village ,

by time ly pre liminarie s— such as a deathbe d—to Beatification ,

the r e lics o f a Saint -de signate,whom

ne ighbours might o the rwise co ax away in life .

2 A mothe r ’sfrenzy o f anguish fo r he r child devou re d by a cro co d ilesugge sts a scene o f revenge in kind

,as equitable as it is

irre sistibly comic .

3 A flowe r o f smiling satire springs unde rthe po e t ’s pen from the fie ld o f Blenhe im

,wate red

’

with

the blo o d o f murde re d myriads

W hy ,

’ twas a very wicked thingSaid little Wilhe lmine .

Nay ,n ay , my little girl, ’ quo th he ,

I t was a famo us victory 4

The theme may be a Pope ’s unto ld mo rtal sin,with a

Saint ’s gallop o n Satan ’s own unwilling back to confe ssan d abso lve

,

5o r a ro bbe r ’s re lease fro m an d re sto ratio n

to his lawfu l gibbe t .6 Each is made to yie ld the be st o fdive rsion . Half a centu ry ago eve rybo dy re ve lle d in thewit o f The Devi l ’s Walk 7 The re we re few who had n o t

bo th shudde re d an d laughe d o ve r Archbisho p Hatto an d

his rats ,8 an d the gallant,fu tile fight with he r registe re d

purchase r , the Arch-Fiend,o f The Old Woman o f Be rke ley

in he r iron -seale d an d chaine d co ffin,hymne d an d hallowe d

by fifty Cho riste rs an d fifty Prie sts,with

,fo r sentine ls

,her

son a m onk , an d he r daughte r a n un

In he came with eyes o f flameThe Devil to fetch the dead ,

And all the Church with his pre sence glow’d,

Like a fiery furnace r ed .



an d perhaps ungrate fu l . The mass o f So uthey ’s wo rk displays qualitie s which we re appre ciated once

,an d may ple ad

fo r some re co gnition still . In the fir st place his wo rkmanship is e xce llent with exceptions , natu rally ; e spe cially ,o f the purveyance o f Courtly o r patrio tic adulation suchas A Vision o f Judgment

,o r the into le rably dreary Pil

grimage to Wate rlo o . Jo an o f Arc is a spacious chapte ro f histo ry ,

with the rightfu l propo rtion,o bse rved with

a true instinct , o f romance to fact . In the two Mado cs ,in Wale s

,an d in Aztlan ,

he had to trust entire ly to hisfancy

,fo r the gene ral scheme ,

as we ll as fo r de tails . The

whole is harmoniously probable . Rode rick,the Last o f

the Go ths , again , is , like Jo an , an admi rable spe cimen o f

histo rical jo ine ry by a ro mance r with a conscience . A lmo ste ve rything allege d to have happened had happene d , o rmight have happene d . Tho ugh libe rtie s are taken withevents

,an d the ir o rde r

,the prope rtie s are invariably co r

re ct,as is the scene ry . It is impo ssible to live in the

seve ral narrative s with the ir characte rs,an d the sentiments

attributed to them,without be ing the be tter fo r the so cie ty .

Then,study the couple o f Asiatic epics ; an d admire

the intrepidi ty with which the po e t plunge s into a n ew

wo rld . Thro ugho ut they are picture sque,an d go rge ously

co loured . Really it is hard to unde rstand the pre sentco ldn e ss towards Arabian N ights Ente rtainments such as

the se . Thalaba himse lf,it may be obje cte d

,lacks intere st .

In that he only re semble s many ano the r he ro an d the

vivacity o f his adventure s atone s . At all e vents,the crime

canno t be impute d to the sto ry o f Kehama .

It was n o o rdinary imagination which— though gu ide dpe rhaps by the ‘ Rape o f Luere ce — extracted satisfactiono f implacable re venge fu lne ss o ut o f a Cain-like brand o f

se curity fo r its abho rre d o bje ct fro m eve ry pe ril to life

ROBERT SOUTHEY 43

I charm thy lifeFrom the weapons o f strife ,From stone and from wo od ,From fir e an d from flo od,From the se rpent’s to o th,And the beasts o f blo od

From Sickness I charm thee ,And Time shall n o t harm theeB ut Earth which is mine ,I ts fru its shall deny the eAnd Water shall hear me ,

And know the e an d fly theeAn d the Winds shall n o t to uch the eWhen they pass by the e ,And the Dews shall n o t we t thee ,When they fall nigh theeAn d thou shalt se ek DeathTo re lease thee , in vain

Tho u shalt live in thy painWhile Kehama shall re ign,With a fire in thy heart,An d a fir e in thy brainAn d Sleep shall Obey me ,And visit thee never,

An d the Curse shall be on the eFo r ever and ever.1 0

The entire texture may n o t reach the same high standard .

But all the acto rs mo ve in an atmo sphere o f po e tic passion .

It inve sts the King o f the Wo rld,an d his victims also . It

circulate s about the ghastly figure o f his de ad brutish so n .

Eve rything is o n a grand scale fro m the insatiable am

bition o f the mighty Rajah the pursuit o f inno centKailyal by the ho rrible Spe ctre ,

carnal though a gho st,

o f slain Arvalan the hall o f Royal De ath in the pee rle sspalace an d gardens

,

Where Baly he ld o f o ld his awful re ign ;


to the climax , the sto rming o f He l l itse lf by the Man -God ,

the Man -A lmighty,his chie f an d fatal conque st .

Othe r keys be side s the he ro ic are touched by Southeythe marve llo us an d the so rdid ly criminal , as in the oncefamous Mary , the Maid o f the Inn— a haunting ho rro r .

1 1

I fail to re cognize the magical re se rve ,the pensive charm ,

o f Co llins ’s Evening in The First o f De cembe rWhen Nature shrouds herse lf, entranced

In de ep tranquillity.1 2

Hannah ’s grave,howe ve r

,whe re none

W ho trod upon the sense less turf wou ld thinkOf what a wo rld o f wo es lay buried there ,1 3

vie s with The Parish Registe r an d The Bo rough in the

powe r to e licit an acrid fragrance from the grime o f sinan d its so rr o w . With a swe e t simplicity he we lco me s there turn o f trave lle rs to the ir home an d children .

1 4 He

pre ce de d Tennyson in the disco ve ry o f the dome stic idyll ,as The Old Mansion-Ho use te stifie s .

1 5 If only his be stsugge ste d e xample s had be en given to the wo rld , he mighthave wo n ce lebrity fo r Inscriptions— fre e

,all

,fro m the

be se tting sin o f promiscuous adulation— like that imaginedfo r a monument to ru thle ss Pizarro

A greate r nameThe list of Glo ry boasts n o t .

Thank the GodW ho made thee , that thou art n o t such as he .

1 6

When in the Paradise o f his bo oks,it wil l n o t be dis

puted that at least the shado w o f inspiration falls upon himMy days among the Dead are pastAro und me I beho ld ,

Where ’er these casual eyes are cast ,The mighty minds o f o ld

My never-failing friends ar e they,With whom I co nverse day by day .

ROBERT SOUTHEY 45

With them I take de light in weal ,And seek re lie f in woe ;

And while I understand and fee lHow much to them I owe ,

My cheeks have o ften been bed ew ’

d

With tears of thoughtful gratitude .

My thoughts are with the Dead , with themI live in long-past years,

The ir virtues love , the ir fau lts condemn,Partake the ir hopes and fears,

And from their lesson s se ek an d fin d

Instru ction with an humble mind .

My hope s are with the Dead , anonMy place with them will be ,

And I with them shall trave l o nThrough all Futurity ;

Y e t leaving here a n ame , I trust ,That will n o t perish in the dust.”

So , to o ,when he lifts his Muse into pure r air

,an d lulls

the terro rs o f Kehama’

s victims by remind ing o f the im

mortality o f Lo ve o f its pe rfe cting in HeavenThey sm who tell us Love can die .

With life all o the r passions fly,All o thers ar e but vanity.

In Heaven Ambition canno t dwe ll,No r Avarice in the vaults o f Hell ;Earthly these passions o f the E arth,

They pe rish where they have their birthB ut Love is indestru ctible .

I ts ho ly flame fo r eve r burne th,

From Heaven it came , to Heaven return ethTo o oft on Earth a troubled guest,At times de ce ived , at times opprest ,I t here is tried and purified ,

Then bath in Heaven its pe rfe ct restI t soweth here with to il and careBut the harvest time o f Love is there .

18


If his right— which I am afraid I have myse lf n o t ve ryenthusiastically uphe ld— to e xalte d po e tical rank is n o t atpre sent gene rally acknowle dged , the failure arise s from n o

faint-heartedne ss , o r e xce ss o f mo de sty,in him . He has

claime d it by wo rk , an d e ven by wo rd . He de lighte d inthe compo sition o f po etry, whe the r grave o r gay ,

lyric o r

epic,re condite

,o r simple

,e ven commonplace . Ve rsifying

was hi s re creation ,an d hi s so lace . His deare st friends

we re poe ts . Illustrious members o f the bro the rho od hailedhim as o f it . Byron himse lf , while he jeered , did n o t

deny him a place in the company . Among all his vo cationsthat was the o n e by which he me ant to be re co lle cte d ;if in that

,

but se lf-approved , to praise o r blameIndifferent , while I to il fo r lasting fame .

1 9

He had wo n honours in many fie lds o f literatur e ; butthe title o f po e t was the chie f distinction he challengedand how re fuse it to the generous

,kind ly

,inde fatigable

,

brave,an d honourable man

,to the student an d scho lar

to the creato r o f Thalaba an d Kehama ? Clearly we can

n o t . The fact neverthe le ss remains that the po ems bywhi ch he expe cted to be immo rtalized are ne ithe r read n o rhonoured . He might have be en amused by the knowle dgethat line s from the Devil ’s Walk have be en inco rpo ratedinto the language that eve ry scho o l-girl can rehearse ina cataract o f rhyme s the way in which

the water comes down at Lodore 20

I d o n o t suppo se he wo uld have accepted the complimentas compensation, -

o r been at all be tte r able to explain tohimse lf why po ste rity

!

is o blivious o f Rode rick,Mado c

,an d

A Tale o f Paraguay .

As I have a lready intimate d , it is inde ed difficult to

ROBERT SOUTHEY 47

acco unt fully fo r the negle ct in its e xce ss . The re are

reasons o n the surface . To begin,I must admit a want

o f quality,a ce rtain coarsene ss o f fabric . Again

,the bulk

is a discouragement , as is the e xtent o f a strange lake toan angler . He may be sure that it contains fish

,witho u t

be ing able to te l l where they lie . Similarly the se vastepics hide valuable ideas , only to be chance d by a reade ro ut o f an o ve rwhe lming flo o d o f truisms . The inte restin o the rs is alien an d remo te . From the fir st it requ ire dto be bo lste red up by Oriental learning , much o f it ,in the se time s o f de epe r re se arch ,

mu sty an d rusty . But,

in the face o f wo rks,some e arlie r

,an d mo re late r

,which

have.

conquere d public favour no twithstanding analo gousdrawbacks eve ry whit as pre judicial

,the po e t might we l l

argue that such attempts at an e xplanation are in sufli cien t .

I d o n o t flatte r myse lf that he wou ld be at all bette r inclinedto accept mine — that the cau se is his failure thr o ughout tofo rge fro m the furnace within himse lf a chain o f sympathywith his readers . That

,howeve r

,I be lieve to be the true

o n e . He se ldo m se ems to conne ct ” the ir an d his co mmonhuman nature . No te how rare ly

,if eve r , his ve rse make s

tears to start to the eye lids . The chill from this absence o f

mutual glow is po sitive,palpable

,an d fatal . Ne ve r will

the emo tions o f a po e t ’s reade rs,charm he neve r so wise ly ,

take fire unle ss fro m the kindling o f fue l in the singe r ’sown breast . Southey ’s Muse was devo id o f the passion o f

sympathy an d his renown sufie rs in consequence .

He po sse sse d many o f the endowments by whi ch admire rsare attracte d . He was witho ut that which ho lds themboun d . It could n o t we ll have be en o the rwise with a

writer who re so rte d to po e try as a re cre ation,fo r re st

fro m the to ils o f his lite rary tre admill . He unde rsto o dthe art o f it

,an d could call o n it

,when he cho se

,to d o

(


his bidding . It was his handmaid when i t sho uld havebeen his mistre ss . A thousand pitie s ! He misse d the

deare st o bje ct o f his ambition ; an d we have lo st whatmight have be en

,fro m that richly furni she d nature

,so me

inspire d strains . As it was , he cou ld n o t be a great poe tbut he had a lo fty soul an d he was a great man o f le tte rs .

The Po etical W orks of Ro be rt Southey. Complete in o n e vo lume

New ed ition . Longman s, 1 85 3 .

1 The W ell o f St. Keyn e (Ballads an d Metrical Tales) .2 St . Romuald (Ballad s,3 The King o f the Cro codiles (Ballads, &c . )4 The Battle o f Blenheim (Ballads,True Ballad o f St. An tid ius, the Pope , an d the Devil (Ballads,

6 Ropre cht the Ro bber (Ballads,7 The Devil’s W alk.

8 God ’

s Judgemen t o n a W icked Bishop (Ballad s, &c . )The Old W oman o f Berke ley (Ballad s,The Curse o f Kehama, Part I I , xiv .

1 1“ Mary, the Maid o f the In n (Ballads,W ritten on the First o f December (Lyric Po ems)Han n ah (E nglish E clogues) .

1 ‘ The Trave ller’s Return (Lyric Po ems ) .1 5 The Old Man sion -House (English E clogues) .1 “ Fo r a Co lumn at Truxillo (In scription s, xiii)1 7 My Days among the Dead (Occasional Piece s, xviii) ."3 The Curse o f Kehama.

The Po et’s Pilgrimage t o W aterloo . Pro em , st 2 1 .

2 ° The Cataract o f Lo d ore (Non d escripts, VI I ) .



I could n o t lay it down as an abso lute condi tion o f e xce llence in de scription that the theme shall be o n e in whichthe write r has always de lighted . But undoubte dly it isadde d virtue in a poe t o the rwise we ll qualified

,that he

love s an d has love d it . Sco tt would have like d to be

a so ldier . He re jo iced in e ve rything conne cted withfighting . Neve r has British Po e t , e xcept Campbe ll o nmore contracte d canvase s , made the re ade r e qually to fe e l ,as in the Iliad , o n a battle -field itse lf with its turmo il

,its

frenzy; its e cstasy . He was conscious o f his gift,and

fre e ly use d it .

The re is the impre ss o f genu inene ss o n the pictur e o f

Banno ckburn . Read,for instance

,o f the final an d disas

trous English charge o ve r the pit-pitte d plainRushing , ten thousand horsemen came ,With spe ars in rest, an d hearts o n flame ,That panted fo r the sho ckWith blazing crests and bann ers spread

,

An d trumpet-clang an d clamour dread ,The wide plain thund er ’d to their tread,As far as Stirling ro ck.

Down Down in headlong overthrow,

Horsemen and horse , the fo remost go ,Wild floundering o n the fie ld

The first are in destruction’s go rge ,Their fo llowers wildly o ’

e r them urgeThe kn ightly he lm an d shie ld,The mail, the acton, and the spear,Strong hand, high heart, are use less hereLoud from the mass confused the cryOf dying warrio rs swe lls on high

,

And ste eds that shriek in agonyThey came like mountain-torrent red ,That thunders o ’

e r its ro cky bedThey broke like that same to rren t’s wave ,When swallowed by a darksome cave .

SIR WALTER SCOTT 5 1

Billows on billows burst and bo il ,Maintaining still the ste rn turmo il,An d to the ir wild and to rtured groanEach adds n ew terro rs of his own ! 1

Life like , again , is the glimpse o f a late r battle— Flodden-as fitfully de scrie d by Marmion

’s Squire s from a ne ighbo ur ing hi ll-to p

They close , in clouds o f smoke and dust,With swo rd-sway, and with lance ’s thrustAnd such a ye ll was there ,

Of sudden and po rtentous birth,As if men fought upon the earth,And fiends in upper air ;

0 life and death were in the sho ut,Re co il and rally, charge and rout,And triumph and despair.At length the freshening western blastAside the shroud o f battle castAnd, first, the ridge of mingled spearsAbove the brightening cloud appearsAnd in the smoke the pennonsflew,

As in the storm the white seamewThen mark

’

d they, dashing broad and far ,

The broken billows o f the war ,And plumed crests o f Chie ftains brave ,Floating like foam upon the waveBut nought distinct they see .

Wide raged the battle on the plainSpears shook, an d falchionsflash’

d amainFe ll E ngland’s arrow-flight like rain ;Crests rose , and sto op

’

d , and rose again,Wild and diso rderly.2

All the incidents o f warfare inflame d his Muse if n o ta clash o f battalions

,an armed an d pe rilous ambush . The

blo od stirs at the sudden apparition fro m heathe r and

bracken o f Clan Alpine ’s warrio rs trueD 2

5 2 FIVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE

Wild as the scre am of the curlew,

From crag to crag the signalflew.

Instant, through copse and heath, aroseBonn ets and spears and bended bowsOn right, o n le ft, above , be low,

Sprung up at once the lurking fo e ;From shingles gray the ir lances start,The bracken bush sends fo rth the dart,The rushes and the willow-wandAr e bristling into axe and brand,And every tuft of broom gives lifeTo plaided warrio r arm’d fo r strife .

That whistle garrison’

d the glenAt once with full five hundred men .

Watching their leader’s be ck an d will,All silent there they sto od , and still.3

He was an equally glad inte rpre ter o f the pibro ch o f DonaldDhu , and o f the pro scribed an d hunted Macgrego rs ’ owl ’sho o t °

Our signal fo r fight, that from monarchs we drew,

To be heard but by night in our vengeful balo o .

4

In his case di re ct an d long pe rsonal sympathy ,n o t

mere ly with the subje ct in gene ral,but with its particu lar

e xemplification s , was virtually indispen sable . Art fo r himdid n o t supply its place in the le ast . Without it he is di ffusean d dull . The spe ctacle

,o r e xpe ctation

,o f an exchange

o f hard blows had an aptitude fo r e xciting his inspiration ;but he had to be personally inte re sted be fo re e ven a pitche dbattle made a po em . Eve rything e lse— sto ry-te lling itse lf- is an accident in his po e try

,e xcept the pe rsonal emo tion

an d that re sponde d fo rtunate ly to o the r theme s be side sarms . Touch the key ,

in his rich memo ry , o f an ancientlegend , an histo ric e difice an d lo ve ly music pours fo rth .

Nowhe re has minste r,from the glo ry o f its prime to

e lo quent de cay , re veale d itse lf to an insight mo re de licate


an d sympathe tic than Me lro se to his fancy bridging,

with a rainbow ,four hundred year s

If thou would’st view fair Me lrose aright,Go visit it by the pale mo onlightFo r the gay beams o f lightsome dayGild

,but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches ar e black in n ight,

An d each shafted o rie l glimmers whiteWhen the co ld light’s un ce rtain showe rStreams o n the rain ’d central towe rWhen buttress and buttress, alternate ly,Seemed framed of ebon and ivo ryWhen silver ed ges the image ry,And the scro lls that teach thee to live and di e

When distant Tweed is heard to rave ,And the owle t to hoo t o ’

e r the dead man’s grave,

Then go— but go alone the whileThen View St. David’s ruin ’

d pileAnd , home re turning, so o thly swear,W as never scene so sad and fair 5

His mind was a treasur e -house o f tradition an d romancefrom which a po e t ’s magic conjure d up memo rial fune ralrite s fo r drowne d Ro sabe lle in the ance stral mauso leum

O’

e r Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was se en to gleam

’Twas broader than the watchAn d redde r than the bright mo on-beam .

I t glared on Roslin’

s castled ro ck,I t ruddied all the copse -wo od glen,

’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves o f oak ,And seen from cave rn

’

d Hawtho rnden.

Seem’

d all on fire that chape l proud ,Where Ro slin ’

s chie fs u'

n co f’fin

’

d lie,

Each Baron, fo r a sable shroud ,

Sheathed in his iron panoply.


Seem’d all o n fir e , within, around ,

Deep sacristy, and altar’s pale ,Shone eve ry pillar fo liage -bound ,An d glimme r

’

d all the dead men’s mail .Blazed battlement an d pinne t high,

Blazed eve ry rose -carved buttress fairSo still they blaze , when fate is nighThe lo rdly line of high St. Clair.There are twenty of Roslin ’

s barons bo ldLie buried within that proud chape lle

E ach o n e the ho ly vau lt do th ho ldB ut the sea ho lds love ly Rosabe lle 6

And it was a poe t ’s tyrant imagination in the grasp o f

the past which was needed to ste e l his heart fo r that taleo f ho rro r , the accurst monastic conclave in the mu rde r -deno f Ho ly Island , which make s on e cry o ut upon the Fiend .

fo r n o t sparing perjure d Marmlo n

but a day ,

Fo r wasting fire , an d dy ing groan,And priests slain o n the altar-stone .

7

Il

have le ft to the last that which might at Once ,an d

by itse lf,have e stablishe d the Bo rde r Minstre l ’s title to

a po e t’s laure l . Sur e ly in the front rank o f re qu iems

stands that o ve r Pitt an d Fo x . The two Titanic figur e shad fille d the entire ho rizon o f Sco tt ’s you th an d earlymanho o d ; an d the passion o f his verse te stifie s to the

impre ss o n his nature . Y e t neve r,like many o f its class ;

do e s it fo am into rhe to ric,o r rave into hyste rics . It rise s

an d falls like tidal wave s . As the thought dwe lls o n the

broken health,an d broken heart

,o f the mighty Ministe r ,

the me lo dy is so lemn an d sad

Had’st thou but liv ’

d,though stripp

’

d‘

o f power,A watchman on the lone ly tower,Thy thrilling trump had roused the land ,

When fraud o r dan ge r we re at hand

SIR . WALTER SCOTT

By thee , as by the beacon-light ,Our pilo ts had kept course aright ;As some proud co lumn, though alone ,Thy strength had propp

’

d the to ttering throneNow is the state ly co lumn broke ,The beacon-light isque n ch’

d‘

in smoke ,The trumpe t’s silver so und is still ,The warde r silent on the hill 8

The dirge gro ws re jo icingly triumphal as it unite s himhis rival in a common bond o f renown an d patrio tism

With mo re than mo rtal powers en dow’

d ,

How high they so ar’d above the crowdTheirs was n o common party race ,

Jostling by dark intrigue fo r placeLike fabled gods , their mighty warSho ok realms an d nations in its jarBeneath each banner proud to stand ,Lo oked up the noblest o f the land ,Till thro ugh the British wo rld we re knownThe names o f Pitt an d Fox alone .

Spe lls of such fo rce n o wizard graveE

’

e r framed in dark Thessalian cave .

These spe lls are spent, and ,spent with these ,

The wine o f life is o n the leesGenius, and taste , and talent gone ,Fo r eve r tomb ’

d beneath the stone ,Where— taming thought to human prideThe mighty chie fs sleep side by side .

Drop upon Fox ’s grave the tear,’Twill trickle to his rival’s bie rO

’

e r Pitt’s the mournfu l requiem sound ,And Fox’s shall the no tes re boun d .

The so lemn e cho seems to cryHere le t their disco rd with them d ie .

Speak n o t fo r these a separate do om ,

Whom Fate made Bro thers in the tombB ut search the land o f living men .

Where wilt tho u find their l ike agen 9


Throughout Sco tt ’s po ems blemishe s an d de fe cts aboundwithout clouding his title to a poe t ’s honours . He dilute shis de scriptions o ften ,

an d is care le ss in diction . Ve ryse ldo m did he use pruning ho ok o r file . No po e t cou ldbe mo re slipshod . Much in the longer compo sitions may

be fair sto ry-te lling , an d is su re to be archae o logicallyinstructive . It may e ven reach the le ve l o f a popu larballad . Assure d ly it is n o t po e try . The facility

, pr o

ve rbially fatal , o f the o cto syllabic me tre lure d him intopro lixity . Wide reading in many dire ctions , an d a memo ryfo r particular subje cts practically bo undle ss , contribute d totempt him to impro vise . As he fre e ly admitte d

,he was

without the facu lty o f se lf-criticism . It is an invaluableincapacity during the pro ce ss o f po e tical production ; a

ve ry dange rous on e in the subsequent pe rio d o f refle ctionand revision . Among the re su lts was that he accepte dunsuspiciously whatever subje ct happene d to pre sent itse lf .Fo r an y ,

an d e spe cially fo r a me trical,sto ry it is e ssential

that the plo t shou ld po sse ss enough intrinsic an d glowinginte re st to stimu late reade r an d wr ite r alike . With thr e ehe was fo rtunate . As me re tale s The Lay o f the LastMinstre l , Marmion ,

an d The Lady o f the Lake,fascinate .

Banno ckburn is n o t intimate ly enough conne cte d withBruce ’s wande rings among the Isle s to lend adventure samong them re tro spe ctive animation . Very few

_

o_f5-,A tf;1e

pre sent generation have patience to trace the maze o f

Rokeby . In consequence a fin e pie ce o f characte r drawingin Be rtram , with his audacious e scape s an d death

,has

be en waste d . The Bridal o f Tr ie rmain,a bright garden

o f fancie s , with its Arthurian atmo sphere,is n o mo re than

a name , if that . Me rlin wou ld have t o come to life againto revive it ; an d equally entombe d

,in spite o f the swe ep

of grand flowing ve rse , is Haro ld the Dauntless .



mind . The re is a so rt , an d Sco tt’s is o f it

,in which the

reade r has to distil fo r himse lf . The bo rn po e t has co lle cted,

se le cte d the mate rials ; has himse lf be en enrapture d bythe fe e ling

,rathe r than e xpre ssion ,

o f the ir e ssence . It isthe fau lt o f his public if it canno t be so likewise . The

inclination o f the pre sent age is towards having in tr o spection an d inte lle ctual analysis done fo r it , an d by its po e ts .

To po e try it lo oks fo r problems,if n o t , ne ce ssarily , fo r the

so lutions . Sco tt do e s n o t deal in enigmas . In him itwou ld have be en affe ctation an d he is neve r affe cte d . Ashe neve r po se s as a Sphinx

,so he pre tends ne ithe r to be

a child o f nature,like Burns

,n o r a nature -wo rshipper

,like

Wo rdswo rth . Y e t his scene s are all,in the ir change fu l

dive rsity,constantly true an d re al . He do e s n o t attempt to

hide his debt to librarie s fo r ve ry much in his narrative s .

He make s n o parade o f the equal truth that he has charmedthe heart o ut o f them ; that in his ve rse it be ats as itrare ly be at be fo re .

N o go lden haze floats o ve r the po ems o f Sco tt . Theyapply n o fo rm o f spiritual o r sensuous intoxication . Only

,

when the imagination is e lsewhe re cloye d with swe e tne ss ,o r has wearie d ‘

o f tying kn o ts in the brain,when it longs

fo r dancing bre e ze s an d fire,like the Home ric

,it tu rns

with re lie f to the Last Minstre l ’s Lay ,to Marmion ,

to The

Lady o f the Lake . They r e -ente r into the ir rightful inhe ritance o f hearthside favou r . When they ar e du lyunde rsto o d

,it will be se en also that they can re claim

some thing o f wo rth as high ; that is , pro pe rty in the

autho r himse lf . Sco tt the man is a po sse ssion that an y

pro vince o f lite rature may be proud to appro priate as

primarily its awn . Nobo dy can be surprise d that the titleto such a prize has at time s be en dispute d . Tho se splendidgifts

,the manline ss

,the magnanimity

,the incapability o f


envy,jealousy ,

meanne ss,unkindne ss

,the fre shne ss

,the

genius which extracte d go ld from e ve rything,an d trans

muted lead into go ld , the large pre sence in le tte rs an d inlife

,which ennoble d bo th— we re they the poe t ’s o r the

sto ry- te lle r ’s mo re legitimate attribu te s Study the poemsan d you will find the basis o f all the re .

Neve r in write r was the re le ss o f ego tism ;‘

ye t neve rpo e t was mo re assu re d that po e try was his vo cation . He

continue d in the fu ll practice o f the art as long as inspiration

,with the rare st e xceptions

,denie d by many to be

exceptions,is wont to de scend . Fo r its sake he had

sacrificed pro fe ssional ambition he had curbe d the aspirations o f romance ,

an d hidd e n it take se co n d place . The reit W aited , a mo de st unde rstudy , until po e try vo luntarilywithdrew ,

when it came fo rward to play the characte r pr otanto . B ut the po e tic spirit dwe lt apart it had no t d ied .

It is fe lt , fee ding , guiding , lending warm th an d grace to

fiction,always prepare d t o step fo rth fro m its re tirement

at nee d — like Achille s,behind the bo rr owe d shie ld o f

Ajax,scaring with his battle -cry the wo lve s o f Troy from

the bo dy o f Patro clus .

The Po etical W o rks o f Sir W alter Scott, ed } J . G . Lockhart . 12 vo ls .

Ed in burgh 1833—4 .

1 The Lo rd o f the Isles, Can to vi, st 24 .

2 Marmio n , Can to vi , stan zas 25 - 26.

3 The Lady o f the Lake , Can to v, st . 9 .

Macgrego r’s Gathering.5 The Lay o f the Last Min stre l, Can to 11

,st . 1

8 Ibid . , Can to vi, st . 23 .

7 Marmion , Can t-o Vi, st . 3 1 .

8 Ibid Introduction to Can to i9 Ibid .

J AMES HOGG

1 770— 1 835

A POET,a bo rn po e t

,an d no thing but a po e t ; a po e t

all o ve r,who thought in po e try with whom all he saw

tu rn e d to po e try who wro te much ve rse , re ad fo rme rly ,an d still

,if at all

,with pleasure who had the aspirations

o f a great po e t,pe rhaps

,the be lie f that he was o n e who

ye t was neve r re co gnize d as mo re than a mino r poe t an d

neve r,with a single e xception

,wr o te o the r than mino r

po e try .

No t that his co pious poe tical repe rto ry is without abundant te stimony to a rich an d re ady fancy . He is at homein Fairyland . The Haunte d Glen

,in which the Elve s are

to me e t to crown fo r King a mo rtal man refine d into the irnature by se ven years o f penance

,is fu ll o f de licate imagin

ings . The monarch-e le ct re -name s his attendant sprite s ,as in its mo de l , A Midsumme r N ight

’s Dr eam,whe re a

gro sse r creature discharge s the same function . So daintyhe re is the texture that

,in fear o f coming upon co arse r

threads,we have a sense o f re lie f when the fabric is le ft

incomple te with a dismissal o f the little be ings to the irseve ral du tie s . Still mo re musical

,as vo ice d in Ettrick

diale ct,is the appeal to the fairie s to watch o ve r a n ew

bo rn babe . Humour eve rywhere in Hogg bubble s upfre e ly , though nowhe re mo re de lightfully than in the tragicomedy o f The Gude Greye Katt . NO fe e ling he art can

he lp compassionating the sad plight o f the great Byschopeo f Blain ,

who fo r toying with the beau te o us witch he had

JAMES HOGG 6 1

be en invite d to unmask and ban,

finds himse lf suddenlyin Mistre ss Pussy ’s claws taking aghast

his janteUp throu the milkye waye .

1

The re is sto re as we l l o f humour ’s siste r,real patho s ;

from the e legy o n the name le ss child,who se

li ttle fee t across the lawnScarce from the primro se pressed the dew ;

I thought the spirit o f the dawnBefo re me to the greenwo odflew 2

to Po o r Little Je ssie ’s lamentIt

’s lang sin

’

I lost baith my father an d mo the r ,I’m simple an

’ po o r, an ’ fo rlo rn o n the wayI had an e that I likit an only dear bro the r,My Willie— but he s lying cauld i’ the clay.3

Even the o ld house ’

,de se rte d by the thriving

,age d

farme r,has its tribute o f pre tty pityThy ro o f will fa

’

, thy rafte rs start,How damp an ’ cau ld thy hearth will be

Ah, sae will so on ilk honest heart,That erst was blithe an

’ bauld in thee .

Fareweel my house an’ burni e clear,

My bourtre e bush an’bowzy tre e ,

The we e while I maun so journ hereI’

ll neve r find a hame like thee .

4

And he can sing to o ,Burns -like

,jus t fo r singing ’s sake

,

as o f Peggie,

the fairest flowe rThe braes o

’

E ttrick ever saw,

5

and o f blissful hour,

When the little wee bit heartRises high in the breast,

An’

the little wee bit starnRise s red in the east.


0 there ’

s a joy sae dear,That the heart can hardly frame ,W i

’a bonn ie , bonnie lassie ,

When the ky e comes hame ,When the kye comes hame ,

’Tween the gle aming and the mirk,W hen the ky e comes hame .

6

The po ssibilitie s o f charm in all real po e try are infin ite .

Wheneve r we lo ok clo se at ve rse by a genuine po e t,o f high

o r low degre e ,a temptation

,as he re

,to e xagge rate me rit

naturally arise s . Standing a little farthe r o ff,I se e de fe cts

pe rvading the entire bo dy o f Hogg ’s ve rse . No t me re lyd o they affe ct windy e ffusions

,like Mary Le e o f Care lha,

the tire so me imitations o f contempo rary writers in ThePo e tic Mirro r , the e cho e s

,n o t confe sse d imitations— as is

Ensaco,o f Hohenlinden— the glib

,false sentiment o f Cary

O ’ Ke an ,an d the me dio crity o f the Sacre d Me lo die s

they ar e n o t absent e ven from the pie ce s I have se le cte dto show the po e t at his be st . It is n o t only

,o r mainly

,

a rawn e ss bo th o f mate rial an d o f wo rkmanship,a dearth

o f me llown e ss and finish . The quality which I chieflymiss is po e tic raptu re , with the consequent glow o f sympathy be twe en reade r an d autho r . A po em w ith tho sepropertie s w ill leave behind in the reade r ’s sou l some thingo f itse lf

,which draws him back to it with rope s

,whe the r

o f silk o r o f ste e l . He re he admire s,thinks how cleve r it

all is,how beautifu l some parts— an d re tains no thing . The

flo o d has swept o ve r the su rface o f the mind,an d is gone .

I fear I can make n o large e xception,none in favo ur

even o fThe Gude Greye Katt . My o bje ction applie s to thebulk o f The Queen ’s Wake itse lf

,on which,as a who le ,

the

survival o f the Shephe rd ’s reputation principally depends .The pre amble s to its vario us tale s generally are exce llent

JAMES HOGG 63

fo r in them he fo rge ts to be aught but himse lf,the bard ,

whoo n E ttrick’s mountain gre en

In nature ’s bosom nursed had be en.

7

Two o r thre e beautifu l songs are inte rspe rse d in particular ,The Spe ctre ’s pathe tic Cradle Song

Hush, my bo nny babe — hush, and be stillThy mo ther

’s arms shall shie ld the e from illFar have I bo rne the e in so rrow and pain,To drink the bree ze o f the wo rld again.

The d ew shall mo isten thy brow so me ek ,And the bree ze o f midn ight fan thy cheekAnd soon shall we rest in the how o f the hillHush, my bonny babe —hush, and be still 8

In the tale s themse lve s,with o n e de lightful exception

,

I d o n o t rate the quality abo ve Ho gg ’s usual standard .

A ll su ffe r from his common weakne ss o f to o e asy contentment with his wo rk o f exce ssive an d un pruned me tricalfacility . Fo r instance

,conside r the prepo ste rous length o f

the fo urte enth bard ’s ballad,o the rwise captivating , Of

Mary Sco tt ! Such pro ductions are to the higher po etryso me thing Such as Mémo ire s pou r se rvir are to histo ry.

They sugge st a po e t in the making rathe r than made .

Only once do e s Hogg appear to me to have unde rgonea fit

,n o me re transient spasm

,o f the rapture which com

mun icate s itse lf to a poe t ’s public . In Kilmen y ,if nowhe re

e lse ,he is inspire d . That is among the po ems which ,

having be en once actually taken into the mind , remainpo sse ssions

,an d in po sse ssion . It has growth in it , an d

atmo sphe re . If the re is some thing also o f glo rious nu

reason in the cho ice o f swe e t Kilmeny fo r a semi-earthly ,semi -e the real immo rtality

,the extravagance is without

o ffence .


As we read o f he r beautiful chi ldho o d , he r vanishing ,her lo ving re appearance in that which was fe lt to be n o

longe r he r ain coun try e ,how she so journe d briefly among

he r kinsfo lk,a waking dre am ,

an d finally di sso lved againinto a ce le stial memo ry , we ar e sensible o f n o vio lence ;we are in the po e t ’s hands , an d are content to be the re

Bonn ie Kilmeny gaed up the glenB ut it wasna to me e t D un eira’

s men

I t was only to hear the yo rlin sing,And pu

’

the cress-flower round the springFo r Kilmeny was pure as pure co uld be .

B ut lang may he r minny lo ok o’

e r the wa’

,

And lang may she seek i’ the gre en-wo od ShawLang the laird o

’

D un eira blame ,And lang , lang gre et o r Kilmeny come hameWhen many lang day had come an dfled ,When grie f grew calm, an d hope was de ad,When mess fo r Kilmen y

’

s so ul had been sung ,When the bedesman had prayd , an d the de ad be ll rungLate

,late in a gloamin

’ when all was still,

When the fringe was red o n the westlin hill ,The wo o d was sere , the mo on i’ the wane ,The re ek o

’

the co t hung over the plain,Like a little we e cloud in the wo rld its laneWhen the ingle lowed wi ’ an e iry leme ,Late , late in the gloamin

’ Kilmeny came hameKilmeny , Kilmeny , where have y ou be en ?Lang hae we sought baith b o lt an d dean.

’

Kilmeny lo ok’

d up with a love ly grace ,B ut n ae smile was se en o n Kilmeny

’

s faceAs still was her lo ok, an d as still was her e e ,As the stilln ess that lay o n the emerant leaOr the mist that sleeps o n a wave less sea.

Fo r Kilmeny had been she ken’d n o t where ,And Kilmeny had seen what she cou ld n o t declareKilmeny had be en where the co ck neve r crew,

Where the rain neve r fe ll, and the wind never blew,



0 bonny Kilmeny fre e frae stain,If eve r y ou se ek the wo rld again,That wo rld o f sin ,

o f so rrow,an d fear,

0 te ll o f the joys that are waiting here .

’

They lifted Kilme ny ,they led he r away,

An d she walk’d in the light o f a sunless dayThe sky was a dome o f crystal bright,The foun tain o f vision, an d fountain o f lightThe emerant fie lds were o f dazzlin g glow,

And the flowers o f eve rlasting blow.

Then de ep in the stream he r body they laid ,That he r yo uth an d beauty neve r might fadeAnd she heard a song, she heard it sun g,She kend n o t where but sae swe etly it rung ,I t fe ll on the ear like a dream o f the mo rnO blest be the day Kilmeny was bornNow shall the land o f the spirits se e ,New shall it ken what a woman may be

They bo re he r away, she wist n o t how ,

Fo r she fe lt n o t arm n o r rest be lowB ut so swift they wain ed he r through the light,’Twas like the mo tion o f sound o r sightUn n umbered groves be low them grew,

They came , they pass’

d , an d backwardflew,

Like flo ods o f blo ssoms glidin g o n ,

A momen t se en,in a momen t gone .

B ut to sing the sights Kilmen y saw,

SO far surpassing n atu re ’s law ,

The sin ge r’s vo ice wad sink away,

An d the strin g o f his harp wad cease to play.B u t she saw till the so rrows o f man we re by,An d all was love an d harmonyTill the stars Of heaven fe ll calmly away

,

Like the flakes o f sn aw o n a win ter day .

Then Kilmen y begged again to se e

The friends she had le ft in he r ain coun try e

JAMES HOGG

To te ll o f the place where she had been,An d the glo ries that lay in the lan d unse enTo warn the livin g maidens fair,The loved of Heaven, the spirits’ care ,That all whose min ds unmeled remainShall blo om in beauty when time is gan e .

With distant music, so ft and dee p,They lull’d Kilmeny sound asleepAnd when she awaken

’

d , she lay he r lane ,All happ

’

d with flowe rs, in the gree n -wo od we n e .

When seven lang years had come an dfled ,When grie f was calm, and hope was deadWhen scarce was remembe red Kilmeny

’

s name ,Late , late in a gloamin

’ Kilmeny came hame

When a month.

an d a day had come and gane ,Kilmeny sought the green-wo od weneThere laid he r down on the leaves sae green ,

And Kilmeny o n earth was never mair see n .

But O, the words that fe ll from he r mouthWere wo rds of wonde r and wo rds of tru thB ut all the land were in fear an d dread ,Fo r they kendna whe ther she was living o r dead .

I t wasna her hame , and she couldna remainShe le ft this wo rld of so rrow an d pain ,

And re turn ed to the land o f thought again 9

Blest be his genero us heart fo r ay e

He to ld me where the re lic layE 2

67

Neve r was Fairyland made to appear neare r to us,o r

suffus e d with love lie r co lou rs .

tiality within him ,if se ldom e lsewhe re develope d to equal

pe r fe ction,Hogg himse lf may be fo rgiven fo r some so rene ss

of heart at the woun ding wisdom o f wo rldly e xpe rience ,

whi ch led his patron Sco tt to recommend him to co nfinever sifying t o legends o f Ettrick Glen , an d the like , whilekeeping to shee p-farming fo r his life ’s vo cation :

Aware o f such a po ten


Po inted my way with ready will,Afar on E ttrick’s wildest hill ;W atch

’

d my first no tes with curious ey e ,And won d e rd at my minstrelsyHe little ween d a parent’s tongueSuch strains had o

’

e r my cradle sun g .B ut when to n ative fe e lings true ,I struck upon a cho rd was n ew ;

When by myse lf I ’

gan to play ,He tried to ‘wile my harp away .0 could the hard I loved so long ,Reprove my fond aspiring song ‘

2

Or cou ld his tongue o f candour say ,

That I shou ld throw my harp away 7Just when her no tes began with skill,To sound beneath the southern hill,And twine around my bo som’s co re ,H ow cou ld we part fo r evermo re’Twas kindness all— I canno t blameFo r bo o tless is the minstre l flameB ut sure a bard might we ll have knownAno ther’s fee lings by his own ! 1 0

It was natur al fo r him to fancy that in happie r circumstance s

,w ith mo re sym pathy from withou t , he had it in

him to rank with his many illustriou s contempo rarie s .

Ye t I am afraid that,if Kilmen y ,

though ce rtainly n o

accident,stands alone among his wo rks

,the de fault was

rathe r in himse lf than in o the rs ; that , if his so u l he ldthe ge rms o f n ew Kilmen y s , the wil l was wanting to endu rein patience the pangs o f bringing them fo rth

,e quippe d to

so ar an d sing .

Poems an d Life o f the E ttrick Shepherd . N ew Ed ition . By theRev . Thomas Thomson . Lon d on : Blackie , 1865 . Als o The Po e ticalW orks o f James Hogg. Four vo ls. Edin burgh : Arch. Con stable , 1822 .

1 The Gud e Gr ey e Katt (The Po etic Mirr or), st . 7 .

E legy, st . 43 (Po ems Descriptive and Sentimental).

JAMES HOGG 69

3 Po o r Little Jessie (Miscellan e o us So ngs), st . 4 .

4 The Auld Man ’

s Farewee l to his W ee Ho use (Po ems De scriptiveand Se n time n tal), stan zas 9 an d 1 1 .

6 Blithe an’

Chee rie (Love Songs), st . 1 .

6 W hen the Ky e comes Hame (Misce llan eo us So ngs ), st . 6.

7 Ten th Bard ’

s Preamble (The Que e n ’

s W ake ) .6 Ibid . , The Spectre ’

s Crad le So ng (The Que en ’

s W ake ), st . 1 .9 Thirteen th Bard ’

s Song— Kilme ny (The Queen ’

s W ake ) .Ibid .

,The Queen ’

s W ake- Co n clusio n .

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

1 77 5— 1 864

A POET with greatne ss in him ; who has wri tten un

fo rge ttable things . Illustri o us in pro se as in ve rse but

always a poe t . As a poe t , a succe ss an d a failure .

To begin with a theme by whi ch he would himse lf havecho sen to be judge d— in his metempsycho sis as a Gre ekpoe t he wo rks miracle s . Study En ale o s an d Cymodame ia

,

Pan an d Pitys,Cupid an d Pan

,Eur o pa an d he r Mo ther,

Chr ysao r,The A ltar o f Modesty . The outlin e s are ex

qui site ly clear,neve r o ut o f drawing the grace

,if some

t ime s marble -co ld,is fine ly statue sque . Now and again

the warm,living , mo de rn blo o d asserts itse lf in him an d

the figure s are suffuse d with patho s . Even then,if n o t

Gre ek,ne ithe r are they crude ly Go thic . The blend is

beautifully tempe red in The Hamadryad in'

Pe leus an dThe tis in the fir st part o f Co rythos in the co que ttingwith her peasant wo o e r o f the swe e t wo o d-nymph

,who ,

as

any human maid,kn ew that

to play at love ,Stoppin g its breathin gs when it breathes mo st so ft,I s swee te r than to play on any pipe ; 1

an d in that maste rpie ce , Iphigen e ia an d Agamemnon,

the final he ro ic tende rne ss of the VictimAn aged man n ow en ter

’

d , an d withou tOn e wo rd, stept slowly on , an d to ok the wristOf the pale maiden. She lo okt up, an d saw

The fillet of the priest an d calm co ld eyes.Then turn ’

d she where her paren t sto od, an d criedO father grieve n o mo re the ships can sail . ’ 2

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 7 1

In ano the r as admirable,The Espo usals o f Po lyxena

,the

me lancho ly de epens into re mo rse le ss trage dy all is franklyHellenic . It is n o t o ften that

,with Lando r

, insular fancyruns inso lently wild , as in Achille s an d He lena o n Ida . Fo r

the mo st part the se lf-re straint is as admirable as the

vivacity . It d istinguishe s itse lf particularly in the braverepulse o f temptations to me asure ancient virtue by mo de rncanons . Lan d o r

’

s sense o f consistency is inco rruptible bysentiment . He di smisse s the gho st o f Achille s with a legacyof vin dictivene ss against the Ho use o f Priam

,witho ut

a wo rd o f pity fo r its child,his aflian ced

,mo st inno cent

bride,whom none

Heeded , tho ’ sinking as if into death.

3

The same fide lity to art istic duty pe rvade s the Acts an dScene s from Roman an d mo de rn hi sto ry .

Occasionally,it may be admitte d

,he somewhat abuse s

his libe rty when he is given o r assume s a fre e hand,as in

the tyrannicidal scene be twe en Tyr re l an d Rufus ,an d in

the thr illin g de scription o f Be atrice Cenci ’s e xe cution

Men have be en brave , bu t women have be en brave r 4

In gene ral he keeps his fo o ting firm ly ove r medie val an dclassical quagmire s . He do e s n o t pre tend to se t histo ryright when

,as if with intention , it has wrapt in darkne ss

characte rs like tho se o f Count Julian an d Queen Gio vanna .

Re ade rs might some time s wish that he had indulge d a littleat time s in anachronistic sentimentality . W e fee l a sho ck ,as in the pre sence o f a crue l action

,at the brutish e xu lta

tion o f Kin g Henry, as he he ars on Richmond Chase An neBo leyn ’s kne ll from Paul ’s

How swe e tly that be ll warbled o ’

e r the water 5

It must have re quire d all even Of his courage to print the


scene be twe en young Cae sar ion an d the murde rous hi re ling,

Scopas . High dramatic skill in the analysis o f emo tionsbut just rende rs it endurable ; an d all the admirationstudents must fe e l fo r a consummate artist is ne ede d toearn his pardon fo r the to rture he inflicts upon them .

Genius owe s it to itse lf , to the wo rld , to show the utmo stit can d o ,

to se t itse lf difficu lt tasks , to climb high peakswhich lead nowhe re

,fo r the attainment o f ends apparently

profitless . Rightly it is acco unted an unwo rthy thing tobe content with e asy

,dazzling e ffe cts . Tru sting to its

untrie d capabilitie s,it o ften leaps withou t measur ing wid th

o r depth . Some time s it attempts the impracticable . Ihave n o doubt but that Lando r

,who acte d loyally up to

the o bligations his gre at po we rs laid upon him,re ckone d

the He llenics,an d Acts an d Scene s

,his fo remo st achieve

ments in po e try . He judge d aright,I be lieve

,of the

fo rme r,if n o t o f the latte r . Unhappily

,the public o f fair

inte lligence scarce ly agre e d with the autho r in hi s life time,

an d agree s ye t le ss n ow . Its e rro r,as I conside r the negle ct ,

has contribute d to a se cond an d co stlie r on e . It has invo lve d a multitude o f pie ce s po sse sse d o f eve ry title to

popularity,except the fact .

Lando r te lls a sto ry as few po e ts can . Witne ss thecharming tale o f the haple ss lo ve o f Gui done an d Lucia .

Neve r was the re a mo re righte o us critic y e t with whatcharm in co nfe ssing an d e xcu sing fau lts in tho se whom ,

like Catu llus,he lo ve sY es, in Thalia’

s son

Such stain s there are— as when a GraceSprinkles an o ther’s laughing faceWith ne ctar, an d run s o n

6

Neve r was the re on e o f his fie ry natur e mo re de licate lydiscriminating , mo re signally without malignity o r jealousy


74 FIVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE0

Twenty years hen ce , tho ’

it may hap

That I b e call’

d to take a n ap

I n a co o l cell whe re thunde r-clapW as neve r heard ,

There , breathe but o’

e r my arch of grassA n o t to o sadly sigh

’

d AlasAn d I shall catch, e re y ou can pass

,

That winged wo rd .

9

Loved, when my love from all but the e had flown ,

Come near me seat thee on this leve l sto n eAn d , e re thou lo okest o

’

e r the churchyard wall,

To catch, as once we d id , y on wate rfall ,Lo ok a brie f moment on the turf betwe en,And see a tomb thou neve r y et hast se en.

My spirit will be so o th’

d to hear on ce mo reGo od-by e as gently spoken as befo re .

1 0

There are swee t flowers that only blow by night ,An d swe et tears are there that avo id the light ;No mo rtal se es them after day is bo rn,They, like the d ew, drop trembling from the ir thorn.

1 1

Very true , the linn ets singSwe e test in the leaves o f sprin gY ou have found in all these leave sThat which changes an d dece ives,An d , to pin e by sun o r star,Le ft them , false ones as they are .

But there b e who walk besideAutumn ’s till they all have died,An d who lend a patien t earTo low no te s from bran ches sere .

Ah what avails the sceptred race ,Ah what the fo rm divin eWhat every virtue , every graceRose Aylmer. all were thin e .

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Rose Aylmer, whom these wake ful eyesMay weep, but n eve r see ,

A n ight o f memo ries an d o f sighsI consecrate to thee .

1 6

The leaves are fallin g so am I

The few late flowers have mo isture in the ey e

So have I to o .

Scarcely on any bough is heardJoyo us, o r even unj oyous, birdThe who le wo od through.

Winte r may come he brings but n igherHis circle (yearly narrowing) to the fireWhere old friends mee t ;

Le t him n ow heaven is over-cast,And sprin g an d summer bo th are past,An d all things swee t .16

Mo the r, I canno t mind my whee lMy fingers ache my lips are dry

Oh, if y ou fe lt the pain I fee lBut oh, who ever fe lt as I

No lon ge r could I doubt him tru eAll o ther men may use deceit ;

He always said my eye s were blue ,And o ften swo re my lips were swe e t.1 5

An d,lastly

Is it n o dream that I am he

Whom on e awake all n ightRose e re the earliest birds to see ,

An d met by dawn ’s red light

W ho , when the wi n try lamps were spent,An d all was drear an d dark ,Against the rugged pear-tre e leantWhile ice crackt off the bark

W ho little heeded slee t an d blast ,But much the fallin g sn ow ;Tho se in few hours would sure be past ,Hi s traces that might show

7 5


Betwe en whose knees, un seen, unheard,The honest mastiff came ,

No r icar’d he ; n o , n o r was he fear’

d

Te ll me , am I the same

0 come the same dull stars we ’ ll see ,The same o

’

e rclouded mo on.

0 come ! an d te ll me am I he ?

0 te ll me , te ll me so on.

1 6

On e an d all, magical Ye t the se nine are only spe cimenso f a ho st

, . including , pe rhaps , o thers fo r many mind slo ve lie r still . Inde e d

,the labo ur o f trying to acco unt by

e xample s fo r the homage I have rende red to the singe rdoubtle ss has be en supe rfluous

,when

,I dare say ,

it co u ldhave be en justifie d as adequate ly by a couple o f line s

I loved him n o t an d y e t n ow he is gone ,I fe e l I am alone .

Strange,that a mu ltitude o f the like should n o t be house

ho ld wo rds What irony o f lite rary fate that the po e t ’ sname should be inscribed among the highly honoured inEnglish lite rature

,an d his po ems remain

,unle ss fo r a smal l

mino rity,virtually a sealed bo ok

He has met wi th a do om analo gous to that de signed bySt . Romuald ’s vo tarie s , acco rding to Southey ’s ballad ,fo r the ir ho ly town sman . He has be en sanctified bya premature de ath . Whi le he o ught to be stil l living an d

re ad , he has be en e levate d into the dignified repo se o f

a classic . Contrasted qualitie s in him ar e equally re spon

sible . He suffe rs bo th from diffusene ss an d from com

pre ssion . Gebir is a thicke t o f grand po e tical propertie s .

Sono ro u s gusts o f fitful, shadowy ideas blow about it .

They constantly e lude an y o rdinary mental grasp . The

trilogy, having fo r its centre mise rable Queen Gio vanna, isa labyrinth o f a hundred and fo rty page s

,in which histo ry

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 7 7

an d romance go astray,mimicking o n e ano the r ’s vo ice .

Some time s,o n the o the r hand

,as in Co re sus an d Callirho e,

an d in many o f the lyrics,he is so pre cipitate ly brie f that

the climax is an affront . Then in the longe r pie ce s,based

o n histo ry , he is apt afte r an evi l an d favourite habit o fthe British Legislature

,to p ro ce e d by re fe rence That

is , he assume s that the re al events are known,o r will be

lo oked up . No t le ss o ffensive to popu lar taste is the wanto f sifting . Me re e xe rcise s

,like the trial o f Ae schylus

,the

bandying o f indiffe rent compliments be twe en him an d

Sopho cle s,the slaughte r o f Co rytho s by his fathe r , an d

the re scue o f A lce stis by He rcule s,e lbow scene s o f abso lute

lo ve line ss,such as The Hamadr yad ,

Iphigen e ia,the fir st

part o f Co ry tho s , Pe leu s an d The tis,an d Po lyxena. A

similar want of asso rtment doubtle ss has he lped to spo i le ven the garden o f lyr ics fo r a public which will n o t beat the pains to distinguish be tween flowe rs an d wee ds .

The same public , do cile when it is a que stion o f e conomyo f brain-wo rry

,has be en satisfie d to take it o n trust fro m

the initiate d that Lando r is a po e t who sits on the dais .

It do e s n o t trouble t o scrutinize his right . We re it toinquire

,it wo u ld learn that he had the po e t ’s gift o f im

parting to his verse,o ve r an d abo ve all e lse

,a fe e ling as

if o f a spirit having ho ve re d near . The attribute is to beprized beyond all o the rs

,when apprehende d fo r it is the

re ade rs ’ then as much as the wr ite r ’s an d e ve ry wr ite rre jo ice s to share the de light with them . Lando r , it is tobe feare d

,had little o f that pleasure . But the popular

co ldne ss,which was his o rdinary e xpe rience , canno t have

deprive d him o f the rapture o f fe e ling the de scent o f inspiration . I read a sense at le ast o f this supreme jo y inhis own review o f a care e r which impre sse d hi s conte m

po rarie s as harasse d— howe ve r ne e dle ssly— cro ss -graine d ,


ineffe ctual , an d unhappy . With spiritual Visitations suchas favo ured him , he canno t have who lly mo cked himse lfin the farewe ll

,whi ch

,whi le it charms

,br ings somehowan

ache to admiring heartsI strove with non e fo r n one was wo rth my strife .

Nature I loved, an d , next to Nature , ArtI warm

’

d bo th hands be fo re the fire of lifeI t sinks, an d I am ready to depart .1 7

The W o rks an d Life of W alte r Savage Lando r. E ight vo ls. Chapmanan d Hall, 1876. Vo l. vii, Gebir ; Acts an d Scen es ; He llen ics. Vo l. viiiMiscellan e o us Po ems.

1 The Hamadryad (He llen ics) .1 Iphigen e ia an d Agamemn on (He llen ics) .6 The E spousals o f Po lyxen a (Hellen ics) .Beatrice Cen ci (Dialogues in Ve rse ) .Hen ry the E ighth an d Ann e Bo leyn (Dialogues in Verse ) .

6 On Catullus (The Last Fruit o ff an Old Tree , Epigrams, vi ) .7 Young (Last Fruit, &c Ibid . ,

6 Misce llan e o us Po ems, Collection o f 1846, No . 63 .

9 Ibid . , No . 5 8.

16 Ibid . , N o . 200.

1 1 Additio nal Po ems, No . 96.

Misce llan eous Po ems, Co llection o f 1 846, No . 1 5 2 .

1 1 Ibid No . 102 .1 ‘ Ibid .

, No. 2 13 .

Ibid . , No . 93 .

1 ° Ibid . , N o . 61 .

1 7 Pr efixed to vo lume : The Last Fruit o ff an Old Tree . E . Moxon ,

1853 .

TH OMAS MOORE

1 7 7 9— 1 85 2

COURAGE is require d to praise Mo o re e ven mo de rate ly .

Admi ration o f him is like ly to be taken as evidence o f

a pre fe rence o f so und to sense ,an d o f a propensity to the

he inous crime o f cheap sensibility . No twithstandin g liability to the se te rrible charge s , I wil l n o t without a strugglebe parte d from o ld favou rite s in his life ’s wo rk . Now as

fo rme rly I find in it a powe r o f affo rding to particular mo odsthe satisfaction they have be en craving . No t me re ly are

the re spe cial po ems whi ch I could n o t consent to abandonthe re e ven is a spirit in the who le which asse rts fo r ita right to lo dge within the re co gnize d po e tic domain .

Mu ch o f Mo o re ’s pub lished wo rk,I willingly allow

,has

long be en o ut o f date . The smo o thne ss o f his An acre onis n o t He lleni c enough to content mo de rn scho larship .

The vivacity o f his po litical an d so cial sat ire e vapo rate das it hi t its mark . The Twopenny Po st -bag,

The Inte rcepted Le tte rs , an d The Fudge Family in Paris

,with a

legion o f po litical epigrams,ar e fo rgo tten an d it is use le ss

to complain . The ir humour an d wit,some time s r io tous

,

Oftene r caustic,always gay an d audaciou s

,require to o

much reading-in,be twe en the line s

,o f scandals conne cte d

with Carlton Ho use— n o longe r a Whig centre— an d itsunwie ldy maste r . Fo r ve ry di ffe rent re asons Lalla Ro okhis simi larly negle cte d . The re also I equally re co gn izethe usele ssne ss o f quarre lling with public taste . The

diffusene ss,e spe cially in The Fire Wo rshippe rs , an d a want


o f re asonablene ss , towards which Fad lade e n really was

o ve r -to le rant , in the entire scheme o f the tale o f The

Ve ile d Prophe t,might have be en e xcuse d . The tre atment

o f the gene ral theme as if it we re a huge o pe ratic libre tto,

a me d ley o f musical spe ctacle s , was fatal . Mo o re had

learnt so pe rfe ctly the ar t o f writing wo rds to an air thathe compo se d a po em o f the dimensions o f an epic on the

same line s . The crowd o f image ry in a wo rk on that scaleis bewilde ring . The co ve ring plo t is smo the re d in ro se sit is drowne d in a butt o f swee t malmsey . The who lepro duce s the e ffe ct n o t so much o f po e try pure an d simpleas o f po e try in so lution .

A ll that remains po sitive ly e xtant out o f a pro longedan d industrio us care e r ’s achievement is an accumu lation o flyrics . Naturally they diffe r wide ly in degre e s o f me rit .A few de se rve to survive by Virtue o f the ir saucy inso lencefo r example— juvenile exe rcise tho ugh it was

When I lo v ’

d y ou , I can’t bu t allowI had many an exqu isite minu te

B ut the sco rn that I fe e l fo r y ou n ow

Hath even mo re luxury in it .

Thus, whe ther we ’re on o r we ’re o ff,

Some witchery se ems to await y ouTo love y ou was pleasan t enough,

An d oh’t is de licious to hate y ou 1

The clashing me lo dy will re scue o n e at least o f the SacredSongs :So un d the loud timbre l o ’

e r Egypt’s dark sea

Jehovah has tr iumph’

d— his people ar e fre e .

Sin g— fo r the pride of the tyrant is broken ,

His chario ts, his ho rsemen , all splendid an d braveH ow vain was the ir boast, fo r the Lo rd hath bu t spoken,An d chario ts an d ho rsemen are sunk in the wave .

Sound the loud timbre l o ’

er Egypt’s dark seaJehovah has triumphed— his pe ople are fre e .

2



NO mo re to chie fs—

and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swe lls

The cho rd alone , that breaks at night,I ts tale of ruin te lls.

Thu s Freedom n ow so se ldom wakes,The on ly throb she give s,

I s when some heart indignan t breaks ,To Show that still she lives 5

o r tragic patho s in

Oh breathe n o t his name , le t it sleep in the shade ,Where co ld an d un hon our

’

d his re lics are laidSad , silent , an d dark, b e the tears that we shed,As the night-dew that falls on the grass o ’

e r his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it we eps,Shall brighten with ve rdure the grave W he re he sleepsAn d the tear that we shed, though in se cre t it ro lls,Shall long keep his memo ry gre en in our souls 6

A ll exhale a gallant assurance that time has n o powe r ,unle ss we abe t it

,to grind our so u ls to dust be tween its

remo rse le ss mill-stone s that,if we cho o se

,we can go o n

sunning o u rse lve s in the smile s o f the yo ung an d fair ;that the re is n o su ch thing as de crepit

,care -wo rn age

I t is n o t whi le beauty an d youth are thine own ,

An d thy cheeks un profan’

d by a tear,That the fe rvour an d faith o f a soul can b e kn own ,

To which time will but make the e mo re dearNo , the heart that has truly lov ’

d neve r fo rge ts ,B u t as tru ly loves on to the clo se ,

As the sun -flowe r turn s on her god when he se ts,The same lo ok which she turn

’

d when he ro se 7

that jo y is immo rtal fo r the faithfu l an d brave

Le t Fate d o he r wo rst , there ar e re lics of joy ,Bright dreams o f the past, which she canno t destroy

THOMAS MOORE 83

Which come in the night-time of so rrow and care ,And bring back the features that joy used to wear.Long, long be my heart with such-memo ries fill’dLike the vase in which roses have o n ce bee n distill’dYou may break, y o u may shatte r the vase , if y ou will ,But the scent of the ro ses will hang round it still 6

that it was the Irishman ’s duty to pray fo r the pro spe rityo f his country; an d exult should it come

,but that his lo ve

was he rs n ow o n account o f he r adve rsityRemembe r the e Y es, while there ’

s life in this heart,I t shall never fo rge t thee , all lo rn as thou art

Mo re dear in thy so rrow, thy glo om ,and thy showers,

Than the rest of the wo rld in the ir sunn iest hours.

We rt thou all that I wi sh the e , great, glo rious, and free ,First flower of the earth, an d first gem o f the sea,

I might hail thee wi th prouder, with happier brow,

B ut Oh could I love thee more de eply than n ow ‘

2 9

If I d o n o t quo te fro m the Last Ro se o f Summe r,it is n o t

be cause it is hackneye d . It is that I suppo se the re is n oEnglish song which dwe lls mo re habitually o n the lips o fmemo ry .

The re should be n o d ifl‘iculty at an y rate in admittin gthe title o f suchve rse to entrance within the lyrical hie rarchy .

In the centu ry pre ce ding his birth ,iso late d English songs

here an d the re may be found to be set against his . ThoughSco tland twenty years earlie r had produced Burns

,the

re st of the Unite d Kingdom can show n o bo dy o f lyr icsto match them since He rrick ’s . He had a right to d o mo rethan boast that as his own island ’s min stre l , he was thefirst of his line

Dear Harp of my Country in darkness I fo und the e ,The co ld chain o f silen ce had hung o ’

e r the e long ,When

,proudly, my own Island Harp , I unboun d the e ,

And gave all thy cho rds to light, freedom , and song 1°

F 2


South o f the Twe e d he could claim the same pre cedence .

His,as singing poe try— drawing -ro om singing , pe rhaps

o ccupie s a place by itse lf . Opinions may diffe r o n the

e xact rank o f the who le department in literatur e . At alle vents

,he wou ld be a bo ld critic who shou ld attempt to

warn the class o ff the slope s o f Parnassu s . In n o casecould he make out go od warrant fo r beginn ing the o stracism with Mo o re .

Fr om ano the r po int o f view he can assert an e xceptionalclaim to regard . The me e ting o f po e try an d music in hisve rse

,natural as it may se em ,

is phenomenal . The two

are siste r arts which by n o me an s ne ce ssarily agre e . Often ,e spe cially o f late

,they have be en in deadly antagonism .

It is impo ssible n o t to re jo ice when the ir union is spontan eo us

,as in the Muse o f Mo o re . He has himse lf de clare d

that he conside re d his songs a so rt o f compound creations,

in which the music fo rme d n o le ss e ssential a par t than theve rse s He lamente d that he had to print e ditions inwhich they we re separate d from the airs .

1 1 Lyrics withouta musical se tting appe ared to him to be a contradictionin terms As we re ad his

,we may almo st he ar him warblin g

them as theyflow . Mus ic pe rpe tually has be en,an d is

be ing,made a co ve r fo r exe crable ve rse . N o o n e with

justice can say this o f the Me lo die s . They always are

swe e t , if o ccasionally to exce ss,an d with a fe e ling genu ine

so far as it goe s . Had inde e d his raptur e s be en who llyartificial

,o r his indignation e ve r false

,an inte lligence ke en

as his,an d a spirit as upright

,would have banne d them

long be fo re his censo rs de te cte d the sho rtcomings . Agene rous an d kindly he art constantly is playing

,an d

,as

e vidently, a sagaciou s brain is conducting the o rche stra.

In the face o f dive rs fin e poe tic qualitie s engage d inunison , it is di sappo inting fo r me as a juro r— n o t a judge

THOMAS MOORE 85

while I grant the claims o f an entire class o f the ve rse,to

have to re turn an adverse gene ral ve rdict in the Co urto f poe tic ar t against its autho r . Glad ly I qualify it byextenuating circumstance s— I adm ire the man I lovemany o f the po ems I condemn the po e t . The de cision ispainfu l

,but unavo idable . A poe t must be pronounce d a

failure when he has n o powe r o f sowing in his readers thege rms o f future thoughts o r impulse s . How long d id eve remo tion last which was stirred by the pitifu lne ss o f Paradi sean d the Pe ri

,o r the sadne ss o f The Minstre l B oy ? The

fault is radical,I fear . Re sults are propo rtionate to the ir

cause s an d song , to live an d be fruitfu l,must have be en

born in travail . Natu re was unkind ly kind to Mo o re , asto He rrick , in endowing him with an e ar to o instinctive lytrue

,to o misce llaneou s a sympathy ,

an d a wit to o do cileand dexte rous . His gifts se duce d him into di sregardinghis own axiom— whi ch agree s w ith He rr ick

’

s to o— thatlabo ur to the write r is a condition o f an y great pleasureto the re ade r Otherwise

,it is inconce ivable that mo st

o f the pro duce o f an imagination fe rtile like his , afte rhaving be en wo rshipped by contempo rarie s , should be lo stan d fo rgo tten

,e xcept fo r its casual an d half contemptuous

pre se rvation in antiquate d piano sco re s .

The Po etical W o rks o f Thomas Mo ore . Collected by Himse lf. Ten

vo ls . Longman s, 1853 .

1 T (Juven ile Po ems).1 Miriam ’

s Son g, st . 1 (Sacred Songs) , vol. iv.

3 A Can ad ian Boat Song . W ritten on the River St. Lawrence (Po emsrelating to America) , stan zas l , 2 .

Sco tch Air (Nation al Airs) . 6 The Harp (Irish Me lodies) .6 Oh Breathe No t st . 2 .

7 Be lieve me6 Farewe ll st . 3 .

9 Remember The e stan zas 1 , 2 .

1 ° Dear Harp st . 1 .

1 1 Pre face—Po etical W o rks.

1 1 A Melologue upon National Music—Advertisemen t, vo l. v, p. 1 19 .

JAMES H ENRY LEIGH HUNT

1 7 84— 1 85 9

A STATE SMAN,in de dicating a memo rial to Le igh Hunt

,

confe sse d to little knowledge o f his writings . The sameadmission

,as to all but on e sho rt po em

,m ight be made

by a majo rity o f educated Englishm en . I should like tobe able to tre at the negle ct as refle cting honour o n the

n ational genius fo r having pro duce d autho rs o f suchmerit

,an d in such plenty

,as to have rende re d him supe rfluous . At all e vents

,an y who take up a vo lume by

Le igh Hun t fo r the first time will be surprised at its raredistinction o f style . But they o ught to be hurt

,if n o t by

regre t fo r a pleasur e they have hi the rto denied themse lve s,

by some sense o f ingratitude to the kindly spirit whichdevo te d itse lf du ring long years to the ende avo u r to ente rtain a care le ss public .

Grace is a spe cial quality . It is n o t the highe st . Be ingso f a lo fty nature may be de stitute o f it . An addition o f

an e xce llence wil l some time s mar it,o r obscu re the im

pre ssion o f its pre sence . Though ve ry far from be inga defin ition o f genuine po etry

,the No thing-to o -much com

mon ly is part o f o n e . Witho ut claiming fo r Le igh Huntthat he never o ffends against the canon

,I be lie ve his

instinct fo r it to be gene rally true . Whateve r e lse hispoe try is n o t

,almo st invariably it is in perfe ct taste . I

neve r begin The Sto ry o f Rimini without a pre judiceagainst its existence . When Dante had done it all insix do zen inimitable line s

,i t is sacrilege to pre tend to

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 87

interpre t an d deve lo p . Le igh Hunt ’s own e xquisiterendering o f the o riginal 1 is itse lf a sufficient rebuke o f

his attempt at e xplaining . Y e t I always e n d by acknowledging to myself that , if it we re to be done ,

the de clineo r rise from inno cent boy -an d -girl friendship to passionatelove could n o t have be en mo re de licate ly shado we d .

The same praise can be be stowe d,an d wi tho ut fear he re

o f Dante ’s awfu l frown,o n the re juvene scence confe rre d

upon the trage dy o f He ro an d Le ande r,an o ld tale

,

an d y e t as youngAnd warm with life as eve r min stre l sung

a chronicle as

o f two that died last n ight ,So might they n ow have liv ’

d , an d so have diedThe sto ry’s heart , to me , still beats again st its side .

6

Grace,again , carrie s away an y suggestion o f co arsene ss in

The Gentle Armour,if it cann o t

,an y mo re than in a be tte r

known late r po em o n the same subje ct,ve il the med iaeval

brutalism of the Go diva myth itse lf . Elsewhe re ,when an

idea of Le igh Hunt ’s is in itse lf no ble ,it re sists the tempta

tion to o vergrow itse lf . Ro se s an d lilie s,vio le ts

,swee t

brie r,an d poppie s in his nine te enth-century garden might

have been gathe re d by Arie l in his ro amings from Pro spero ’sAtlantis .

3

The kindly instinct do e s n o t de se rt his pen e ven whenthe satirist an d victim o f the e lde rly ro yal Adonis turnsvo luntee r Laure ate ,

an d sings the pre ttie st o f lullabie s o ve rthe cradle o f a Que en ’s babe

We lcome , bud beside the rose ,On who se stem our safety growsWe lcome , little Saxon GuelphWe lcome , fo r thine own small se lf ;


Nought of all the n ews we sin gDost thou know, swee t ign o rant thingNought of plane t’s love , n o r pe ople ’sN o r dost hear the giddy steeplesCaro llin g o f thee an d thine ,As if heav

’

n had rain ’d them wine .

E’

en thy father’s lovin g hand

N owise do st thou un derstand ,When he makes the e feebly graspHis fingers with a tiny claspNo r do st kn ow thy ve ry mo ther

’sBalmy bosom from ano ther’s ,No r the eyes that , while they fo ld thee ,Neve r can enough beho ld thee .

Mo the r true an d go od has she ,Little stron g o n e , been to thee .

She has done he r strenuous dutyTo thy brain an d to thy beauty,Till thou cam’

et a blo ssom bright ,Wo rth the '

kiss of air an d light .4

He has de epe r strains at his command . Line s simpleenough

,the do om o f un ive rsal humanity

, he has combinedinto a grisly po rtrait o f the King o f Te rr o rs . No commonmino r po e t ’s brain co u ld have conce ive d an d drawn it .

A grand touch in Mahmoud is the Sultan ’s acceptance o f

grie f as a subje ct ’s inde fe asible title to an instant audienceSo rrow,

’

said Mahmoud, ‘ is a reverend thing ;I re cogn ize its right , as Kin g with King . ’ 5

Brilliant rays pie rce thr ough the somewhat bewilde ringhaze o f the contro ve rsy be tween Captain Swo rd an d

Captain Pen0 God let me breathe , an d lo ok up at the skyGo od is as hundreds

,evil as o n e

Round abou t go e th the go lden sun .

6

As fo r Abo u B en‘

Adhem,it has always be en admitted

to be a pearl o f gre at price



Green little vaulter in the sunn y grass,Catching your heart up at the fee l of June ,So le vo ice that ’s heard amidst the lazy n o on ,

When even the bees lag at the summon ing brassAnd y ou ,

warm little hou seke epe r, who classWith tho se who think the candles come to o so on,Loving the fire , an d with your tricksome tuneNick the glad silen t moments as they pass.

Oh swee t an d tiny cousins, that be long ,On e to the fie lds, the o ther to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine ; bo th, though small, are strongAt your clear hearts an d bo th se em given to earthTo ring in thoughtfu l ears this natural songIndo o rs an d ou t , summer an d winter, Mirth.

9

When Le igh Hunt please s he is as saucy as Villon ,without

it eve r pleasing him to raise a blush . But whateve r theo the r attractions o f his Muse ,

grace remains the pe cu liaran d distinguishing prope rty .

In his care e r , an d fo r his po sthumous fame ,it was an d

is a double -e dge d endowment . I suppo se that it wasconne cted in him as a po e t with an exceptional capacityfo r abso rbing his entire pe rsonal be ing into ce rtain qualitie so f his subje ct . His nature was able to identify itse lfwith whateve r was artistically dainty an d emo tionallybeautiful . Hence hi s e legance as a write r

,an d probably

also his we akne ss bo th as write r an d as man . No write rwas eve r le ss se lf-centre d . He was fashi one d to flutte rabout flowe rs o f fancy an d ar t ; sucking , rare ly in thedepths

,the ir honey ; succe ssful in discove ring , n o t in

sto ring it . It is n o t strange that in his early dayshard measure shou ld have be en dealt out to such a

natur e . At his dawn partisanship flayed him with thebitte r tongue o f Chr istophe r No rth

,as we ll as providing

him , mo re mate rially , w ith a lo dging in Ho rsemonge r Lane

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT 9 1

jail . Even at hi s sunse t his own familiar friend,un

intentionally, we may be sur e ,was the cause o f the fastening

upon him o f an o di ous characte r in fiction . A de lightfulwrite r bo th in pro se an d ve rse ,

he neve r was visite d bya gleam o f pro spe rity . The public care d little fo r on e who

had n o me ssage o f his own to de live r,n o t e ven an agreeable

rancour to wre ak . Had he,like the pro ve rbial wo rm

,be en

given to turning,he might at le ast have excite d inte re st ,

if n o t compassion . As it was,he simply went o n with hi s

singing,n o t admiringly remarke d in life

,an d scarce ly at

all since .

He was an d is,I dare say ,

o n e o f the poe ts the wo rldcan d o without

,though I think it a pity it should . In

an y case it may be hoped an d be lieve d that to him ,singing

as a bird sings,be cause it must

,so ple asu re came from

his song,as it come s to a bird

,be cause to the singe r o f

a swe e t song pleasur e must .

The Po etical W o rks o f Le ighHun t. E . Moxon , 1844 . (Sto ries in Verseby Le igh Hun t . G . Routledge Co . ,

1 Paulo an d Fran cesca (Sto ries in Verse ) .1 Hero an d Le an d er, Can to i (The Po etical W orks) , pp . 1—35 .

6 Chorus of the FlowersTo the In fan t Prin cess Royal

6 Mahmoud6 Captain Sword an d Captain Pen7 Abou B en Adhem an d the Ange lAn Ange l in the Ho use

6 To the Grasshopper an d the Cricket

GEORGE GORDON , LORD BYRON

1 788— 1 824

WHAT of thi s to rrent of ve rse , myrrh an d gall , poure dfo rth in some fifte en ye ars— is it a living stream ,

o r

unfilte re d sur face -wate r ? Is it the cur sing epitaph o n

Timon ’s tomb by the wild se a-wave s,o r the showe r o f go ld

accompanying impre cations on his age an d fe llow men ,

as the misanthrope stands , a prophe t o f evil , at the moutho f his fo rlo rn caveIf a vo ice from the grave , it is at an y rate a mighty

vo ice,as o f a Titan burie d alive un de r Etna . Such modern

criticism as is prone to deny pre sent active existence toByron

,will n o t dispute that he lived once ,

an d issued royalpro clamations . He sto o d fo r fo rce

,mo vement

,pe rturba

tion . Wo rdswo rth , Co le ridge , She lley , an d Ke ats weremo re radical revo lution ists in po etry . Byron neve r ceasedto pro fe ss himse lf a disciple o f Dryden an d Pope . But themo st fe rvent admire rs o f the fir st fo ur would n o t pre tendto compare the contempo rary inno vating influence o f the

who le o f them in lite rature with Byron ’s . He d id as muchtowards e xtending the sway o f England as the victo rie s ofNe lson an d We llington

,o r the de spo tic will of Pitt . The

pe rsonality,in its we akne sse s as in its strength , fascinate d .

His pilgrimage o f passion an d remo rse marke d its courseas with r ed -ho t lava o n the heart o f Eur ope.

N ow,when the ru sh o f mo lten matte r has co o led an d

stiffened , it is e asy to analyse its abe rrations an d impuritie s .Its e xtravagance s are monstro us . W hate ve r the crime s o f

GEORGE GORDON , LORD BYRON 93

Castle re agh against fre e dom ,the cause o f libe rty is po llute d

by sne ers at the‘ tinke ring slave -make r by insults to

his co rpseHe has cut his throat at last He W ho

‘

2

The man who cut his coun try’s long ago .

So with the scream at the Po e t-Laur eate,as

shuffling Southey, that in carnate lie

and at Wo rdswo rth ’s principal wo rk , as

A drowsy frowzy po em, call’

d the E xcursionWrit in a manner which is my aversion.

The ego tism passe s all boun ds . The quality is a fo ible dearto the po etic temperament— to the highe st

,an d the lowe st

to an y but Shake speare’

s as a dr amatist— an d he take s hisrevenge in the Sonn e ts . The temptation to indulgence in itis so eager, that , acco rding to a subtle po e t-critic in theearly nin e te enth century

,sensitive bard s , conscious , an d

ashamed,of its powe r o ve r them ,

have cho sen theme salien to the ir taste to be able , unde r co ve r o f them , to

stray, as if by accident,into scene s en shrinin g themse lve s .

That was n o t Byron ’s way . He make s n o d isguise o f hi s

intention neve r to be o ff the stage . The re sult is that hisfavourite mo ods

,cynicism in D o n Juan , satie ty in Childe

Haro ld,have an air of cheapne ss . Sceptical reade rs expe

rien ce a gene ral impre ssion o f insin ce rity . They suspe cta want o f spontane ity e ve rywhe re , in the patho s , as inthe di sgust . The te xture they se e o ften is threadbare , asit could n o t but be

,with a heart dried

,

up by sen sual licence ,

and obliged to trust frequen tly to the brain to d o the creativewo rk o f bo th .

He rebelled again st law an d o rde r be cause he had n o t

se t them in mo tion n o t , as his compan ion She lley, from


a gene rous rage again st a narrow-minde d de spo tism . N o

bo dy n ow be lieve s ih the genuineness o f his indignationagainst tyranny . A Lo rd , with the se lf-indulgence of the

Prince Regent,preaching So cialism is a ridi cu lous figur e

to the pre sent generation . The admiration he gained fo rhis e rro rs has itse lf ruine d his po sthumo us renown . He ispunishe d by the taunts o f the n ew age fo r having hypno tize dits prede ce sso r into ado ring his fo llie s . With all the mimicry ,all the flatte ry

,all the absurdity

,it i s the mo re wonde rful

that a real po e t,a se er of visions , should remain re cognizable

bene ath . W e may pass by much that he wro te . A majo rityo f the o ccasional pie ce s wou ld probablyhave be en smo the redby himse lf had he fo re se en the ce lebrity o f Childe ‘Haro ldan d D on Juan . Satire

,though vigo rous an d scathing as in

English Bards an d Sco tch Reviewe rs,The Vision o f J adge

ment,an d The Curse of Minerva

,naturally is sho rt -lived .

The Plays ar e t o o po e tical fo r dramas,to o dramatic fo r

poe ms . As the e ye glance s o ve r the title s o f many o f the

publishe d wo rks , scarce ly even an emo tion o f curio sity stirs .

Othe rs the re are o n which we pause fo r a moment,an d

with de light,wheneve r accident re calls them . W e cann o t

he lp re cogni zing powe r, fo r instance , in The De struction

o f Sennacherib

Like the leaves o f the fo rest when Summer is green,That ho st with their banners at sunse t were seenLike the leaves o f the forest when Au tumn hath blown ,

That host on the mo rrow lay wither’

d an d strown 1

an d in the contrast,in the Ode to Napo le on

,be twe en hi s

submissive abdi cation an d Sulla’s

The Roman, when his burn ing heartW as slaked with blo od of Rome ,Threw down the dagger— dared depart,In savage grandeur, home

GEORGE GORDON,LORD BYRON 95

He dared depart in utter sco rnOf men that such a yoke had bo rne ,Y e t le ft him such a do om

His only glory was that hourOf se lf-uphe ld aband on

’

d power.2

A mist o f blo o d an d te ars mitigate s the he cticThe Dream .

3 The re is music fo r us s till in

She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies

An d all that ’s be st o f dark and brightMe e t in her aspe ct and her eyes 4

and

Oh could I fee l as I have fe lt,— o r be what I have been,Or weep as I cou ld once have wept o ’

e r many a vanish’

d sceneAs springs in deserts fo und seem swe et , all brackish though they beSo , midst the wither ’d waste o f life , those tears wouldflow to me .

W e admire we d o n o t spontane ously re open the vo lume .

It is the same with compo sitions o f ancient reno wn ,like

The Giaou r,The Bride o f Abydo s

,The Co rsair

,Lara

,The

Prisone r o f Chillon,Parisina

,The Siege o f Co rinth. Echo e s

rise ,an d insist o n rising

,fro m them . The glowing we st

continually reminds how,

Slow sinks more love ly e r e his race be r un ,

Alo n g Mo rea’s hills, the se tting sun ;

No t , as in No rthern climes, o bscure ly bright,B ut o n e unclouded blaze o f living lightOn o ld Aegina’s ro ck an d Idr a

’

s isle ,The god . of gladn ess sheds his partin g smileO

’

e r his own regions lingerin g, love s to shine ,Though the re his altars ar e n o more divine .

Descending fast the mountain shadows kissThy glo rious gulf, un conque r ’d SalamisThe ir azure arches through the long expanseMore de eply purpled meet his me llowin g glance ,


And tenderest tints, along the ir summits driven,Mark his gay course , an d own the hues o f heavenTill, darkly shaded from the land an d de ep ,Behind his De lphian cliff he sinks to sle ep .6

A n ew age has fo rgo tten , n o t me re ly the Giaour,but

the Phi lhe llenic fir e its autho r playe d a fo remo st part inkindling it canno t have fo rgo tten :

He who hath bent him o’

e r the deadE r e the first day of death isfled

,

The first dark day of no thin gness,The last o f dange r and distressBe fo re Decay’s e ffac ing finge rsHave swept the lines where beauty lingersAnd mark

’

d the mild ange lic air ,The raptur e of repo se that ’s the re ,The fix

’

d y e t tender traits that streakThe languo r o f the placid cheek,An d— but fo r that sad shrouded ey e ,

That fires n o t , wins n ot , we eps n o t , n ow,

An d but fo r that chill, change less brow,

Where co ld Obstruction’s apathyAppals the gazing mourn er’s heart ,As if to him it cou ld impartThe doom he dreads y e t dwe lls upon ;Y e s, but fo r these an d these alone ,Some moments, ay , o n e treacherous hour,He still might doubt the tyr ant’s power ;So fair, so calm ,

so so ftly scal’d,The first, last lo ok by death r eveal

’

d

Such is the aspe ct o f this shore’TisGree ce , but living Gree ce n o mo reSo co ldly swe et, so deadly fair,W e start, fo r sou l is wanting the re .

7

Though few re ad the once fascinating Tale it intro duce s ,fewe r fo rge t the pre lud e to on e o f its canto s

The winds are high on He lle ’s wave ,As on that night of sto rmy wate r,



No t a trave ller cro sse s the Rialto without the me lodyat his heart

In Venice Tasso ’s e choe s are n o more ,And silent rows the songless gondo lierHe r palaces ar e crumbling to the sho re ,And music meets n o t always n ow the ear

Those days are gone— bu t Beauty still is here .

State s fall, arts fade— but Nature do th n o t d ie ,

No r y et forge t how Venice once was dear,The pleasant place o f all festivity,The reve l o f the earth, the masque of Italy ! 1 0

No stranger pace s the Tuscan We stminste r Abbey withoutrepeating the repro ach fo r the absence o f the ashe s

,as if

the two spir its we re ho ve ring by to hearUngrate fu l Florence Dante sleeps afar,Like Scipio , buried by the upbraiding shoreThy factions, in the ir wo rse than civil war ,Proscribed the bard who se name fo r evermoreThe ir childr en’s children would in vain ado reWith the remorse of ages an d the crownWhich Pe trarch’s laur eate brow supreme ly wore ,Upon a far an d fo re ign so il had grown ,

H is life , his fame , hi s grave , though r ifled— n o t thine own .

And Santa Cro ce wants their mighty dustY et fo r this want more no ted, as o f yo reThe Cae sar’s pageant shorn o f Brutus’ bust,D id but o f Rome ’s be st Son remind her mo re .

Be side ye llow Tibe r,

flowing through a marble wilde rn e ss ,lo ne mo ther o f dead empire s

,the N io be o f nations

,though

n o longe r,as fo r Byron

,

Childless an d crownless in her vo ice less wo e ,his vo ice remains audible an d e lo quent . The

sanctuary and homeOf ar t and pie ty— Pantheon— pride of Rome ,

is his monument as much as Raffaelle’

s an d Victo r Emmanue l ’s . I have neve r visite d the Fo rum

,transfo rme d


as it n ow is from its aspe ct to him , witho ut viewing itfirst through his eye s , with its then single manife st breakin the all-concealing leve l

Tully was n o t so e lo quent as tho u,

Thou name less co lumn with the buried base 14

In simple fealty still to Childe Haro ld , o n my first juvenilevisit , I , like many ano the r to urist , began by hunting o ut ,

n o t witho ut d iffi cu l ty, the apo cryphal,an d n ow discarde d

statue o f Pompey

And tho u, dread statue y e t existent inThe auste rest form o f naked majesty,Tho u who behe ldest , ’

mid the assassins’ d in ,

At thy bathed base the blo ody Caesar lie ,Fo lding his robe in dy in g dignity,An o fferin g to thine altar from the queenOf gods and men , great Nemesis did he die ,

An d thou , to o , perish, Pompey T have y e beenVicto rs o f countless kings, o r puppe ts of a scene ‘ 5

Ar chaeo logymay rid icule enthusiasm o ve r the wrong re lics .

It will neve r lay bare on the Appian W ay aught to inte restas, at its entrance

a ste rn ro und tower o f o ther days,Fair as a fo rtress , with its fence of stone ,Such as an army’s baffled strength de lays,Standing with half its battlements alon e ,And with two tho usand years o f ivy grownThe garland o f e te rnity, whe re waveThe green leaves ove r all by time o

’

er thrown

What was this tower of strength Within its caveWhat treasure lay so lo ck

’

d , so hid — A woman’

s grave .

16

It is entrancement— romance , histo ry , miracles o f art

and natu re , le tte rs , hate and love— the who le an eve rchangin g , eve r-love ly dio rama , contrived as a framewo rk

G 2


fo r man ’s,o n e man ’s , emo tions an d ambitions ! In this

glo rifie d guide -bo ok , whethe r it lead us amidst tempe sts ,in which

every mountain n ow hath fo und a tongue ,An d Jura answers

,through her misty shro ud ,

Back to the j oyous Alps , who call to her aloud l 1 7

along streams dyed , by day an d night contending ,The odorous purple of a n ew-bo rn rose 1 8

thro ugh wre cks o f realms strewing d read an d lonely o cean ’ssho re s past peaks o f Alps thr oning e te rnity by arrowy

,

sto ried rive rs , be side battlefie lds infamou s fo r martial cut

throats o r fame d fo r stainle ss victo ries , like Mo rat an dMo rgarten by home s o f

The se lf-to rturing sophist, wild Rousseau ;o f Vo ltaire

Histo rian, bard , philo sopher, combined ,W ho mu ltiplied himse lf among mankindThe Pro teus o f the ir talents ; 20

o f GibbonSapping a so lemn creed with so lemn snee r,The lo rd of irony 21

an d o f

The starry Galileo,with his woe s ;

o r tombs , as o f Lau ra’s love r in rustic Arqua

Where ’e r we tread ’tis haunted, ho ly ground

Again , D on Juan Fade d , tawdry o ften , as D e Quinceyjustly calls allu sions to Southey’s an d Co leridge ’s marriage s ,ignoble 2 Alas ! y e s . And the crue l waste ! Righteou sange r , grie f , gene ro sity , . magnanimi ty, thought , sho t o ut

upon a dustheap Whateve r in Chi lde Haro ld was paltry ,

absu rd , unbe coming , contemptible in contemptuou sne ss ,is he re expande d an d exagge rate d . The who le is flavou redto nausea with the topsy-tu rvy the o ry o f mo rals— the

re de emability o f malpractice s by remo rse , o r by the insult



Each scene is enough to have founde d a reputation ;an d , with all the ir transcendent grandeu r , the two d o n o t

stand alone . All the sixte en Canto s ar e studde d with wit ,an d even wisdom . Often it is hard to say whethe r it b eo n e o r the o the r , o r bo th . What o f the bitte r after-tasteo f vice 2

There is n o sterner mo ralist than Pleasure 25

What o f the su icide ’s mo tive

Le ss from disgust of life than dread o f death.

26

W hat o f the great line , at once anthem to genius , an d dirgeo ve r a nation

Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away .

What,finally

, o f

Great So crates — And thou , Diviner still,Who se lo t it is by man to be mistaken,And thy pure cre ed made sanction o f all ill

Redeeming wo rlds to be by bigo ts shaken,How was thy to il rewarded 28

Then, to o , it harbou rs the noble lyr ic

The Isles o f Greece , the Isles o f GreeceWhere burning Sappho loved an d sun g ,Where grew the arts of war an d peace ,Where De los rose , an d Pho ebus sprung

E ternal summer gilds them y e t ,But all, except their sun , is se t .

The mountains lo ok on MarathonAnd Marathon lo oks o n the sea ;

And musing there an hour alone ,I d ream

’

d that Gree ce might still be freeFo r standing o n the Persians’ grave

,

I cou ld n o t deem myse lf a slave 2 9

gleams o f tende rness ! Po etry o ffe rs few mo re


de lightful po rtraits among its myriad of girlho o d than thato f the daughte r o f

the mildest manne r ’d manThat ever scuttled ship, o r cut a throat

inno cently gu ilty Haidee

Round he r she made an atmo sphere o f life .

The very air seem’

d lighter from he r eyes ,They were so so ft and beautiful , and rifeWith all we can imagine of the skies ,And pure as Psyche e re she grew a wifeTo o pure even fo r the purest human ties

He r overpowe ring presence made y o u fee lI t would n o t be ido latry to knee l .3 ° !

The chant o f the Ave Maria ! sighs about the figures o f

the boy an d girl lo ve rs , as if to condone the irregu larityin the ir wo o ing , whi le

n o t a breath crept through the rosy air ,And y et the fo rest -leaves seem

’

d stir r’

d with prayer.

Patho s is a scarce quality in D o n Juan . It is to b e

prize d in propo rtion whe re it is pe rceptible , as in the

invo cation o f the Evening Star

Whate ’ er our househo ld gods pro tect of dear,Are gathe r

’

d round us by thy lo ok o f restThou brin g’st the child , to o , to the mo ther’s breast 32

and again in a classical allusion

W hen Ne ro pe r ish’

d by the juste st doom ,

Amidst the roar o f liberated Rome ,Some hands un seen strew

’

d flowers upon his tomb ."8

Is it patho s , o r me re ly an epigram

And if I laugh at any mo rtal thin g ,’Tis that I may n o t weep ! 34

In the pre sent day it is easy to decry Byron’s reflections

,


his sentiment , as supe rficial an d se cond -hand . We re theyo f the pre sent date they might b e . When he wro te hewas a discove re r , a leade r , a teache r . The fir e whi ch hekindled had inflame d himse lf first . His characte r

,o r what

he cho se shou ld b e accepted as it , may be read in eve ryve rse he printe d . Eve ry tale o f his , eve ry scene , eve rythought

,breathe s , an d has life— breath o f his life— in it .

The re is a splendou r , a gaie ty . His ego tism may be ridiculous ; he is n o t . With all the pe rve rsity , vanity, pr etence , a fe e ling even o f open air , o f frank dire ctne ss , mingle s .Shade s o f a mighty co mpany of real mourne rs , who attendedyearly, daily,

The pageant of his ble eding heart ,still bro o d o ve r his memo ry . Human nature love s tore cognize a maste r ; an d it re cognize d him . Still

,afte r

thre e quarte rs o f a centu ry,he continue s to re ign , if

within narrowe d frontie rs , a king by right divine .

The Po etical W orks o f Lord Byron (Oxfo rd Ed ition ) . Hen ry Frowd eLon d on , 1904 .

1 The De struction of Senn acherib (Hebrew Melo d ies), st . 2 .

2 Od e t o Napo le on Buon apart e (Occasional Pieces ) , st . 7 .

3 The Dream , July, 1 816She W alks in Beauty (H ebrew Melod ies), st . 1 .

5 Stan zas fo r Music, March, 1 81 5 (Occasion al Pie ces) , st . 5 .

6 The Co rsair, Can to iii, st . 1 .

7 The Giaour. 3 The Brid e o f Abyd os, Can to 11, st . 1 .

9 Child e Haro ld ’

s Pilgrimage , Can to i, st . 38.

1 ° Ibid ., Can to iv, st . 3 .

1 1 Ibid . , Can to iv , stan zas 5 7 an d 5 9 .

1 2 Ibid Can to iv , st . 79 .1 3 Ibid . , Can to iv ,

st . 146.

1 4 Ibid . , Can to iv , st . 1 10. Ibid . ,Can to iv , st . 87

1 6 Ibid . , Can to iv , st . 99 .

1 7 Child e Haro ld ’

s Pilgrimage , Canto iii, st . 92 .

1 9 Ibid ., Can to iv , st . 28.

1 9 Ibid . , Can to iii, st . 77 .

2 ° Ibid . , Can to iii, st . 106. Ibid . ,Can to iii, st . 107 .

22 Ihid, Can to iv , st . 5 4 .


PERCY BYSSH E SH ELLEY

1 7 92— 1 822

THE first an d fo remo st impre ssion o f She lley is o f a spirito fun re st— though some thing be side s re stle ssne ss— bro o ding—n o

,ho ve ring

,swo oping— o ve r eve r fre sh plans fo r e ve r

fre sh Cre ations,which it is to enginee r . W e are conscio us o f

a continual search by him fo r n ew e lements whence to

construct n ew Heavens an d a n ew earth . It is the FrenchRevo lution

,e xhauste d , crushe d by main fo rce fo r the

moment be low the sur face,panting

,pro te sting

,fe rmenting ,

in a haughty English,aristo cratic nature . Visibly an d

audibly it is rebe llious an d sco rnful . It has idealize dpassion

,e re cting it into a divine law . Hither an d thithe r

it rushe s,raising an altar whe reve r fancy has alighte d fo r

the instant . Neve r without an ido l,it trample s on what

e ve r is n o longe r fo r it ado rable . A ll must acknowledgethe fascination o f each fre sh conception , if only it we repe rmitted to stay long eno ugh for a day

-dream to repo sein it . The re is a longing to info rm with a body eache xhalation as it rise s to condense the rainbow-huedvapour . Alas the pageant o f fairy castle s which disso lveinto air as we wind the ho rn at the ir gate s at lengthdi sappo ints an d tire s . W e begin to doubt whe ther they bemo re than go ssame rs o f an inte lle ct unce rtain o f itse lf .She lley was a bo rn po e t

,W ho m nature in a freak bent ,

an d warped,pe rhaps

,also enriche d

,by the circumstance s

o f his time,parentage

,an d do micile . Be ing what thus he

was , he co u ld n o t have be en o the r than a po e t pro fe sse d ,

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 107

an d no thing e lse . He was endowe d with facultie s inabundance be side s po e tic imagination . His pro se is d elightfu l . He might have won fame as a nove list

,a me ta

physician , a re ligious teache r,a po litician . As it was

,

from boyho od he cho se,o r , as doubtle ss he thought , was

fo rce d into,a so cial iso lation which denied to his gre at

inte lligence an y o the r fixed fo rm o f expre ssion than poe try .

Made fo r friendship,to admire

,an d be admire d

,to be

a d isciple,an d have disciple s

,he did n o t take excommun i

cation kindly . He threw the blame upon existing in stitutions

,a feudal aristo cracy

,re ligion degene rated into

fo rmalism an d prie stcraft,state smen

,Co urts

,an d Kin gs ,

Heaven itse lf . Re fuse d an aud ience o the rwise,he utte re d

hi s rage an d contempt in verse . The narrow cir cle hejo ined in de fault o f a large r was debarred by its own

iso lation from unpre judice d criticism ,at once sympathe tic

an d frank . He himse lf had to o much to say ,an d fe lt

to o ardently,to care to stop an d meditate . Often his

rank e xube rance is owing to the chase o f a succe ssion o f

fugitive fancie s . No so oner has he started o n e than a

se cond has go t up ,an d se t hi s brain coursing in a fre sh

dire ction .

His be se tting fault as a po e t is exce ss . Denun ciation ispursued to scurrility . De scriptions o f natural love line sslengthen fn to tedious lango u r . Vital problems are discusse d ,at once with to o much subtle ty ,

an d to o little depth .

Re dun dancy damps the fir e o f Alasto r,The Revo lt o f

Islam,Ro salind and He len

,Epipsychidion ,

The Witcho f Atlas

,The Masque o f Anarchy

,Julian and Maddalo . It

draws a film ove r The Sensitive Plant , an d even the be autyo f Adonais . Indignation rave s in the greenne ss of Que enMab

,with its uncu ltur e d Hebrews exulting in o ld

Salem ’s shame ful glo rie s an d howlmg hide ous praise s


to the ir Demon-Go d It blunts the e dge o f the mo rematur e satire s , Swe llfo o t the Tyrant , Castle reagh , an d there st . When

,as frequently , the re sentment is righte ous

in its o rigin,its virtue still , as Byron ’s

,is marre d by

vituperation . The fury o f the flame turns the wate rinto steam . However much the re is to say ,

howeve rsugge stive the text to be e xpounde d

,the inability to know

when to stop stifle s the e ffe ct .

The blemishe s are n o t su rprising in the circumstance s .

There were his se lf-banishment from home an d family,

so cial o stracism,e xalte d views o f du ty to Humanity, n o t

invariably carrie d into practice,a fe rvent be lie f in the

e xistence o f a conspiracy o f To rie s an d critics to suppre sshim

,an d a combination o f inte lle ctual an d spiritual , per ‘

haps e ven so cial,pride with physical an d mo ral shyne ss .

Add the gifts,in such a me d ley insidious ly an d pe culiarly

dange rous,o f an infallible sense o f harmony in wo rds

,an d

a vast mine o f fancy . Take the who le to ge the r an d we

have a clue to the flaws o f Alasto r an d its succe sso rs,an d

to the ir as e xtrao rdinary be autie s also . The entire realmo f po e try can show no thing so phenomenal . It was a strangeunive rse

,parado xically monstrous

,as parado xically idea! ,

whi ch spread be fo re the po e t ’s eye s . Turned back uponhimse lf

,he had fed upon

,an d he ld ince ssant communion

with,his own imagination . He cou ld paint the mo st

realistic o f landscape s scene s we see with o ur eye s shutas o f the Pisan pine fo re st

,whe re

the mu ltitudinousBillows murmur at our fe etAnd the earth an d o cean me et ; 1

o r o f the Eugan ean Hills , inthe no on o f autumn’s glow ; 2

but a fancy like his was independent o f actual observation .



In the conception it is as much a to rso as an actualconfe sse d fragment , like the Hype rion o f Keats . But it isco lo ssal . In its ways o f thought an d style it is , mo re o ve r ,an exact type o f its autho r ’s common manne r . The Cencibe longs to a diffe rent class altoge the r . It is a triumph

,

in the co ldn e ss o f its ho rro rs , o ve r the temptation to itscreato r , be ingwhat he was , t o bur st all the barriers o f tragicar t . The spirit is n o t Ae schylean ; n o t Shake spearean .

The re is some analo gy to Marlowe ,only with mo re depth an d

finene ss o f thought . Alas fo r the ugline ss o f the themeThe phenomenon is that , while it an d the Prome theu s

are curiously unlike,bo th are abso lute ly an d equally

repre sentative o f the ir au tho r in o n e e ssential re spe ct .Independent as many po e ts are

,de te rmine d to fo llow

the ir own bias,even inso lent to the reading wo rld , they have

an ey e to it neve rthe le ss ; they e vidently have we ighe dhow they can mo st ce rtainly rende r themse lve s audible toit . It wou ld be difficu lt t o match She lley in the singlene sso f his regard to himse lf alone as he write s . Doubtle ss hewo u ld have like d to be popu lar . He neve r endeavoure d toattain that en d by consulting public taste s . He has gene ralsympathie s n o t the sympathy which is at pains to com

prehend a diffe rent po int o f view from one ’s own . Parado xas it se ems

,it is o n e o f the e xplanations of the pe cu liar

She lley cu lt . Neve r was the re a b ody o f writings whicht o the initiate d is a su re r index o f the au tho r ’s mind

,which

admits reve rent students,enamoure d e ven o f de fe cts

,to

mo re intimate communion with it,fo r the ve ry reason that

i t neve r appears to be lo oking to opinion outside . Had

She lley care d fo r e xte rnal favour,he mi ght have co rre cte d

d iflusen e ss in diction an d obscur ity in ideas he would havehad a large r public

,an d fewe r wo rshippers .

The se rene unconsciousne ss that his reade rs have the ir

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1 1 1

like s an d dislike s , which he might at le ast try to unde rstand tho ugh without de fe rring to them ,

applie s to all hiswo rk . He take s account so far o f so cie ty abo ut him as

to le cture it o n its sho rtcomings . He neve r learne d thatpity teache s how to cure . The apartne ss is the mo reinste ad o f the le ss palpable that his inspiration constantlyuse s his fe llow men fo r a text

, ye t accepts n o light fro mthem . Unle ss fo r ado ration

,o f which we are n o t all

capable,we canno t come clo se to his spirit .

Fo rtunate ly fo r lo ve rs o f ce le stial me lody,as we l l as fo r

his fame,nature had unite d with the metaphysical

,mystical

,

icono clastic ego tist the swee te st o f in stinctive singe rs .

Suddenly the re would issue a gu sh o f music,abso lute ly

pure,e there al

, ye t with warm blo o d coursing through . Hissongs among them repre sent all the beautie s po ssible fo rthe expre ssion o f regre tful longing , bitte r -swee t the

sharp-cut neatne ss an d e legance o f a Gre ek epigram ;

myste ry,patho s

,upbraiding

,se lf -upbraiding . The re are

passionatene ss,se lf-re straint . Mo vement commonly is

the re some time s,if ve ry rare ly

,dancing jo y ,

withcascad e s o f bre e zy

,glowing image s . Unison o f wo rds an d

rhythm neve r fails . He re are a few flowe rs,plucke d as

they came to my hand . I have n o t attempte d to arrangethem . They co uld n o t jar o r clash ,

an y mo re than co lo ursin a be d o f ro se s .

He has imagine d an Indian lo ve r se renading his mistre ssI arise from dreams o f theeIn the first swee t sleep o f night ,When the winds are breathin g low,

An d the stars are shining bright ;I arise from dreams o f thee ,And a spirit in my fee tHath led me —who knows how i

To thy chamber-window, Swee t !


The wanderin g airs they faintOn the dark, the silent streamAn d the Champak’s odour s failLike swee t thoughts in a dreamThe nightingale ’s complaint ,I t dies upon her heartAs I must on thine ,O be loved as thou art

O lift me from the grassI die ! I faint ! I fail !Le t thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eye lids pale .

My cheek is co ld and white , alasMy heart beats loud an d fastOh press it to thine own again,Where it will break at last.4

He re is wre ckage from the all-but fo rgo tten e xpe riment o fa drama on Charle s the First

A widow bird sate mourning fo r he r loveUpon a wintry bough

The fro zen wind crept on above ,The free zin g stream be low.

There was n o leaf upon the fo rest bare ,No flower upon the ground ,And little mo tion in the airE xcept the mi ll-whe e l’s sound .

5

What a spe ll— fromo ld He llas— is in Pan ’s pipingFrom the fo rests an d highlandsW e come , we come ;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumbListen ing to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds an d the rushes,The be es on the be lls o f thyme ,

The birds o n the myrtle bushe s ,The cicale above in the lime ,



mo re gene rally abe tte d,an d embitte re d , by 1mage

joys past re calling

Rare ly , rare ly come st thou ,

Spirit o f De lightWhere fo re has the n left me n ow

Many a day an d night ?Many a weary n ight and day’

Tis since thou artfled away.

How shall ever o n e like me

W in the e back againWith the j oyous an d the freeThou wilt sco ff at pain.

Spirit false thou hast fo rgo tAll but tho se who ne ed thee n o t .

I love all that thou lovest ,Spirit o fDe light

The fresh E arth in n ew leaves drest,And the starry nightAutumn evenin g , an d the mo rnWhen the go lden mists are bo rn .

I love snow, an d all the fo rmsOf the rad iant fro st

I love waves , an d winds, an d sto rms,Everythin g almostWhi ch is Nature ’s, an d may be

Untainted by man’s misery.

I love Love— though he has wings,An d like light canflee ,

But above all o ther thin gs,Spirit, I love the eThou art love an d life 0 come ,Make once mo re my heart thy home .

8

No t, fo rsoo th , that its re turn to a dying wo rld , to hiswo rse

than dying se lf , is po ssible , o r , pe rhaps , to be d e sire d

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1 15

Oh, wo rld oh,life oh, time

On who se last steps I climbTrembling at that where I had sto od be fo reWhen will re turn the glo ry o f yo ur primeNo mo re—O, neve r mo re !

Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight ;Fresh spring , and summer , and winter hoar,

Move my faint heart with grie f, but with de lightNo mo re— O, neve r mo re ! 9

The powe r even to lo ve is lo st to him ; an d the o n e

ho pe he has is that his nee d o f pity may be accepte d by theobje ct o f his supp lication as a substitute

On e wo rd is to o o ften pro fanedFo r me to pro fane it ,

On e fee ling to o false ly disdainedFo r the e to disdain it .

On e hope is to o like despairFo r prudence to smo ther ,And pity from the e mo re clearThan that from ano the r.

I can give n o t what me n call love ,B ut wilt tho u accept n o t

The wo rship the heart lifts above ,And the Heavens re ject no t ,

The desire o f the mo th fo r the star ,Of the night fo r the mo rrow,

The devo tion to some thing afarFrom the sphere o f our so rrow 1°

Though what right to expe ct anything in barte r fo r a

life le ss heartWhen the lamp is shatte red

The light in the ‘dust lies dead .

When the cloud is scatteredThe rainbow’

s glo ry is shed .

H 2


When the lute is broken,Swe e t tunes are remembered n o t

When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are so on fo rgo t .

As music an d splendourSurvive n o t the lamp and the lute ,The heart’s e cho es render

No song when the spirit is muteNo song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruin ed ce ll ,Or the mournful surgesThat ring the dead seaman’s kn e ll .1 1

The me re diction has enchantment in it ; an d in thatre spe ct the spe cimens I have o ffe red are ve ry far frommonopo lizing the charms o f the ir class . Many o the rs arethe ir e quals . Some

,which are to o long to be se t o ut at all

fu lly,as we ll as to o familiarly known to ne ed re calling ,

are the ir supe rio rs . Mark the dazzling se rie s o f glowing ,glo rious image s de dicate d to the Skylark . The who leis a go lden staircase up which the song winds , step bystep

,heavenwards .

1 2 As o ve rwhe lmingly fro m the wingso f its siste r The Cloud

,itse lf nursling o f the sky are

shaken the dews that wakenThe swee t buds every on e ,When ro cked to rest on the ir mo ther’s breast,As she dances about the sun .

1 3

Whateve r the minstre l ’s tempe r o f the moment,the music

neve r fails . The wild.

we st wind,dirge o f the dying year 1 4

at his ‘ incantation be come s an o rgan .to vo ice his glo o m .

When the fit shifts,rive r godde sse s dance an d caro l in

sympathy with his instant o f gaie ty

Glidin g an d springingShe went, ever singing ,



fo r the ir pleasure . From first to last he has been se ekingto embody , to inte rpre t , a vision

,a mystery . It has

matte re d no thing to him whethe r the text we re aflaw in theUniverse

,o r a cloud in the We st the snapping o f a lute ’s

chords,o r the de ath o f Adonais ; 1 8 an o de to the lark

,o r

a psalm o n Inte lle ctual Be auty— n o t the le ss pro found thatit is as love ly also as

music by the night-wind sentThro ’

strings o f some still instrument ,Or mo onlight on a midnight stream ! 1 9

Me re o rdinary lo ve rs o f po e try must accept She lleyfo r that he is be content that he sings fo r himse lf

,n o t

fo r them . Happily fo r them they canno t be inhibite dfrom listening . Though they have n o t bought the privilegeby disco ve ring wisdo m in Julian an d Maddalo

,o r by ente ring

into the inne r meaning o f Epipsychidion,at least they will

unde rstand the po ssibilitie s o f English verse fro m the pen

o f a maste r they will be sensible o f a raptu re o f me lo dy .

And the re may b e mo re great minds— an d She lley ’s , withall its freaks

,was great— have much to te ll even to tho se

who are n o t the ir disciple s .

The Po etical W o rks of Percy Bysshe She lley, ed ited by Harry BuxtonFo rman . Four vo ls . Re eves an d Turn er, 1 876.

1 To Jan e , Invitation to the Pin e Fo rest, vv . 65—7 .

2 Lin es, W r itten amo ng the Eugan ean Hills, vv 286—93 .

3 The Sen sitive Plan t, Part I , vv . 1 5 4 1 6 an d Part I I I , vv . 66—9

The In d ian Seren ad e .

5 Charles the First, Sc . 5 .

6 Hymn o f Pan .

Song, stan zas 1 , 2 , 5 , 6, 8.

9 A Lamen t.T o 1 1 Lin es, stan zas 1 - 2 .

1 2 To a Skylark.

1 3 The Cloud , vv . 5—8.

1 4 Od e t o the W est W ind.

1 5 Arethusa, st . 1 .

Od e to Liberty. 1 7 Ozyman d ias.

“3 Ad o n ais (E legy o n the Death o f John Keats ) .1 ° Hymn to Inte llectual Beauty, st . 3 .

J OHN KEATS

1 7 95— 1 82 1

ENDYMI ON sur prise d an d sho cke d the linge ring o rthodo xy o f late Ge o rgian critics . Its autho r provoke d as

much animo sity as Wo rdswo rth , an d mo re than Byron .

Wo rdswo rth bo re n o re lation to the ido ls o f the ir youth,

Dryden an d Pope . Byron ,an d Sco tt also

,affe cte d to

reve re bo th . Reviewe rs simply did n o t unde rstand She lley .

Endym ion was the wo rst o f rebe ls . It had bo rro we d an d

trave stie d myths o f the Gre ek Classics,an d the me tre o f

English Maste rs . Many real fau lts inde e d may be fo undin it . The plo t wande rs , and pe rpe tually lo se s itse lf . The

narrative ,o ften the de scriptions

,are pro lix an d te dio us .

The diction is trouble d with strange wo rds and phr ase s .The rhyme tends to lead the sense . No t rare ly the ideasare thin in comparison with the parade o f the circumstance s meant to wait upon them . Occasionally the pro saicwill obtrude itse lf ; co tton-backing showing unde r ve lve tpile . But then the go lden autumn al haze

, the de licio usun ce rtainty what visions o f romance will ne xt come an d

go fro m and into happy Dre am land The age was o n e o f

muddy pe rturbation— strife s o f pe ople s against kings , andkings against pe ople s , o f mo rtal struggle s be twe en agrar ian ism an d fe udalism ,

labo ur an d capital , po litical e co nomyand an o utwo rn Faith . Imagine

,fo r the few be late d

Elizabe thans , the joy in this pageant o f Olympian go dde sse shaunting the happy pastur e s o f Arcadian hillsIt is in truth an Elizabe than po e t ’s wo rld . The Eliza

be than ide a o f po e try bre athe s thro ugho ut . Laws o f


physical natur e are suspended . Men ride o n eagle s ’ wings,

walk the se a,an d so journ in o cean cave s . No whispe r o f

wranglings o f state smen , discontents , an d hunge r o f these e thing masse s

,stirs the se rene so litude . Fie lds an d wo od

lands are go ve rned by n o human law,an d ne ed none .

The care s are n o t o f a kind to be inflame d o r lulle d bythe lyre o f a Tyrtaeus . The autho r o f Endym ion haddrunk deep from the fountains o f Sidney

,Spense r

,an d

William Browne o f Shake spe are— the singe r o f Venus an dAdonis

,o f Lucre ce

,an d the Sonn e ts . He had learnt to

mo ve in an uppe r air o f his own,as they in the irs . Whe re

,

in his mode ls,a tincture o f a purpo se had inte rvene d ,

he stopped sho rt . He wou ld have abho rre d to enlist,like

his be lo ved Spenser , the Muse in the se rvice o f a mo ralallego ry . Fo r him poe try was n o ministe r to duty

,as

unde rsto o d outside . N o painful requ isition o f se lf-denialwas impo sed upon it by the laws o f its be ing . Endymion

,

witho u t a sting o f the conscience remou lded for po e tic useo n He llenic line s

,e ven might wave back to the skie s his

dre am -mi stre ss . He is n o t liable to a shadow o f reproach fo rwo o ing an d winning

,be fo re he was prope rly o ff with the

o ld love , a dusky an d mo re tangible mateNo mo re o f dreaming— Now,

Where shall ou r dwe llin g b e ‘

Z1

Fo r poe ts in general the on e inspiring mo tto isA thing of beauty is a joy fo r ever ; 2

fo r the unive rse , the e ternal law,

That first in beauty should be first in might 3

an d fo r himse lfBeau ty is truth, truth beauty— that is allY e know on earth, and all y e ne ed to know.

4

The who le is immature . Had Keats live d,n o t impo ssibly



abuse d it le ss,than in Keats ’s late r wo rk

,the main credit

I be lieve to b e due to the poe t ’s sho ck at be ing confrontedby his own cre ationflaun ting in the bro ad day o f typeits disheve lle d an d unabashe d charms . It may almo stbe said that in n o famous English po em is want o f me thod

,

measure,propo rtion

,mo re flagrant than in Endymion .

Po st an d,in my opinion , propte r Endymion ,

on the

o the r hand,n o quality in the write r is mo re conspicuous

than comple tene ss o f wo rkmanship . That stands o ut fromthe mu ltitude o f admirable prope rtie s in the galle ry o f

his maste rpie ce s . Atmo sphe re , lights , shade s , pe rspe ctive ,

are all in the ir right place s . Imagination always satisfie s ,an d neve r cloys .

The temple o f his po e t -be ing , thu s re -ed ified,he de dicate d

to the godde ss Beauty, with Me lancho ly fo r he r chie fministre ss— d ainty Me lancho ly

She dwe lls with Beau ty— Beauty that must d ieAnd J oy ,

whose hand is ever at his lipsBidding adieu ; an d aching Pleasure n igh,Turning to po ison while the bee -mouth sips

Ay , in the very temple of De lightVe il

’

d Me lancho ly has he r sovran shrine ,Though seen of none save him who se strenuous ton gue

Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fin eHis sou l shall taste the sadness o f he r might ,And be among her cloudy trophies hung .5

W e have n o right to be astonished at his inclination tothe pensivene ss , the remo tene ss , the so litarine ss o f soul ,which he intends by Me lancho ly Inte lle ctually

,e ven

apart fro m di se ase ,he was framed to take little intere st

in the wo rld into which he was bo rn . He thought an d fe lthimse lf into ano the r

,two centu rie s e arlie r . In that wo rld

itse lf he troubled his fancy with none o f the active care s an dstruggle s . Its ve ry bo oks he did n o t read as an antiquary

JOHN KEATS 1 23

o r student . The air o f it which be breathe d he had distille dfo r his individual use . Its gardenswhich he pace d he hadhimse lf enclo sed an d plante d . Ove r the who le he drewan atmo sphe re

,a ve il

,o f slumbe rous calm— n o t from Spring ,

but from mo re companionable Au tumnSeason o f mists an d me llow fruitfulnessClo se bo som-friend of the matur ing sun ;Conspiring with him how to load an d blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run

To bend with apples the mo ss’

d co ttage trees,An d fill all fruit with ripeness to the co re .

W ho hath n o t seen the e o ft amid thy sto reSome times who ever seeks abroad may find

The e sitting care less o n a granary flo o r ,Thy hair so ft-lifted by the winnowin g wind

Or o n a half-reap’

d furrow so und asleep,Drowsed with the fume of po ppie s, while thy ho okSpares the next swath an d all its twin ed flowers ;And sometime like a gleaner thou do st ke epSteady thy laden head acro ss a bro okOr by a cide r-press, with patient lo ok,Thou watchest the last o o zings, hours by hours.

Whe re are the so ngs o f Spring Ay , whe re are theyThink n o t o f them , thou hast thy music to o ,

While barred' clo uds blo om the so ft-dying day ,And touch the stubble -plain s with ro sy hue ;Then in a wailful cho ir the small gnats mournAmong the rive r sallows, bo rne alo ft

Or sinking as the light wind lives o r di esAn d full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bo urnHedge -cricke ts sing an d n ow with treble so ftThe r ed -breast whistles from a gard en-cro ft,And gathering swallows twitte r in the skie s .

6

If mirth eve r fe igns to inspire him,i t is n o t e asi ly

distin guishable from sadne ss . A t all events , it is that o fthe bygone past an e cho fro m


Souls of po ets dead an d gone ,7repo sing

o n E lysian lawn sBrowsed by non e bu t Dian ’s fawn sUnderneath large blue -be lls tented ,Where the daisies are rose -scentedWhere the n ightingale do th sin gNo t a sense less, tranced thing ,But divine me lodi ous tru thPhilo sophic numbers smo o thTales an d go lden histo riesOf heaven an d its mysteries 8

y e t still at time s sighing to on e ano the rWhat E lysium have we known,Happy fie ld o r mo ssy cavern,Cho icer than the Mermaid Tavern ‘

2 9

Or it may be monumental gaie ty ; imprisone d in scu lptured stone

,amid myrrh -scented fun eral ashe s

What leaf-fringed legend haun ts abou t thy shapeOf de ities o r mo rtals, o r o f bo th,

In Tempe , o r the dales o f ArcadyWhat men o r gods are these ‘

2 What maidens loathWhat mad pursuit What struggle to escapeWhat pipes and timbre ls ‘

3 What wild e cstasy

Heard me lodi es are swe e t, bu t tho se unheardAr e sweeter ; there fo re , y e so ft pipes, play on

No t to the sensual ear , but , mo re en d ear ’d ,Pipe to the spirit ditties of n o toneFair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst n o t leaveThy son g , n o r ever can tho se trees be bareBo ld Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal— y et , d o n o t grieveShe canno t fade , though thou hast n o t thy bliss,

Fo r eve r wilt thou love , an d she b e fair

W ho are these comin g to the sacrifice ?To what green altar

, O myste rious prie st ,



Perhaps the self-same so ng that found a pathThrough the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick fo r home ,She sto od in tears amid the alien co rn

The same that oft -times hathCharm

’

d magic easemen ts, opening o n the foamOf perilous seas, in faery lands fo rlo rn.

Fo rlo rn the very wo rd is like a be llTo to ll me back from the e to my so le se lfAdieu the fancy canno t cheat so we llAs she is famed to d o , dece iving elf.Adieu adieu thy plaintive anthem fadesPast the near meadows , over the still stream ,

Up the hill-side and n ow’

tis buried deepIn the next valley-glades

W as it a vision, o r a wakin g dream ‘

2

Fled is that music — d o I wake o r sleep 1 1

Me lancho ly,an d Beauty

,hand in hand— ve ry marve ls

But I must add ano the r marve l— this an example o f con

summate art— the Chapman-Home r sonne tMuch have I trav ell’d in the realms of go ld ,An d many go odly states an d kingdoms seenRound many western islands have I be enWhich bards in fealty to Apo llo ho ld .

Oft o f o n e wide expanse had I be en to ldThat de ep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesneYe t did I never breathe its pure serene ,

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud an d bo ldThen fe lt I like some watcher o f the skiesWhen a n ew plane t swims into his ken

Or like stout Co rte z when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific -an d all his men

Lo ok’

d at each o the r with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien.

1 2

Had Keats written n o mo re than such a sonne t and sucho de s , he must have ranked among the highe st in song .

He fo und time , howeve r , in his brie f an d so re ly trie d spano f life to wo rk o n large r canvase s

,an d neve r without a

JOHN KEATS 127

triumph . The Eve o f St . Agne s , Isabe lla,Lamia, Hype rion ,

breathe,all four

,o f the same creative so ul . Each is

radiantly distinct . Among the ir many brilliant qualitie sn o t the least amazing is , fo r the pro ximity in the date s o fthe ir birth

,this abso lute varie ty .

Exquisitene ss o f de tail,always harmonious , characte rize s

the first . Many a painte r could te stify , n o t without a pang ,how provo cative is the po e t ’s challenge to wo rk up to theglowing frame in whi ch he has se t his swee t Made line ,

an d

how unequal the compe titionA casement high an d triple -arch’d there was,All garlanded with carven imageriesOf fruits, and flowers, an d bunches of kno t-grass,And diamonded with panes of quaint device ,Innume rable of stains an d splendid dyes,As are the tiger-mo th’s deep-damask’

d wings ;And in the midst , ’mong thousand heraldries,And twilight saints, an d dim emblazon ings,A shie lded scutcheon blush’

d with blo od of queens an d kings.Full on this casement shone the wintry mo on,And threw warm gu les on Made line ’s fair breast ,As down she kne lt fo r heaven’s grace an d bo onRose -blo om fe ll o n he r hands , toge ther prest ,And on he r silver cro ss so ft ame thyst,An d o n he r hair a glo ry, like a saintShe se em

’

d a splendid ange l , newly drest,Save wings, fo r heaven — Po rphyro grew faint ;

She kne lt, so pure a thin g, so free from mo rtal taint.Soon , trembling in her so ft an d chilly nest,In so rt o f wake ful swo on, perplex

’d she lay ,

Until the poppied warmth o f sle ep oppress’

d

He r so o thed limbs, an d soul fatigued awayFlown, like a thought , un til the mo rrow-dayBlissfully haven ’

d bo th from joy an d painClasp

’

d like a missal where s'wart Paynims prayBlinded alike from sunshine an d from rain,As tho ugh a ro se should shut, and be a bud again.


Ano the r,and who lly diffe rent , no te is struck , wi th ve ry

dissimilar,but as de licate ly suitable accompaniments

,in

the piteo us story o f Isabe lla . No t that aught is allowed too bscure the central figure , almo st the pe e r o f Chauce r ’sGrise lda she bows to the sto rm o f frate rnal vengeance on

her humble lo ver fo rlo rn,tende r , un vindictive

,an d

patient,except fo r the on e heart-pie rcing cry

‘fo r crue l ’

tis,’ said she ,

To steal my Basil-po t away from me .

’ 14

In Lamia,o n the o the r hand , it is the plo t , rather than

the circumstance s , o r the figure s , o n which attention isconcentrated . On the tale move s to its catastrophe

,

myste rious, ye t fo re seen , inevitable , austere , state ly , like

a great me diaeval noble , in ve lve t an d lace,o n his way

to Towe r Hill .1 5

An d finally, the palace do o r of Keats’s splendid fancy

flies open fo r the go d— Hyp e rion— to pass within

He en te r’

d , but he en ter’

d full of wrathHi s flaming robes stream’

d out beyond his hee ls,And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire ,That scared away the meek e thereal HoursAnd made the ir dove -wings tremble . On he flared ,From state ly nave to nave , from vault to vault,Through bowers of fragrant an d enwreathed light,An d diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,Un til he r each

’

d the great main cupo laThere , standin g fierce beneath, he stampt his fo o t ,An d from the basements deep to the high towersJar r ’d his own go lden region ; an d befo reThe quavering thun der thereupon had ceased,H is vo ice leapt out , despite o f godlike curb ,To this result O dreams o f day an d n ightO mon strous fo rms O

‘

effigies of painO spe ctres busy in a co ld , co ld glo omO lank-ear’d Phantoms of black-weeded po o ls



Priests ofMe lancho ly . Fane s o f the Mu se s ought to b e ve ritable Pantheons , with ro om fo r shrine s o f all the Grace san d Virtue s . Tende rne ss , Lovingkindne ss , He ro ism , Faith ,an d inno cent J oy have a right to make the ir home the re ;an d a Chape l Shou ld be conse crated to So rrow . No t all inKeats ’s ideal loveline ss is real . The sturdy frequente rso f the Mermaid might have mo cked at some o f the classicfo rms rising from hi s pen . Something in the landscape isscene -painting . Rude bo tanists would sco ff at the fairyfo re sts an d garden-land o f the exiled Titans . No larkcaro ls here with the freshne ss o f the Ayrshire plo ughman’s .

The Muse is hidd en to ke ep company with sculpturedfuneral u rns an d the dust the re in , instead o f kind lingliving hearts .

But I repent . Le t me b e fo rgiven fo r having beentempted to dwe ll o n a sombre tru ism , which , afte r all, iso nly a half-truth . Side by side with it stands , as I gladlyacknowle dge , ano the r , that genius has manifo ld phase s .

On e po et n ow an d then may b e spared from the dullhaunts o f men to ro am , enchanted an d enchanting , throughmo onlit fo rest glade s . It is go od to b e reminded fromtime to time that the duty o f po e try is n o t to sew an d

spin ; that its fir st obligation , to b e fu lfille d o n pain o f be ingn o t po etry at all , is to b e beautifu l as a lily of the fie ld .

Keats was bo rn in an age o f brute military fo rce . Humanityhad been vu lgarized by po litical panic o r ambition . Ideaswith n o money o r physical powe r in them we re de spise d .

His natur e revo lte d in disgust . In defiance he set up the

image of Beauty to be wo rshippe d . At least the se rvicecarrie d men outside their own po o r se lve s it fascinated ,an d refined . W ho , o ld o r young , can re call the firs treve lation to him o f The Eve o f St . Agne s , the N ightingaleOd e , Hyperion , W ithout fee ling how ,

while he read , an

JOHN KEATS 13 1

o cean seemed to ro ll be fo re his eye s , as the Iliad , a n ew

planet , swam into the ken o f John Keats

The Po etical W o rks o f John Keats with a Memo ir by RichardMo n ckton Miln e s. N ew Ed ition . E . Moxon , 1854 .

1 Endymion , Bo ok IV.

2 Ibid. , Bo ok I .

3 Hyperio n . Od e o n a Grecian Urn , st . 5 .

5 Ode o n Me lancho ly. T o Autumn .

7 Lin es on the Mermaid Tave rn .

3 Od e .

Lin es o n the Mermaid Tavern .

1° Od e o n a Grecian Urn , stan zas I , 2, 4 .

Od e to a Nightingale , stan zas l 6, 7 , 8.

On First Lo oking in to Chapman s Homer.‘ 3 The Eve o f St. Agn es, stan zas 24, 25 , 27 .

N Isabella o r , The Po t o f Basil, st . 62 .

1 5 Lamia.1 “ Hyperio n . Bo ok I .

CHARLES WOLFE

1 79 1— 1 82 3

I HAD doubted whe the r to assign a place to Wo lfe ’spo ems rathe r than to him . Finally, I decide d that hisnature was to o much o f a po em fo r his wo rk n o t to b e

classe d by his pe rsonality . In his scho o lboy days at

Winche ste r he was a po et . His line s o n the raising o f

Lazarus show distinct po etic insight . The ir no te is thefe e ling o f Jesus fo r o the rs ’ grie f

He kn ew what pains must pierce a sister’ s heart.1

It is the same with his prize po em on the Death o f Abe lN o r could his lips a de ep-drawn sigh restrain,No t fo r himse lf he sigh

’

d— he sigh’

d fo r Cain.

2

Throughout a brilliant caree r at Trinity, Dublin , it was asa po et that he was particu larly re cognized . An o ld air

co u ld n o t sound in his ears without hastening to embo dyitse lf in melo diou s ve rse . His few songs

,the po em itse lf

by which he is immo rtalize d , we re emo tions translatedinstantly into language . His biographer , who canno t b eaccused o f po etical enthusiasm , de scribe s the effe ct o f musicupon his imagination : he fe lt all its po etry ; it transpo rte d him .

’

The same friend reco llects how ,captivated

by a national Spani sh air , Viva cl Rey Fernando , he com

men ced singing it over an d o ve r again,until he produce d

an English song admirably suited to the tune He had

music in his heart .

There , after the clo se of his Co llege care e r , it stayed,



to be measure d le ss by years , than by months o r we eks ,pe rhaps by days an d hours . The actual bulk o f his ’

en tir e

po etical pro duction is scanty indee d . Apart from scho o lan d co llege exe rcises , it consists o f .half a dozen songs .

Several are pretty an d graceful . Y et , o n the ir own me rits ,I could n o t claim that they would have survived eventheir autho r ’s brie f existence . What then remains W hy ,

beside , rathe r than among, the m eagre re st , just two o f

the love liest flowers in the garden o f English ve rseThe entire An glo -Saxon wo rld is familiar with the po em

o n the Burial o f Sir John Mo o re . If I give it here in full ,it chiefly is for convenience o f comparison with ano therpiece by Wo lfe as admirable in a different way

Not a drum was heard , n o t a funeral no teAs his co rse to the rampart we hurried

No t a so ldi er discharged his farewe ll sho tO

’

er the grave where our here we buried .

W e buried him darkly at dead of night,The sods with our bayonets turning ,By the struggling

A

mo onbeam’

s misty lightAnd the lantern dimly burning .

No use less cofli n enclosed his breast ,No t in shee t o r in shroud we wound him

B ut he lay like a warrio r taking his restWith his martial cloak around him.

Few and sho rt were the prayers we said,An d we spoke n o t a wo rd o f so rrow

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that wasdead ,An d we bitterly thought of the mo rrow.

W e thought as we ho llow’

(1 his narrow bedAnd smo o thed down his lone ly pillow,

That the fo e an d the stran ge r would tread o ’

e r his head,And we far away o n the billow .

CHARLES WOLFE 135

Lightly they’ ll talk o f the'

spirit that ’s gone ,And o

’

e r his co ld ashes upbraid himB ut little he ’ ll reck if they le t him sleep o nIn the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half o f ou r heavy task was doneWhen the clo ck struck the hour fo r retiringAnd we heard the distant and random gunThat the fo e was su llenly firing .

Slowly an d sadly we laid him down ,

From the fie ld of his fame fresh and go ryW e carved n o t a line , an d we raised n o t a stoneBut we le ft him alone with his glo ry ! 4

The who le had flashed out o f a casual glance at aflin typaragraph in a supe rannuated number of the EdinburghAnnual Register . By ron , who se sympathe tic eye s it firstcaught , through n o se lf-advertising by the autho r , accoun tedit little infe rio r to the be st which the present pro lific agehad brought fo rth The third stanza— in particu lar, these cond couplet—d r ewfrom him the exclamation, PerfectThe unpremeditated ar t itse lf is exce llent . Observe , fo rexample , how the seventh stanza labours in instinctivesympathy with the burden . In abso lutene ss o f picto riale ffect the po em has few equals in its kind , n o superio r .The pre cise co rre spondence o f the de tails with the pro senarrative , which has been u rge d in depreciation , in fact

greatly enhance s the me rit . Wo lfe ’s ve rsion is identicalwith its so urce , except that a soul has been adde d .

In the line s To Mary the pro ce ss is, after a manner ,

reve rsed . Wo lfe found an air o f me lancho ly beauty,Gramachr ee , defo rmed

’ by alien , commonplace wo rds . He

gave it back its proper'

sign ifican ce . In tone an d characte rthe song , while matching the Burial o f Sir John Mo o re inlove liness , is , it will , I think , b e re co gnized, so gene rally


distinct as to indicate that , in Wo lfe ’s po e tical caree r , thephenomenon , the accident , is n o t his autho rship o f a coupleo f paragons o f me lody, but his omission to add a sco re o f

equal marvels

If I had thought thou couldst have died ,I might n o t we ep fo r the e

But I fo rgo t , when at thy side ,That thou cou ldst mo rtal be ;

It n eve r through my mind had pastThe time would e ’e r be o

’

e r ,

And I on thee should lo ok my last ,And thou shouldst smile n o mo re .

An d still upon that face I lo ok,An d think ’ twill smile again ;And still the thought I will n o t bro ok,That I must lo ok in vain

But when I speak— thou do st n o t say ,What thou ne ’ er left ’st unsaidAnd n ow I fee l , as we ll I may ,

Swe et Mary thou ar t dead .

If thou wouldst stay, e ’en as thou art ,

All co ld an d all sereneI still might press thy silent heart,An d where thy smiles have beenWhile e ’

en thy chill, bleak co rse I have ,Thou se emest still mine own

B ut there— I lay thee in thy grave ,And I am n ow alone

I do n o t think, where ’er tho u art ,Thou hast fo rgo tten me

An d I, perhaps, may so o the this heart

In thinking , to o , o f thee ;Y et , there was round thee such a daW nOf light ne ’e r se en befo re ,As fan cy never could have drawn ,

And never can restore 6


HENRY HART MILMAN

1 791 —1 868

I REMEMBER to have heard from persons o ld when evenI was young , that the sensatio n stirred by Milman

’s sacreddramas was comparable with that which attende d the

appearance o f a n ew po em by Byron . He was hailed as

a living pro o f o f the compatibility o f po etic genius withre ligion by the o rthodox who were so on to ban him as

a schismatic . The en thusiasm subsided so oner than the ‘

ho stility . It, pe rhaps they, had a so lid fo undation in thefact o f the great brain an d brave heart o f the ir o bj e ct . H e

neve r wr o te , whether ve rse , o r hi sto ry, withou t the

promptings o f de ep thought an d a strong dramatic instinct .From youth upwards he po sse ssed an d di splayed taste ,fancy, a fin e ear , thirst for knowledge , an d a reso lute com

bativen ess .

He leapt into fame with his Newd igate prize fo r theApo llo Be lvide re . Some o f the line s ar e never like ly tob e fo rgo tten fo r instance

Heard y e the arrow hurtle in the skyHeard y e the dragon monster

’s deathful cryIn settled maj esty of fierce disdain

,

Proud o f his might, y e t sco rnful o f the slain,The heav

’

n ly Arche r stands— n o human birth,

No perishable denizen of earthYou th blo oms immo rtal in his beardless face

,

A God in strength, with mo re than godlike graceAll , all divine— n o struggling muscle glows,Through heaving ve in n o mantling life -blo od flows,But an imate with de ity alone ,In deathless glo ry lives the breathing stone .

HENRY HART MILMAN

Beau teous as vision se en in dr eamy sleepBy ho ly maid o n De lphi’s haunted steep,Mid the dim twilight of the laure l grove ,To o fair to wo rship, to o divin e to love .

1

But the who le brie f po em , excepting the conclusion with itssickly sentimentality

,is almo st fau ltle ss . The Judicium

Regale , co mpo sed in anticipation o f the visit o f the Allie dSovereigns to England , fo llowe d . Its rhe to ric approache sgrandeu r

,no twithstanding that it also has itsflaw in an

ungene rous vindictivene ss towards a fallen fo e . Alreadyhe virtually had co mpleted Samo r , Lo rd o f the BrightCity, commenced w hen he was a lad at Eton . The epicabounds in vivid dramatic situations , fo r example , thesono rou s narrative o f King Argan tyr

’

s surrender to Samo r .

Its weakne ss is a j uvenile inclination to rio ting in ho rro rs .An instance , by n o means exceptional , is the sacrifice byCaswallo n

’

s savage ambition to the Gods of Valhalla o f

his o nly daughte r . He had left her to grow up as a wildflowe r by D erwen t ’s blue lake

Like a fo rgo tten lute , play’

d on aloneBy chance -caressing airs.2

The gro tesque extravagance s themse lves , however, testifyto power . The who le , in its pro digal expenditure o f effe cts ,lurid splashes o f co lou r o n acre s o f canvas , an d audaciousd efian ces o f histo ry, might we ll have been mate rial fo r thegrowth o f a mighty

,po e t .

From the same source issued , in fact , be side s a care ful , .

but little read , translation from the Sanscrit , two se cularan d thre e re ligious plays an d then , in place o f the

po e t , a philo sophic histo rian . Of the plays , Fazio is a pie cefo r the stage an d accomplished acto rs have acknowledgedits me rits as such . The sacred piece s , though in dr amaticfo rm , ar e e ssentially po ems , an d as such to be j udge d .


They have u nde rgone the prope r refining fro m the no isine ss ,the vio lence , the absu rditie s o f the boyish epic . Halfa century ago the reading public admired the awe , the pity,o f Titus meditating , at the head o f his army , o ve r do ome dJe rusalem

How bo ldly do th it front us how maj esticallyLike a luxurious vineyard , the hill-sideIs hung with marble fabrics , line o ’

er lineWhile over all hangs the rich purple eve ,

As conscious o f its be ing he r last farewe llOf light an d glo ry to that fated city.And, as ou r clouds o f battle dust an d smokeAr e

‘

melted into air, beho ld the Temple ,

In un di sturb’

d and lone serenityFinding itse lf a so lemn sanctuaryIn the pro found of heavenBy Hercules ! the sight might almost winThe o ffended maj esty of Rome to mercy. ’ 3

It was moved by the prayer— a demand— o f defiant Hebrewmaidens to Jeho vah to repeat against inso lent Rome Hisjudgement upon Egypt an d her furious King

The Lo rd from out His cloud ,The Lo rd lo ok’

d down upon the proudAn d the ho st drave heavilyDown the deep bosom o f the sea.

With a quick an d sudden swe llPron e the liquid ramparts fell ;Over horse , an d ove r car ,Over every man o f war ,

Over Pharaoh’s crown o f go ld ,The loud thundering billows ro ll’d .

As the leve l waters spread ,Down they sank, they sank like lead ,Down without a cry o r groan.

And the mo rnin g sun that shone



’

Tis He—’

tis He , the Son of Man appearingAt the right han d of On eThe darkness o f whose thron e

That sun -eyed seraph Host beho ld with awe an d fearing.

O’

e r him the rainbow springs,An d spreads its emerald wings,

Down to the glassy sea his lo ftiest seat o ’

e rarching.

Hark— thunders from his throne , like ste e l-clad armiesmarchingThe Christ the Christ commands us to his home

Jesus, Rede emer, Lo rd , we come , we come , we come 6

It was re cognized as a to uch o f genius when the beauteo usmartyr , in the ver y e cstasy o f visible acceptance within thece le stial halls , manoeuvr e s to spare her aged heathen fatherthe agony o f se e ing his daughte r ’ s blo od

A quick an d sudden cryOf Gallias, an d a parting in the throngPr o claim

’

d he r father’s coming. Fo rth she sprangAn d clasp

’

d the frowning headsman’s kne es , an d saidI d o besee ch thee , slay me first an d quickly

’Tis that my father may n o t see my death 7

Inspiration , inde ed , I for o n e still f ee l animate s theentire substance o f the pair o f tragedie s which have furni shed me with my example s . A public satisfie d to knowMilman from an o ccasional fragment used as a hymn , likethe famous funeral anthem

Bro ther, thou ar t gone befo re us, an d thy sain tly .sou l is flownWhere tears ar e wiped from every ey e , an d so rrow is unknown -8

misse s a large part o f the enj oyment incident to such ve rseitself , when conside re d amidst its proper circumstance s , asa plant in its native so il .If the third drama,

Be lshazzar , is less fin e 1n textur e , an dthe me lo dy, the patho s , ar e mo r e o f stage propertie s , an dle ss evidently spontane ou s , I attribute the decline mainlyto the subje ct . The centre , the pivo t , o f the po em was

HENRY HART MILMAN 143

ne cessarily the writing o n the Palace -wall an d with thatthe romance o f the Jewish maiden , Benina, has n o directconnexion . They mo ve along diffe rent line s , whi ch onlycasually inte rse ct . No thin g co u ld b e mo re manife stlyfo rced than the final grouping o f the monarch , his mo ther ,an d the Hebrew fami ly . When the Prophet d eciphe rs theblazoned sentence , how glaring again the descent o f the

po em be low the level o f the Biblical narrative Y e t hereto o the autho rship “

is inte rnally capable o f identificatio nwith that o f the earlie r d ramas . The Jewish girl ’s so lilo quyo n the summit o f the towe r o f B e l is full o f me lancho lyharmony . Belshazzar ’s accomplishment o f his pledge tothe herald o f his do o m is marked by a Splendid mag

n an imityGo— lead the Hebrew fo rth, ar ray

’

d

In the proud robe , le t all the city hailThe hon our

’

d of Be lshazzar. 9

W e catch the true royal ring bo th in that an d in the fallenmonarch ’s farewe ll to empire an d life .

Some e lement , I am conscious , is wanting to lift Milman’s

ve rse back to the rank whi ch much in it still challenge s .

The who le glows , but like the sun in a mist . W e miss therays whi ch should glance hither an d thi the r the spo n ta

ne ons refle ctions back fro m the minds o f the reade rs , an dfrom within the po etry itse lf . The writer ’s themes ar e inthemse lve s exalte d an d noble . He was equipped by natureand educatio n to deve lop the ir lo fty qualitie s . Out o f hismate rials he constructed , in two cases at least, beautifule difice s . Ye t we ar e sensible throughout o f a radical want .He re an d the re it is supplie d ; but in gene ral we d o n o t

fee l that to the skilfu l builde r ’s ar t , an d to a certain fieryappreciation o f the qualitie s o f the situation , the autho rwas in the habit of adding something of his own so ul . He


do e s n o t , like the great singe rs , produce upon me at all

events the impression o f having passed the constituents o fhis po e try through his inner natu re , an d having set them inthe ir place s breathing o f it . A pe rceptible mono tony in hisstrains te lls the same tale . He strike s a single key con

tin ually ,though on e o f dignity an d powe r . A prede stined

po e t may pre fe r a particu lar no te he will give signs thathe has many at his dispo sal . With all the ir fe eblene ss , TheHours o f Id lene ss indicated mo re promi se than the magnificen t Lo rd o f the Bright City . Neverthe le ss , it mighthave been anticipated that, whateve r the sho rtco mings o fSamo r , at any rate the sacred dramas wo uld practicallyo blige the ir autho r to b e a po e t still . The po etic vo idafter them , unle ss fo r a few hymns an d translations ,during two -thirds o f a lifetime inflicts a sho ck as at

a sudden darkness . I can only surmise a mental r e

vo lutio n .

A simi lar spiritual change dried up , or sealed, the fo untains o f song in two o ther mode rn singers, a senio r and

a j un io r , far mo re subtle , an d o f wide r compass , if n o t o f astronger inte lligence . Bo th , early in middle life , turnedfrom construction to analysis . The critical faculty inCo leridge to ok the shape of theo logical metaphysics . InMatthew Arno ld it was a rage fo r the clearance

-

o f rubbish ;fo r the busine ss , to be unde rsto o d in a highly complimentary sense , o f a mo ral an d literary dust-destructo r .It became in Milman inqu iry into the bases o f e ccle siasticalhisto ry . Throughout thi s se cond stage o f hi s intellectualdeve lopment he did go od , even great , wo rk . The re wascreation as well as demo lition . He pulled down that hem ight build up . Y e t some will regre t with me, fo r the sakebo th o f po etry, an d o f his fame , that the mo rtar o f the

fo un dations he renewe d had to be mixed with the life -blo o d


J OHN KEBLE

1 7 92— 1 866

CANON AINGER , an admirable critic , once commentedto me o n the claim o f the wr ite r o f a popu lar hymn tore spe ct as a po et : Yo u know,

the standard o f po eticmerit in hymns is n o t high .

’ Is it nece ssary to plead fo rsaintly Keble

’

s po etic title , as it were , in forma paup er is ?He wro te , indeed , o the r ve rse , so me o f it of wo rth ; fo rexample , a de lightfu l appeal o f wild flowe rs to the lo rd o fthe mano r to spare from his high farming

Shady spo ts an d no oks, where weY e t may flourish, safe an d free .

l

But , as a who le , it is inconside rable an d by his hymns hemu st virtually be judged . Without go in g , there fo re , o utsideThe Christian Year an d Lyra Inn o cen tium, I am glad fo rmy own sake to be able from them to answer my que stionlimited , as it is— in the negative . I find genuine po eticsensibility in a fair propo rtion o f the ir contents . Tenderness , sympathy, judgement , an d de licacy, aspirations afterthe noble an d sublime , ar e there . Eve rywhere I observea fe e ling for beauty, a sincere longing to unde rstand an dinterpret Nature .

Eve ry on e has fe lt the sweetne ss of some five o r six stanzasof the Evening Hymn in The Christian Year . OccasionalThoughts o n chi ldren’s tr ouble s in the Lyra Inn ocen tiumalmo st match them .

2 W ith equal intuition an d affectionaten ess Keble dr aws happy le ssons from sickne ss , theheart ’s se lf-doubtings , mourning , an d death . At times , n o t

JOHN KEBLE 147

o ften , he nears sublimity ; as when he imagine s Christ ’sPassion in the Garden o f Ge thsemane 3 when he fo llowsthe spirit o f the Cr ucified

At large among the dead 4

o r , as by the Saviour’

sside , muses on the lone upland abo vethe wate rs o f Genne sare t .He is neverthe less mo re at home where he habituallydwe lt that is , amid scene s o f natu ral grace an d beauty .

They make fo r him fitting framewo rk fo r every wo rd o f

Prophet an d Evange list . He had sat at Wo rdswo rth ’sfeet , an d learnt to registe r each

so ft touch invisible ,5

by which Nature , newly bo rn at eve ry successive . sunrise ,wo rks her wonde rs . He cou ld have written a mono graph o n

the so ft green willow springingWhere the waters gently pass,

Every way he r fre e arms flingingO

’

e r the mo ist an d re edy grass 6

and vo lume s o n the flowe rs o f the fie ld

Swe e t nurslings of the ve rnal skies,B ath

’

d in so ft airs , an d fed with dewWhat mo re than magic in y ou lies,To fill the heart’s fond view

Relics y e are of Eden’s bowe rs,

As pure , as fragrant , and as fair,As when y e crown

’

d the sunshine hoursOf happy wanderers there .

7

Mountains , in particu lar , he loved fo r theircompanionship , as be deemed , with Heaven

Where is thy favour’

d haunt, eternal Vo ice ,

The region of Thy cho ice ,K 2


Where , un di sturb ’

d by sin an d earth, the soulOwns Thy entire contro l

’

Tis o n the moun tain’s summit dark and high,When sto rms are hurrying by

’Tis

’

mid the strong foundations o f the earth,Where to rrents have the ir birth.

No sounds of wo rldly to il ascending there ,Mar the full burst o f prayerLone Nature fe els that she may free ly breathe ,And round us an d beneath

Are heard her sacred tones the fitful sweepOf winds acro ss the steep,

Through withe r ’d bents—romantic no te an d clear,Me e t fo r a hermit’s ear ,

The whee ling kite ’s wild so litary cry,_ And, scarce ly heard so high,The dashin g waters when the air is stillFrom many a to rrent rillThat winds un seen beneath the shaggy fe ll ,Track

’d by the blue mist we ll

Such sounds as make deep silence in the heartFo r Thought to d o her part.8

Fo r him each day marshals a triumphal pageant ,dawn , with its eve ry dewy spark j ewelling leaf an d blo ssom ,

to the glo ry of the clouds about the setting sun . To a

ce rtain extent—though , in general , it must he confessed ,he do e s vio lence to his own sweet nature in dogmatizing tothe young— he even consents to view the flush o f springtide ,the garlands of May , thr ough a child

’s eye s .

9

Now an d then, fo r moments , he actually seems , thoughin a hymnal, to fo rget hymno logy, an d to b e unconsciou sof all but Nature ’s an d Music ’s magic

’Tis misty all, bo th sight an d soun dI only know ’

tis fair an d swee t’Tis wandering on enchan ted groundWith dizzy brow and to ttering fee t.1 °



all, fo r'

r eligious ve rse , as He rbe rt’s , Crashaw

’

s, Vaughan’s

,

He rrick ’s , it is the breath o f life . In Keble’

s it is neve rmo re than an accident . He , the devoute st o f men , the

mo st emo tional , the least wo rldly , a Nathanie l withoutguile , only by fits an d starts blaze s into flame from hisown sove re ign theme .

I fee l him , while'he d iversifies an d po lishe s his rhythm ,

drills his topics , ve rifie s his allusions , co rrects his pun ctuation , to b e always o n the watch against himse lf . He isguarding against explo sions o f e nthusiasm ,

which wou ldhave swept away his .excess o f e labo ration , an d the pr olixity fatal to in any a fin e thought . In mode sty an d

shyness like to He rbert , Crashaw , Vaughan , he was, unlikethem , n o t o f tho se who invite o r suffer the wo rld to countthe ir heart-beats . He has sung

An d we ll it is fo r_

us ou r Go d should fe e lAlone our secre t throbbings so our prayer

May readier spring to Heaven , n o r spend its zealOn cloud-bo rn ido ls o f this lower air .

1 2

The rule is true fo r wo rshippe rs ; n o t fo r the po et whowrite s o f them and himse lf . It is fr om tho se d e ep

’

thr ob

bings , secret except fo r ve rse , that e ssential po etry isdistilled . Po etry demands the sacrifice o f the privacy o f

sou ls . A poet , to aspire to i the peaks , must b e incapableo f withho lding the be st an d deare st in his nature . Keble ,if so

”

made as to have dare d thus to suffe r his spirit to takefir e , at all events did n o t le t it . Always he re se rve d something frOm the furnace . H e constantly was po inting out

how Chr istians , he with the re st , ought to think o f Earthan d Heaven

,rathe r than how he himse lf in fact thought .

N ot having fastene d his soul to the stake , he is n o t o f theinner circle in po etry . Whether , had he submitted himse lf ,he would haveb een, who can te ll ?

JOHN KEBLE 1 5 1

The Chr istian Year. Tho ughts in Verse fo r the Sundays and Ho lidaysthr oughout the Year. Fo rty-third ed . Oxfo rd : John Henry Parker,185 3 . Lyra In nocen tium . Oxfo rd John He n ry Parker, 1846.

Misce llan eous Po ems, by the Rev . John Keble . Oxfo rd and Lo ndonJames Parker 85 Co . , 1869 .

1 Petition to the Lo rd o f the Man o r o f Me rd o n o f An emon e , Orchis ,Vio let, Daffodil, Cowslip, an d Primula (Misce llan eo us Po ems ).

1 A Sister, and Fire (Lyra Inn o cen tium, Children ’

s Troubles).3 Monday befo re Easter, st . 8 (Christian Year) .Easter Eve , st . 2

5 Morn ing, st . 111 First Sun day After Epiphany, st . 47 Fifteenth Sunday After Trin ity, stan zas 1—211 Twen tieth Sun day After Trin ity, stan zas 1- 39 May Garlan ds (Lyra Inn o cen tium, Children ’

s Spo rt'

s) .1 ° Fourth Sunday in Adven t, st . 5 (Christian Year).Fourth Sunday in Len t, stan zas 2, 4, 5Twen ty-fo urth Sunday After Trin ity, st . 3 .

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN

1 801— 1 890

OXFORD logic an d metaphysics , an d English Churchlethargy co st literature a great po e t , an d gained fo r ita great po em . Dr . N ewman ’s earlie r pro ductions showe dmo re of promise than perfo rmance . The first in the collec

tion o f 1868 is separated from The Dream ‘

o f Ger on tius,

dated January 1865 , which clo ses the vo lume , by a spaceo f fo rty years . Naturally the contents might be expe ctedto d iffe r wide ly in « character . As naturally it might besuppo se d that the earlier wou ld have mo re of fancy an d

enthu siasm . On the contrary, the writer is mo re se lfre strained, less mani fe stly full o f o riginal ideas , at the

commencement o f his po etical career than at its en d .

While as y et uncer tain o f his the o logical po sition , doubtinghis o ld views , alarmed by the fascinations o f the n ew , he

cur be d his imagination . When he had found peace at last ,if n o t N irvana,

satisfaction at the sense o f finality burstinto an amazing , an amazed e cstasy, which transmuteda lake o f fir e into a b ed o f ro ses .

N o t that the hundred an d fo rty-three po cin s whichpre cede the Dream ar e without distinct charms o f the irown . They ar e devout , with a mo desty an d go o d tastewhich hymno logy o ften lacks . Frequently the ir spiritrise s so high that the reade r o f them fee ls a sho ck whensuddenly it seems to dr o op an d sink . The ir fault is a

repression , rathe r than an incapability, of passionatenessa determination to make po etry a property of re ligion , an dn o t religion subj e ct-matter o f po etry . Compare them with



his tende r Birthday Offering o n the grave o f his youngsiste r

Love liest , me ekest , blithest , kindest !Lead we se ek the home thou find estThough thy name to us mo st dear,Go we wou ld n o t have thee here .

Lead, a guiding beacon brightTo trave llers on the Eve of Light.We lcome ay e thy Star befo re us,

Brin g it grie f o r gladn ess o ’

e r us ;

Ke en regre t an d tearful yearning,Whiles unfe lt , an d W hiles returningOr mo re gracious thoughts abiding ,Fever-que lling , so rrow-chidingOr , when day -light blessings failTranspo rt fresh as spice -fraught gale ,Sparks from thee which oft have lightedWeary heart an d hope benighted .

I this monumen t wou ld raise ,Distant from the public gaze .

Few will see it —few e’

e r knew the e ;But

’

the ir beatin g hearts pursue thee ,An d the ir eyes fond thoughts betoken,Though thy n ame b e se ldom spoken.

Pass o n , stranger, an d despise itThese will read, and these will prize it .

2

The me rits o f such charming things have , I can but

suppo se , been smo the red unde r the ne ighbour ing pile o f

ve rse pre ssed into se rvice as a vehicle o f re ligiou s musings ,o ften momentous , y et n o t po e try . In o ther case s theinfusion o f mi litant dogma may have denied popu laracceptance to pie ce s o the rwise fully entitle d to it . Mark ,fo r example , the light touch in the Month o f Mary

The gre en green grass, the glittering grove ,The heaven’s maj estic dome ,They image forth a tenderer bower,A mo re refulgent home

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 15 5

They te ll us o f that ParadiseOf eve rlasting rest,And that high Tree , all flowers and fruit ,The sweetest, y e t the be st.

0 Mary,pure and beautiful ,

Thou art the Queen o f May

Our garlands wear about thy hair,An d they will ne ’ e r de cay .3

bright , if mo re combative , is the Pilgrim QueenThere sat a Lady all on the ground ,Rays o f the mo rning circled he r round.

Save thee an d bail to the e , Gracious an d Fair,In the chill twilight whatw ouldst thou thereHere I sit deso late , ’ swe etly said she ,Though I ’m a que en, and my name isMarieRobbers have rifled my garden and sto re ,Fo e s they have sto len my he ir from my bowe r.They said they cou ld ke ep Him far be tter than I ,In a palace all His, planted de ep an d raised high.

’Twas a palace of ice , hard and co ld as were they,And when summer came , it all me lted away.Next would they barter H im, H im the Supreme ,Fo r the spice of the desert , an d go ld o f the stream ;And me they b id wander in we eds and alone ,In this green merry land which once was my own .

A moment , ’ she said , an d the dead shall reviveThe giants are failing , the Saints are aliveI am coming to rescue my home and my re ign,An d Pe ter and Philip are clo se in my train.

’ 4

And he had indicated a gift fo r lo ftier strains ,controve rsial fo r instance , in Re frige rium

They ar e at restThe fire has eaten o ut all blo t an d stain,An d , convalescent , they enjoy a blest

Re freshment after painThus, to the En d , in Eden’s gro ts they lie ,And hear the fourfo ld river, as it hurries by.


They hear it sweepIn distance down the dark and savage glenSafe from its ro cky bed , an d curren t deep,

And eddying po o ls, till then ;They hear, an d meekly muse , as fain to knowHow long untired, un spent, that giant stream shallflow.

And soothin g soun dsBlend with the neighbourin g waters as they glidePosted alon g the haunted garden’s bounds

Ange lic fo rms abide ,E cho in g, as wo rds of watch, o

’

er lawn and grove ,The verses o f that hymn which Seraphs chant above .

5

Y et again an d the re is the immo rtal Pillar o f the Cloudbette r known by its fir st three wo rds— with which he

might have been thought to reach hi s high-watermark asa po e t . In hymno logy , inde e d , he neve r exce eded thatswe et sad cry from heart to hearts fo r light to lead amidthe glo om fo r , as a hymn , it is unsurpassable . From the

first line to the last , whenthe night is gone

An d with the mom tho se ange l faces smileWhich I have loved lon g since , an d lo st awhile 6

it might , unle ss fo r what was to fo llow , have been he ld tobe as po etically love ly as ve rse can be without ceasing tob e praye r .B ut thirty years late r he accomplished re sults in po etrywhi ch the Pillar o f the Cloud itself canno t pre tend to rival .Conside r the abso rption of passion into piety , the exto rtiono f the consent of an inte llect as searching as Vo ltaire ’s toan abjuration o f all spiri tual fre edom , the renunciationo f joy , pity, beauty . Watch the e rection , on foundationsthu s remo rsele ssly laid , of a pile o f sublime st fancy . Thensay how , when , an d whe re lite ratur e has on like lines evermatche d the Dream o f Ger on tius In it Newmanconjure s



I wen t to sle ep an d n ow I am refre sh’

d ,

A strange re freshment fo r I fee l in me

A11 in expressive lightness, and a senseOf fre edom ,

as I were at length myse lf ,And ne ’er had be en be fo re . How still it isAm I alive o r dead I am n o t dead ,But in the body still fo r I possessA so rt o f confidence , which clings to me ,That each particular o rgan ho lds its placeAs hereto fo re , combin ing with the restInto o n e symmetry, that wraps me round ,And makes me man and sure ly I could move ,D id I but will it , every part o f me .

Or I o r it is rushing on the wingsOf light o r lightning on an onward course ,An d we e

’

en n ow are million miles apart.Y et— is this perempto ry severanceWrought ou t in lengthening measurements o f space ,Which grow and multiply by speed and timeOr am I traversing infinityBy endless subdivision, hurrying backFrom finite towards infinitesimal ,Thus dying out of the expanded wo rld 3

Throughout his jo u rneying he hears vo ice s his convo yingange l ’s

Oh, what a heart-subduing me lodyThen , the sullen howl of demons outside the JudgementCourt , swarming ,

Hungry and wild , to claim their prope rty,And gathe r souls fo r he ll

an d , again , the song o ftender be in gs ange lical,

Least'

and most childlike of the sons of Godlike the rushing

“

of the windThe summer wind— amongthe lo fty pinesSwe lling and dying, e cho ing round about ,Now here , n ow distant, wild and beautifulWhile , scatter ’d from the branches it has stirr ’d

'

,

Descend ecstatic odours ;

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 1 5 9

with, all the time , but thin an d low ,an d fainte r an d mo re

faintthe vo ice o f friends aro und the bed ,

W ho say the Subven ite with the priest. 9

Abso lute re st , de light , emancipation ye t the who lethrilled with a longing fo r agony o f pain to be fitted byfir e to abide he reafte r in the Divine Presence— if bu t ,

e re I plunged amid the avenging flame ,I had on e sight o f Him to strengthen me .

And in a moment , an d fo r a mo ment , his wish granted— at the co st o f lying be fo re the Throne , sco rched an d

shrive lled bythe ke en sanctity,

Which, with its efflue n ce , like a glo ry, clo thesAnd circles round the Crucified ! 1 0

It is a gain of measu re less content , so only that his o rdealb e completed , as he prays , to the full

Take me away, an d in the lowest deepThere let me be ,

And there in hope the lone night-watches ke ep ,To ld out fo r me .

There , mo tionless an d happy in my pain,Lone , n o t fo rlo rn ,

There will I sing my sad perpe tual strain,Until the mo rn.

There will I sing, an d so o the my stricken breast,Which ne ’ e r can cease

To throb , and pine , and languish, till po ssestOf its So le Peace .

There will I sing my absent Lo rd an d LoveTake me away,

That so oner I may rise , an d go above ,And see Him in the truth of everlasting day .

1 1

The who le high , strange argument , fo r its me taphysical


dexte rity an d depth, is wo rthy o f Lucre tius ho lding a ve rydiffe rent brie f . But , mo st o f all, le t us be grate ful fo ra grand dithyramb , wo rthy also o f the great Roman ,which autho rize s an inscription o n the ro ll of Britishpo ets o f the illustrious name of John Henry Newman , asmuch to their honour in the companionship as to his

Verses on Various Occasion s (J. H. London : Burn s, OatesCo . , 1868.

1 Tran sfiguration , No . 5 1 .

2 Epiphany E ve : A Birthday Offering, N o . 145 The Mon th ofMary, N o . 150.

4 The Pilgrim Que en , No . 149 .

5 Re frigerium , No . 1 1 1 .

5 The Pillar o f the Cloud (Lead Kin d ly Light), No . 81 , Jun e 16, 18337 The Dream of Geron tin e, Jan uary 1865 , No . 166.

8 Ibid .

9 I bid .

1 ° Ibid 1 1 Ibid.



upon pie ce s which it wou ld b e impo ssible to omit witho utthe creatio n o f a painful , visible gap in literature .

The Song o f the Shirt is in po sse ssion o f a niche whi chcou ld n o t o the rwise b e filled

Oh but to breathe the breathOf the cowslip an d primrose swe etWith the sky above my head ,And the grass beneath my fe et.Fo r only on e sho rt hourTo fee l as I used to fee l ,Befo re I knew the wo es o f wantAnd the walk that co sts a meal

Oh but fo r o n e sho rt hourA respite howeve r brie f

No blessed le isure fo r Love o r Hope ,B ut only time fo r GriefA little weeping wou ld ease my heart ,B u t in the ir briny bed

My tears must stop , fo r every dro pHinders needle an d thread 1

A se cond wou ld stand painfully empty without , to o ccupyit , the Dream o f Eugene Aram — the who le

,down to the

abrupt shudder ing clo seThat very night, while gentle sleepThe urchin ey e

-lids kiss’d ,Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn ,

Through the co ld an d heavy mistAnd Eugene Aram walk’d betwe en

,

With gyves upon his wrist ?

Y e t ano ther place he has pe rmanently appropriated byhis haunting Haunte d House— murder-haunte d— with itsrusty stains ,

Obscure ly spo tted to the do o r, an d thenceWith mazy doubles to the grated casementOh what a tale they to ld o f fear intense ,Of horro r an d amazement

THOMAS HOOD 163

What human creature in the dead of nightHad coursed like hun ted hare that crue l distan ce “

I

Had so ught the do o r, the window, in his flight ,Striving fo r dear existence ? 3

I d o n o t claim o n his behalf a monopo ly of capacity fo rmeasuring against o n e ano the r the powe rs o f Earth an d

He ll ; but I kn ow o f none but Burns who equals him inthe reconciliation , fo r the purpo se , o f the tragic an d the

comic . Mark the tro oping o f monste rs to avenge the attacko f the Bro cken fo rgemen upon He ll’s lo rd

Awful coveys o f terrible thin gs,With fo rked tongues an d venomo us stin gs,On hagwe ed , bro omsticks, and leathern wings,Are hovering roun d the Hut

Shapes, that within the fo cus brightOf the Fo rge , are like shadows an d blo ts

But , farther o ff, in the shades of night ,Clo thed with the ir own phospho ric light ,Are seen in the darkest spo ts.Sounds that fill the air with no ises,Strange an d in describable vo ices,From Hags, in a diabo lical clatterCats that spit curses , an d apes that chatterScraps o f cabalistical matterOwls that scre ech, an d dogs that ye llSke leton houn ds that wi ll never be fatterAll the domestic tribes of He ll ,Shrieking fo r flesh to tear an d tatte r,

Bones to shatter,And limbs to scatte r,

And who it is that must furnish the latte rThose blue -lo oking men kn ow we ll 4

As I know offew things in po etry mo re gro te sque ly terriblethan the burning of Satan to a cinde r , so I fe e l the singularityo f Ho o d ’s gift for e licitin g the po e try of eve ryday life . How

dainty is the patho s employed o n a common death-bed

L 2


W e watch’

d he r breathing thro ’

the night ,Her breathin g so ft an d low ,

As in he r breast the wave o f lifeKept heaving to an d fr o .

So silently we se em’

d to speak,So slowly moved abou t,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke he r living out .

Our very hopes be lied our fears,Our fears ou r hope s belied

W e thought he r dying when she slept ,And sle eping when she died .

Fo r when the mo rn came dim an d sad ,

And chill with early showers,H e r quie t eye lids clo sed— she had

An o ther mo rn than ours .

5

Pe rfe ct eve ry line . W e owe mo re gratitude fo r this inve stitu re o f simple death— such as it is n o t beyond the least o fu s to aspire to— with a qu ie t beauty

,than fo r dithyrambs

o ve r a Conqu e ro r ’s bie r . That inde e d is among Ho o d’sme rits , which he share s with the prince s o f song , that ,tho ugh he can rise to the he ights

, he se es the beauty o f

plain things . A chi ld ’s embrace o f its mo ther is as o rdinaryas dying an d see how much it to o sugge sts to him

Love thy mo ther, littleon eKiss an d clasp her neck againHereafter she may have a sonWill kiss an d clasp her neck in vain .

Love thy mo ther, little on e

Gaze upon he r livin g eyes ,And mirro r back her love fo r the eHereafter thou may’st shudder sighsTo me et them when they canno t see .

Gaze upon he r livin g eyes !



I t was a childish igno rance ,B ut now

’

tis little joyTo know I ’m farthe r o ff from heav ’

n

Than when I was a boy .

7

Already I have instanced enough admirable verse to

make a reputation ; an d how much I have o mitted ! B ut ,at all events , I mu st n o t pass by Ruth , as she stands

breast high amid the co rn,Clasp

’d by the go lden light of morn,

Like the swee theart of the sun ,

W ho many a glowing kiss had won 3

o r fair Ine s , who hasgone into the West,

To dazzle when the sun is down,And r ob the wo rld of rest ;She to ok our daylight with he r ,The smiles that we love best ,With mo rnin g blushes on he r che ekAnd pearls upon he r breast 9

o r the all-suflicien t lo ve -songI love thee— I love the e

’

Tis all that I can say

I t is my vision in the night ,My dre aming in the day :

The very echo of my heart ,The blessing when I pray

I love the e— I love the eI s all that I can say .

1 0

Eve rywhe re still , throughout the two siste r vo lume s ,the reade r is sur e to come upon lines , phrase s , which willn o t consent to b e fo rgo tten . Even in that uglie st o f po emswith greatne ss in them , The Last Man

,which fascinate s

witho ut de lighting,the re is a redeeming spark of patho s

the confe ssion o f lone line ss by. the sur vivo r of human kind,

THOMAS HOOD 167

a hangman , who , to be so le he ir o f the earth , had juststrung up his so litary companion , a beggar man

If the ve riest cu r wo uld lick my hand ,I co uld love it like a child ! 1 1

So ,again , the humour o f the tale o f Miss Kilman segg

leave s space fo r a grim individual pitifulne ssGo ld , still go ld hard , ye llow, an d co ldFo r go ld she had lived , an d she died fo r go ld ! 1 2

At an y instant a figure suddenly will start fo rth,with an

appe al to the heart, at once entire ly natu ral an d entire lyo riginal the outcast , o n the rive r bank , in glaring London ,with its clo thed , fed , an d she ltered millions , as

She sto od , with amazementHouse less by night ; 1 3

the swarm waiting fo r the Casual W ard to open ; sempstre ss , artisan , who le familie s

Father, mo ther, an d care ful childLo oking as if it had never smiled ; 1 4

Lycus , the centau r that had been man , when the nu sus

pe cting b o y insults his shame at his be stial shape witha handful o f grass , an d , in ange r at its re je ction , pe lts himwith . stone s

I fe lt n o t , who se fateW as to me et mo re distress in his love than his hate ; 1 5

the fishe rman in his sto rm -to st bo at o n the le e -sho reOh, God to think Man eve rComes to o near his Home ! 1 5

an d the hard-trie d po e t himse lf , withhis birthday wish fo rhis daughte r , o f

all the bliss that life endears ,No t witho ut smile s, no r y e t from tearsTo o strictly kept .1 7

168 FIVE CENTURIES or ENGLISH VERSE

None has ever mo re entire ly po sse sse d the se cre t o f

sudden ascents sudden heart-kind lings . In some so rt allthe Serious Po ems ar e example s ; but we neve r can te l lwhen Ho o d may n o t move to tears in a pie ce whe re themoment be fo re he had been j e sting

There is n o music in the lifeThat sounds with idi o t laughter so le lyThere ’

s n o t a string attuned to mirth,But has its cho rd in Me lancho ly.1 8

Doubtle ss , in compensation , afte r the manne r of po e ts ,with rare exceptions , such as Keats an d Gray , he sinksn ow an d again is eccentric without be ing o riginal , tediouswithout be ing so lemn . He can wear a sentiment threadbare , as in The Lady

’s Dream ,an d The Lay o f the Labou rer .

His endle ss fancie s can cloy , though in such a garden o f

dainty device s as The Plea o f the Midsumme r Fairie s .

He can b e , though.

ve ry se ldom , me re ly dull , as in TheTwo Peaco cks of Bedfont . H e can smo the r He llenic ro se s ,as in He ro an d Leande r , in a thicke t , howeve r fragrant ,o f mediaeval embe llishments . He can call a pamphle t anOd e , as his epistle to Rae Wilson , an d spo il a charmingsonne t with a po o r pun . B ut measure the go o d againstthe ill ; an d the failure s ar e nowhe re . As a boy I heardno thing o f Ho o d as a po e t , mu ch o f him as a humo rist .

The Song o f the Shi rt su rpris‘

ed my little wo rld withoutpe rsuading it that it had to wo rship a po et the mo re .

During my unde rgraduate days I first learnt to appre ciatehis po etry ; an d I have read an d admire d it eve r since .

No t the le ss , when recently I surveye d it as a who le , I sto odamaze d . The melody, the tende rne ss , an d sympathy, thefancy , I find inexhaustible . Above all, is the unexpecte dne ss . When I have be lieve d I had explo red all the singer’s


E LlZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

1 806— 1 861

OF the kind the fo remo st wri te r of English po etry— buta po ete ss . Or shall I , changing o n e wo rd , say

— an d a

po ete ss Fo r , with beauty eve rywhe re , an d womanline ssas ubiqu itous , I d o n o t pre sume to de cide on the inde

pen d en ce on e o f the o the r . Women-write rs n ow an d then ,l ike Geo rge Sand an d Ge o rge Elio t , if n o t Curre r Be ll ,have dissemble d the ir sex . Eithe r they have disdainedallowance s fo r it o r they have distrusted the superio rityo f the o the r to pre judice . Mrs . Browning had none o f thataffe ctation , o r apprehension . On the contrary, she may

b e said to have glo ried in be ing a wo man .

In an y case her ve rse wou ld have pro claimed the fact .

None but a wo man— o r pe rhaps a woman immu red fo ra large part o f he r life in two ro oms— could have imaginedthe repulse o f a love r be love d , as in Insufficiency ,1 an d themartyr ’s cry o f Denial

I love the e n o t , I dare n o t love the e go

In silence ; drop my hand .

If thou seek ro ses, seek them where they blowIn garden-alleys, n o t in desert sand .

Can life an d death agre e ,That thou shouldst sto op thy song to my complain t ?I canno t love the e . If the wo rd is faint,Look in my face an d see

?

The splendid unreason o f Duche ss May , the self-devo tion todeath o f the Crusade r ’s bride -page , an d the swe e t absur ditie s ,n o t to b e read by an y male pe rson without a blush , o f

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROW NING 1 7 1

Lady Ge raldine , are all feminine . So is the conflict, with

its re sult, between the ego tism o f Isobe l ’s mate rnal lo ve ,and her sick child ’s craving fo r his home w ith the Ange ls .The grie f o f the dead blind boy

’s mo the r , that she can b e

n o mo re his sun an d mo on,an d his slave , be trays the sameautho rship . Patho s , a common gift o f po e ts , is fo r hersteeped in her femininity . Into the dumb affection of her

d ogthi s reads the instinct , the impulse , to share his mistre ss’s

distre ss , without requiri ng to comprehend o r justify it

And if on e o r two qui ck tearsDropped upon his glossy ears,Or a sigh came double ,Up he sprang in eager

,haste ,

Fawning , fondling , breathing fast ,In a tender trouble .

3

In Wine o f Cyprus , noble st , to me , o f all her ve rse , I fee lit equally in the affectionate endeavour to balance , as itwe re , by her own wasting sickne ss the earlie r an d di ffe rentcalamity o f her aged tuto r in Greek . Fond ly, as she

thanks him fo r his gift of He llenic wine , she re calls the irstudie s toge the r in Attic tragedy

An d I think o f tho se long mo rningsWhich my thought go es far to se ek ,When, betwixt the fo lio ’s turnings,So lemn flowed the rhythmic Gre ekPast the pane the mountain spreading ,Swept the she ep’s be ll’s tinkling no ise ,While a girlish vo ice was reading ,Somewhat low fo r ais an d o is.

Then, what go lden hours were fo r usWhile we sate toge ther the re ,

How the white vests of the cho rusSeemed to wave up a live air


How the co thurns trod maj e sticDown the deep iambic lines,And the ro lling anapaesticCurled like vapour over shrines

Oh, our Aeschylus, the thunderous ,How he drove the bo lted breathThrough the cloud, to wedge it ponderousIn the gnarled o ak beneath

Oh, our Sopho cles , the royal ,W ho was born to monarch’s place ,And who made the who le wo rld loyal ,Less by kin gly power than grace

Our Euripides , the human,With his droppings o f warm tears

,

An d his tou ches o f things common,Till they ro se to tou ch the spheres

Our Theo critus , our Bion,An d our Pindar’s shining goalsThese were cup

-bearers undyin g,Of the wine that ’s meant fo r souls.

And my Plato , the divine on e ,

If men know the gods arightBy the ir mo tio n s as they shine o n

With a glo rious trail o f lightAnd your noble Christian bisho ps ,W ho mou thed grandly the last Gre ekThough the sponges on their hyssopsWere distent with wine— to o weak .

Fo r the rest— a mystic moaningKept Cassandra at the gate ,With wild eyes the vision shone in ,

And wide no strils scentin g fate .

An d Prometheus , bound in passionBy brute Fo rce to the blin d stone ,Showed us lo oks o f invo cationTurned to o cean and the sun .



And I am singing loud an d true ,An d sweet,— I d o n o t fail.I sit upon a cypress boughClose to the gate , an d I flin g my songOve r the gate an d through the mailOf the warden ange ls marshalled strong ,Over the gate and after y ouAnd the warden ange ls let it pass,Because the po o r brown bird, alas,Sings in'

the garden, swe e t an d true .

And I built my song of high pure no tes,No te after no te , height over height ,Till I strike the arch of the In finite ,

An d I bridge abysmal agoniesWith strong, clear calms o f harmonies,And something abides, an d somethin g floats,In the song which I sin g after y ou .

Fare y e we ll , farewe ll 5

supplie s e the real tints to a Po rtraitI will paint he r as I see he r ,

Ten times have the lilies blown,Since she lo oked upon the sun .

An d her face is lily-clear,Lily-shaped, an d dr opped in dutyTo the law of its own beauty.Oval che eks enco loured faintly,Which a trail o f go lden hairKe eps from fadin g o ff to air

An d a fo rehead fair an d saintly,

Which two blue eyes undershine ,Like meek prayers befo re a shrine .

Face an d figure of a child,

Thought too calm , y ou think, an d tende r,Fo r the childho od y ou would lend her .

Y et , child-simple , un d efiled ,Frank, obedient, waitin g stillOn the turnings of your will .

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 175

An d if any po e t knew he r ,H e wo uld sing o f he r with fallsUsed in love ly madrigals.And if any painte r drew he r ,He would paint he r unawareWith a halo round the hair.“

It gathe rs , flowe ring fro m the grave o f Cowpe r , a r eean ta

tio n of his de spairLike a sick child that knoweth n o t his mo ther while she blessesAn d drops upon his burning brow the co o lness o f he r kisse s,That turn s his fevered eyes around My mo ther ! where ’s my

mo therAs if such tende r wo rds and de eds could come from any o therThe fever gone , with leaps of heart he sees he r bending o ’

e r him,

He r face all pale from watchful love , the unweary love she bo rehim

Thus woke the po et from the dream his life ’s lon g fever gave him,

Beneath those de ep pathetic Eyes which closed in death to save him.

7

.Happily the light of the tomb was n o t ne eded to reveal to

he rse lf that joy may b e ne ighbour to afflictionI thought once how Theo critus had sungOf the swee t years, the dear and wished-fo r years,W ho each on e in a gracious hand appearsTo bear a gift fo r mo rtals, old o r youngAnd as I mused it in his antique tongu e ,I saw in gradual vision through my tears,The swee t sad years, the me lancho ly years,Tho se o f my own life , who by turns had flungA shadow across me . Straightway I was ’ware ,So weeping, how a mystic Shape di d moveBehind me , an d drew me backward by the hairAnd a vo ice said in mastery, while I strove ,Guess n ow who ho lds the e Death, ’ I said , B ut , there ,The silve r answer rang , No t Death, but Love .

’ 8

If she eve r wearied o f life , it was re st to the bo dy that shecrave d , n o t to the sou l


Friends , dear friends , when it shall beThat this low breath is gone from me ,

And round my bier y e come to we ep ,Le t On e , mo st loving o f y ou all,

Say , No t a tear must o ’

e r he r fallHe giveth H is be loved, sleep 1 9

No t , afte r all, that repo se an d acquiescence o f an y so rtwe re the qualitie s o f her predile ction . On the contrary ,

her favourite mental attitude is o n e o f some thing she

fe igns to be rebe lliou s wrath . She is incensed with he rfathe rland fo r its treatment o f the Captive Napo leon , who ,

trusting to his noblest fo es,When earth was all to o grey fo r chivalry,Died o f the ir mercie s ’

mid the desert sea

with the wo rld fo r it s acceptance o f the phrase , LovedOnce ,

’

as if it we re po ssible to have lo ve d , an d cease tolo ve !

Love strikes but o n e hour— Love Tho se never lovedW ho dream that they loved Once 1 1

with the mad fo lly, as we ll as gu ilt , o f sinne rs o f her own

sex,in expe cting from the ir partne rs in evil— commo nly

tempte rs— the least fide lity to the love they have tainted .

Go she crie s to the po o r wret ch she is confe ssing

Thou hast cho sen the Human, an d left the DivineThen, at least, have the Human shared with the e the ir .wild berry

wineHave they loved back thy love , an d when strangers approachedthe e with blame ,

Have they covered thy fault with the ir kisses, an d loved thee thesame

But she shrunk and said,Go d , over my head,

Mu st swe ep in the wrath o f His judgement-seas,If He shall deal with me sinning , but only indeed the same

And n o gentler than these .

’ 1 2



sealing her tomb An aerial conce rt ; an d n o t the le ssfascinating fo r reade rs with a taste fo r strains pure lyspiritual that they ar e as little bound to satisfy the popularmale ear as when , an unde rgraduate of Oxford , I heard o n ede stined to rule it r e use the Union to frantic applauseby j e ering at the love liest of the love ly who le .

Po ems by Elizabeth Barrett Brown in g. Three vo ls. ChapmanHall, 1 864 .

1 In sufficien cy. 5 A Den ial, st . 2 .

3 To Flush, my D og, st . 2 .

4 W in e o f Cyprus, stan zas 9 , 10, 1 1 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 4 .

5 A Drama o f Exile .

A Po rtrait, stan zas 1—6 an d 13—14 .

7 Cowper’s Grave , stan zas 9—10.

5 Sonn ets from the Po rtugue se , Sonn e t i.The Sle ep, st . 9 .

Crown ed an d Buried , st . 13 .

Loved On ce , st . 8.

Con fession s, st . 9 .

CHARLES KINGSLEY

1 81 9— 1 875

ANOTHER example , among many, o f the conflict fo rexistence o f facu ltie s fitte d fo r analogo us pursuits . Natureequippe d Charle s Kingsley w ith the raw mate rial , invarying pro po rtions , o f the fo rce s which make a po e t ,a no ve list , a so cial re fo rme r , a student o f science , a theo lo

gian , a histo rian . From the first they co mpe ted fo r po sse ssio n o f him . With the powe rfu l aid o f yo uth po e try se ize do n the leade rship . Late r o n , with its own consent , monarchywas abo lished . A commonwealth , in which each did whatse eme d go o d in its own eye s , to ok its place . The man

be ing such as he was , an d his po etical gift what it was,I d o n o t suppo se that lite rature , even po e try itself , haslo st greatly by the revo lution . His characte r was that o fa co mbatant . H e had a ce rtain numbe r o f songs in himto sing ; so many arrows o f ve rse in his qu ive r . Fo rthhe sho t , hitting the mark n ow an d again . When the archerfound his quive r empty, he drew swo rd o r dagge r—romance ,e ssay, lecture , se rmon— an d battle d as manfully as eve r .

I se e n o ground fo r be lie f that , like some , he ceased versifying by compulsion o f a mo re masterfu l passion o f his soul ,o r out o f indo lence , satiety , o r incapacity, mental o r mo ral.Simply the on e spe cial weapon had done its wo rk an d he

exchange d it fo r ano the r . I am gratefu l in the circumstance s fo r the fact . He do e s n o t call up in me an ideao f incalculable po ssibilitie s o f po etical inspiration . It iswe ll that he sho uld n o t have de luded himse lf into imaginingde scents o f the spirit when the re we re none .

M 2


The outse t o f his po etical caree r was at once disappo intingan d promising . His Saint ’s Trage dy is strong in the wrongplace s . I myse lf am sensible o f ange r rathe r than sympathy .

I keep wonde ring how much mo re o f passmn ate reasonablene ss Robe rt Browning , fo r instance , might n o t haveinstilled into the haple ss slave o f her own an d her teache r ’ sfanaticism . It is a failure , if a brilliant on e . Such to o ,I mu st , o n the same ground o f a negle ct o f propo rtion ,

judge An dromeda to be . The picture o f the girl , when he rmo the r leave s her o n the ro ck— as n o mo the r conce ivablycould have le ft a child— make s the heart ache , as the po e tintended it sho uldWatching the pulse o f the e ar s d ie down, as he r own died with them ,

Tearless, dumb with amaze she sto od ,he lpless and hope less,

Wide -eyed, downward gazing in vain at the black blank darkne ss. 1

B ut she almo st disappears in an assemblage o f fin e scene sd e scribe d in ro lling , mu sical hexamete rs . The backgroundis to o engro ssing fo r the action an d the characte rs . The

acce sso rie s , d awn-lit highlands , gambo lling' sea-nymphs,

the charms of the go lden-haired , ivory-limbed Delive rer,Athene ’s gracious wisdom , ar e fully an d me lodiously set

fo rth ; only the fate fu l combat itse lf, with the re scue , isdismi ssed in thr ee casual lin es . As an o sprey o n a do lphin

Thus fe ll the boy on the beast thus ro lled up the beast in his ho rro r,Once , as the dead eyes glared into his ; then his sides, deathsharpened ,

Stiffened an d sto od , brown ro ck, in the wash o f the wande ringwater.2

N e ithe r o f the two wo rks was the fru it o f raw youth . Theyare the ir autho r ’s only po ems o f length an d ne ithe r haslife in it . At the same time each has abundance o f thoughtand fancy an d each give s token of something bette r .



Kingsley’s reade rs ar e neve r without a consciou sne ss o f

a call to arms o f the stir o f a sto rmy emo tion which_has

se t imaginatio n at wo rk . It vibrate s in the Outlaw ’ sd efiance o f laws fo rbidding him to

hunt God’s cattle upon God’s ain hills

in his contempt fo r the ce rtainty o f a no o se in the en d ;

an d in his praye r to his mo the r to steal his body fro m thegibbet

An d when I am taen an d hangit , mither , a brittling o’ my deer,

Ye ’ ll n o leave your bairn to the corbie craws , to dangle in the airB ut ye ’ ll send up my twa douce bre thren, an d ye

’ ll steal me frae thetree ,

And buryme up o n the brown brown muirs, where I ay e lo o ed to be .

5

It inspire d A Christmas Caro l , with its gleams an d shadowsalike

I wen t sighing past the Church acro ss the mo o rland drearyOh never sin an d wan t an d wo e this earth will leave

,

An d the be lls but mo ck the wailing round , they sing so cheery. ’

Then aro se a j oyous clamour from the wild fowl o n the mere ,Ben eath the stars, acro ss the snow, like clear be lls ringing ,An d a vo ice within cried Listen Christmas caro ls even hereThough thou be dumb , y et o

’

e r the ir wo rk the stars an d sn ows aresinging . ’

Even the de spair o f Airly Beacon has a fre sh movementas o f hill-top air abo ut it

Airly Beacon, Airly BeaconOh the pleasan t sight to see

Shires an d towns from Airly Beaco n ,

While my love climbed up to me

Airly Beacon , Airly Beacon ;Oh the happy hours we layDe ep in fern o n Airly Beacon ,

Co urting through the summer’s day

CHARLES KINGSLEY 183

Airly Beacon, Airly BeaconOh the weary haunt fo r me ,All alone on Airly Beacon,

With his baby o n my kne e 7

I must add tho ugh o f a gusty fre e dom to o rebe llio usagainst law an d o rde r to be acknowledged late r o n by a

Chur ch dignitary,the tale o f the Swan-ne ck ’ s re co gnitio n

— hope le ss even fo r a mo the r— o f the body o f King Haro ld ,

stripped , an d gashed , an d featur e le ssUp an d spake the Swan -n e ck high,Go to all your than es le t cryHow I loved him best of all,I whom men his leman callBetter kn ew his body fairThan the mo ther which him bare .

’

Rousin g erne an d sallow glede ,Rousin g grey wo lf o ff his fe edOver franklin, earl, an d thane ,Heaps of mo ther-naked slain ,

Round the r ed fie ld tracing slow,

Sto oped that Swan-neck white as snow ;Never blushed n o r turned away,Till she found him where he layClipt him in he r armés fair,Wrapt him in he r ye llow hair,Bo re him from the battle -stead ,Saw him laid in pall o f lead ,To ok he r to a minste r high

,

Fo r Earl Haro ld’s sou l to cry .

“

The merit itse lf o f the se piece s , an d o f o the rs the irequals , o r all but equals , is o f a kind to sugge st thatthe write r had reache d the limits o f his powe rs . He mighthave been expected to produce mo re o f co rre sponding , butscarce ly highe r , rank . A phenomenon , as in ce rtain o the rpo etical caree rs , is that from the same pen , within

‘

br ief,

if any po sitive , intervals , we find issuing three po ems , ideal ,


pe rfect . Except fo r the varietie s o f sadn ess,'

o r suffer ing, they

are who lly d iffe rent y et each is complete , consummate .

Read a hundre d time s The Sands o f D e e ; an d the reis neve r a sense o f triteness . The who le is o n e long-drawnmu sical

,n o t sob ,

but sigh

OMary, go an d call the cattle home ,And call the cattle home ,An d call the cattle homeAcro ss the Sands o f D e e .

’

The western wind was wild an d dank with foam ,

And all alone went she .

The western tide crept up alon g the sand,And o ’

e r an d o’

e r the sand,

And roun d an d round the sand,As far as ey e cou ld see .

The ro lling mist came down an d hid the landAnd never home came she .

Oh is it we ed, o r fish, o r floating hairA tress of go lden hair

,

A drown ed maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea

W as neve r salmon y et that shon e so fairAmon g the stakes o n D e e .

’

They rowed he r in acro ss the ro lling foam,

The crue l crawlin g foam ,

The crue l hungry foam ,

To he r grave beside the sea ;

But still the boatmen hear he r call the cattle home

Acro ss the Sands o f D ee .

9

I canno t pretend that the se cond, The Three Fishe rs ,

vie s with that in abso lute beauty . It do e s n o t carryabo u t it the same atmo sphe re , the same sensation o f

undefine d po ssibilitie s , the same absence o f any intentionin the po et to po int a mo ral , to d o mo re than te ll a sto ry .



Stripped an d scourge d , she e jacu late s , in ho rro r an d

shame at the re co lle ction , to her hu sband

An d y e t n o earthquake came to swallow me

While all the court around , an d walls, an d ro o fs,An d all the earth an d air were full o f eyes,Eyes, eyes, which sco rched my limbs like burning flame ,Until my brain seemed bursting from my browAnd y et n o earthquake came And then I knewThis body was n o t yours alone , but God’sHis loan— H e ne ede d it and after thatThe wo rst was come , an d any to rture mo reA change— a lightenin g

even crucifixion itself— fo r that was by her bridegro om ’sside

I crawled to y ou ,

An d kissed your ble eding fe e t , an d called aloudY ou heard me Y ou know all I am at peace .

Peace , peace , as still an d bright as is the mo onUpon your limbs, came o n me at your smile ,And kept me happy, when they dragged me backFrom that last kiss, an d spread me on the cross,And boun d my wrists an d ancles— D o n o t sighI prayed , an d bo re it an d since they raised me up,

My eye s have neve r left your face , my own , my own ,

No r will , till death comes

Her o n e desire , her praye r to Go d , is , that strength may

be spare d the gibbete d preache r to cry from the“ ve ry

cro ss :Wo rds which may wake the dead

age s to come , she predicts , they wou ld know his wo rth

And crown him martyr and his name will rin gThrough all the sho res o f earth, an d all the starsWho se eye s are sparkling through the ir tears to see

H is triumph—Preacher ! Martyr —Ah —and me ?

CHARLES KINGSLEY 1 87

If they must couple my po o r n ame with his ,Le t them te ll all the truth— say how I loved him ,

An d tried to damn him by that love Oh Lo rdReturning go od fo r evil an d was thisThe payment I deserved fo r such a sin

To hang here o n my cro ss , an d lo ok at him,

Until we kn e e l befo re Thy throne in heaven 1 1

English po etry, from Chau ce r to Tennyson , has beenrich in examples o f wife ly, womanly patience , devo tion ,se lf-sacr ifice . B ut

, many an d noble as they ar e , I thinkSanta Maura ought to rank among the be st . I value therhapsody n o t the le ss highly fo r the human e lement o f

he ro -wo rship blended with the mo re pu re ly ce le stial exaltation . I only hope that the auste re preache r o f the Go spe l ,even as imagine d by Kingsley, me rite d it all.I had thought , an d have n o t dare d , to set be side the

Thre e the Od e , admirable in itse lf , to the No rth-EastWind . As simple singing , in its exu ltant , generous insolence , it de se rve s all honour

What ’s the so ft Southo W e ste r’

Tis the ladies’ bre eze ,Bringin g home their true -lovesOut of all the seas

But the black No rth-Easter,Through the snow-sto rm hurled ,Drive s our English hearts o f o akSeaward roun d the wo rld .

Come , as came our fathe rs,Heralded by the e ,Conquering from the eastward ,Lo rds by land an d sea.

Come an d strong within us

Stir the Vikings’ blo odBracing brain an d sin ew ;Blow,thou wind o f God ! 1 2


I fe e l,howeve r , a spiritual want in the brave , blu ste ring

breeze,which shuts against it the region o f immo rtal grie f

o r bliss,whe re tho se o the r strains ar e entitled to have the ir

dwe lling .

The Three ar e love ly conceptions an d we shou ld have toransack a library o f po e try be fo re di scove ring supe rio rs intheir own class . I d o n o t suppo se , neverthe le ss , that greatness could justly be attributed to the ir write r as a po e t .

Fo r that a man’ s be st po etical wo rk ought to sugge st thatit is supreme in quality becau se it flows from a fountain o finspiration in himse lf which is perennially fu ll an d de ep .

It is impo ssible to que stion Kingsley’s inspiration an y

mo re than his genius . It is pe rmissible to be lieve t hathe he ld it at the gene ral service o f the wide circle of hislife ’s wo rk . His ro mance s , his histo rie s an d e ssays ar e

co lour ed by it even his se rmons an d it e levate s themall. Never was the re a nature , an inte lligence

,mo re

gene rously cu ltivated , mo re sympathetic , mo re pe rvio us toall the info rming influence s , to the entire spirit , o f its race ,rank , an d age , throughout which mo re constantly breathe dan independent e lement , the po e tic . But inspiration toconstitute distinctive ly a po et , an d n ot a me re o ccasionalsinge r , insists upon exclusivene ss in the vo cation . Itpunishe s disobe dience by re legating the o ffende r to a mixe dgrade ; an d disobe dience was thu s punishe d he re . How

be it , o f thi s at least I have n o doubt— whateve r Kingsley ’ spe rsonal statu s among po ets— that , howeve r j ealou s theprinciple o n which a po etical antho logy may be framed ,ve rse s o f his ar e sure to b e numbered in it .

An d romeda an d Other Po ems, by Char les Kin gsley, Recto r o f

Eversley. Lon d o n : John W. Parker Son , 1858. Also Co llecte dEd ition . Macmillan , 1872 .

1 Andromeda, vv. 106—1 1 .

2 Ibid . , vv . 39 1- 3 .


RALPH WALD O EMERSON

1 803— 1 882

EMERSON in the opinion o f his own gene ration ranke dnext to Carlyle as a thinke r . As a thinke r he still is he ld,an d justly, to b e pro fo und . The larger part in bulk o f

his lite rary life was devo te d to the co mpo sitio n o f e ssaysan d le cture s . To a great numbe r even o f his admire rs heis unknown as a po et . Y e t I sho uld b e much surprised tolearn that he did n o t value himse lf as a po e t chiefly . Ifso , fallible as ar e autho rs o n the propo rtionate value o f

the ir wo rks , I be lieve he wo u ld in his pre fe rence have’

judge d wise ly . He might b e , probably has already be en ,

replaced as a philo sophe r he cou ld scarce ly be as a po e t .

Lite ratu re wou ld le ss easily d o without Wo odno te s , Fo rerunne rs , Bacchu s , Saadi , Mo n adn o c , than histo rical an dcritical science without Repre sentative Men o r Natu re .

De libe rate ly he vowed himse lf to po e try,with a fu l l

sense o f the obligations , even the divinity, o f the calling .

He be came a vo ice with a me ssage from the higher Powe rs .

The po e t mu st be mute until they unseal his mouth theyhad opened , an d had shu t they must reo pen

Y e taught my lips a single speech,An d a thousand silences.1

He nee d n o t sail the seas , o r search humanity fo r sage sto in struct him . At the de stine d moment a Teache r isat hand

Beho ld he watches at the do o rBeho ld his shadow o n the flo o rSe ek n o t beyond thy co ttage wallRedeemers that can yie ld thee

'

all

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 19 1

While thou sittest at thy do o rOn the desert’s y'e llow flo o r,Listen ing to the gray-haired crones,Fo o lish gossips, ancient drones ,Saadi , see they rise in statureTo the height o f mighty Nature ,An d the secre t stands revealedFraudulent Time in vain concealed ,That blessed gods in servile masksPlied fo r the e thy househo ld tasks ?

Le t him dwe ll alone , n o t‘

min d ing the repro ach o f

fo lding his arms be side the wo o dland bro ok

There was neve r mysteryBut

’

tis figured in the flowe rsW as neve r secre t histo ryBut birds te ll it in the bowers.3

The pine -tree sings to himSpeak n o t thy spee ch my boughs amongPut o ff thy years, wash in the bre e zeMy hours are peaceful centuries.Talk n o mo re with fee ble tongu e ;No mo re the fo o l of space an d time ,Come weave with me a nobler rhyme .

On ly thy AmericansCan read thy line , can me e t thy glance ,But the runes that I rehearseUnderstands the universe ;The least breath my boughs which to ssedBrings again the Penteco st,To every soul resoun din g clearIn a vo ice of so lemn che er,Am I n o t thine Ar e n o t these thineAnd they reply, Fo rever mineCome learn with me the fatal songWhich knits the world in music strong ,Come lift thin e eye s to lo fty rhymes,Of things with things, of times with times,


Primeval chimes o f sun an d shade ,Of soun d an d e cho , man an d maid,The lan d reflected in the flo od,Body with shadow still pursued .

Fo r Nature beats in pe rfe ct tune ,An d rounds with rhyme her every runeWhether she wo rk in land o r sea,

Or hide un derground her alchemy.Thou canst n o t wave thy staff in air ,

Or d ip thy paddle in the lakeB ut it carves the bow of beauty there ,An d the ripple s in rhymes the e ar fo rsake .

The wo od is wiser far than thouThe wo od an d wave each o the r know.

No t unre lated , unaffied,B u t to each thought an d thin g allied ,Is pe rfect Nature ’ s every part,Ro o ted in the mighty Heart. ’ 4

Spirit vo ice s , though whence he never discove rs , ar e

continually sounding in his ear , to d ire ct him on his wayLong I fo llowed happy guides,I could never reach the ir side sThe ir step is fo rth, an d , e re the day ,

Breaks up the ir league r, an d away.Flowers they strew,

— I catch the scentOr to n e of silver instrumentLeaves o n the wind me lodi ous traceY et I could neve r see the ir face .

I met many trave llers,W ho the road had sure ly keptThey saw n o t my fin e reve llers,These had crossed them while they slept.Some times the ir strong speed they slacken,Though they are n o t ove rtaken ;In sle ep the ir jubilant tro op is near,I tun eful vo ices overhear ;I t may be in wo od o r waste ,At un awares ’

tis come an d past .



mu st learn to o bey ; mindfu l always that he is but a

ministe r executing Ano the r ’ s behe st . It is the lo t o f all

great sou lsThe hand that rounded Pe ter’s dome ,And gro in ed the aisles o f Christian Rome ,Wrought in a sad sincerity ;Himse lf from God he could n o t fre eH e bu ilded better than he knewThe

‘

con scious stone to beauty grew.

The passive Master lent his handTo the vast soul that o ’

e r him plannedAnd the same power that reared the shrineBestrode the tribes that kne lt within.

Ever the fiery Penteco stGirds with o n e flame the countless host ,Trances the heart through chanting cho irs ,An d through the priest the mind inspires. “

No t that to him,cho sen though he b e , mo re than half

truths ar e disclo se d . Existence constantly is asking ridd le sbeyond human powe r o f gue ssing . The Sphinx , interrogate drefe rs man to himse lf

I Thou art the un answered questionCouldst see thy pro per ey e ,Always it aske th, askethAnd each answer is a lie .

1 0

In the inevitable darkness he will seek inspiration fromLove fro m the Lo ve Ce le stial , above all ; but also fromDaemonic— that , n o t blind , but

radiant, sharpest-sighted god ,Who se eyes pierceThe Un iverse ,Path-finde r , road-builder,Mediato r, royal-giver.1 1

Even he may ventu re among the shadows an d uncertaintyo f common Initial Love n o t complaining overmuch o f

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 195

rebuffs ; fo r he can comfo rt himself with the sure trustthat

When half-gods go ,

The gods arrive .

1 2

B ut the guiding star o f hi s care e r is se rvice to the Unive rseto the pe rfe ct who le

All are needed by each on e

No thing is fair o r go od alone .

I thought the sparrow’s no te from heaven,Sitting at dawn on the alder boughI brought him home , in his nest , at evenHe sings the song, but it cheers n o t n ow,

Fo r I d id n o t bring home the river an d skyHe sang to my ear , —they sang to my ey e .

1 3

The supreme business o f the Po et-So ul thus is to strive toco mprehend the wo rking o f the Wo rld-Soul . He must n o tbe sho cked at whatmay seem to be the de ity’s pitile ssness

He serveth the servant,The brave he loves amain

He kills the cripple an d the sick,An d straight begins again

Fo r gods de light in gods ,An d thrust the weak aside

To him who seem s the ir charities ,The ir arms fly open wide .

1 4

He will ne ithe r quarre l with his distribution o f pove rty too n e an d wealth to ano the r do omed so on to be adde d

to hi s land , a lump of mould the mo re

n o r fo rget his bounty in

Spreading May’s leafless blo oms in a damp no ok,T o please the dese rt and the sluggish bro ok 1 “

in endowing with warmth an d bri ghtness , an d honeye dshrubs an d vines , the burly humble -bee

N 2


In sect lover o f the sun ,

J oy of thy dominionSailo r of the atmosphereSwimmer through the wavesVoyager o f light and n e on

E picurean o f June 1 7

in commi ssion in g , to glo rify all this earth o f ours , theb en eficen t Spirit o f Beauty

Guest of million painted fo rms,Which in turn thy glo ry warmsThe frailest leaf , the me ssy bark,The aco rn’s cup, the rainbow’s arc ,The swinging spider

’s silver line ,The ruby of the dr op of wine ,The shining pebble of the pond,Thou in scr ibest wi th a bond,In thy momentary play,Would bankrupt nature to repay .

Happy, he re an d the re , a man who has learnt to enjoythe feast prepared fo r him

And such I kn ew, a fo rest se er,A min stre l o f the natural year,A lover true , who knew by heartEachjoy the moun tain dales impartI t se emed that nature could n o t raiseA plan t in an y secret place ,In quaking bog, on snowy hill,Beneath the grass that shades the rill,But he wou ld come in the very hourI t opened in its virgin bower,As if a sun beam showed the place ,And te ll its long-descended race .

What o thers did at distance hear,An d guessed within the thicke t’s glo om,

W as showed to this philosopher,And at his bidding seemed to come .



They co loured the ho rizon round ;Stars flamed an d faded as they badeAll echo es hearken ed fo r the ir sound ,They made the wo odlands glad o r mad .

I touch this flowe r of silken leaf,Which once our childho od knew

I ts so ft leave s woun d me with a griefWho se balsam n ever grew.

Hearken to y on pine -warblerSingin g alo ft in the tre eHeare st thou , O trave ller ,What he singeth to me

Go , lo n e ly man ,

’

it saithThey loved the e from the ir birthThe ir han ds we re pure , an d pure their faith,

There are n o such hearts on earth.

Y o u cann o t unlo ck your heart ,The key is gon e with them

The silen t o rgan loude st chan tsThe master’s requ iem .

’ 2 “

But the fire an d flame o f fancy he re se rve d fo r explo rations o f the Incomprehensible . In the maj e stic hymn , o rtreatise , in which he se ems de te rmine d to prove by explaining it , that Godhead , as imagined in his scheme o f Be ing ,

is inexplicable , he falls into an e cstasyThis vau lt which glows immense with lightI s the in n where he lodges fo r a night .What r e eks su ch Trave lle r if the bowersWhich blo om an d fade like meadow flowersA bun ch of fragran t lilies b e ,Or the stars o f e tern ityAlike to him the better, the wo rse ,The glowin g an gel , the outcast co rse .

Thou mete st him by cen turies,An d 10 he passes like the bree zeThou se ek

’

st in globe an d galaxy,He hides in pure transparen cy

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 199

Thou askest in foun tains an d in fire s,He is the essence that inquires.He is the axis o f the star,He is the sparkle o f the spar ,H e is the heart o f eve ry creature ,H e is the meaning o f each featureAn d his mind is the sky,Than all it ho lds mo re deep , mo re high ? 1

Thought , as it flows fro m him , tu rns into r ed -ho t steam .

The heat is n o o ccasional accident ; it is an inhe rentprope rty . Philo sophy in such guise may we ll claim fo r

itself the pre rogative s an d honours o f po etic inspiration ;an d none who study Eme rson ’s ve rse will re fuse them to

it an d him .

The W orks o f Ralph W ald o Emerso n . Five vo ls. (v o l. iv : Letters,So cial Aims, Po ems) . Bo sto n : Houghto n , Mifflin Cc . , 1882 . AlsoThe Comple te W o rks o f Ralph W ald o Emerso n . Two vo ls. (vo l. i,The Po ems) . Lo n d on : G . Bell Son s, 1879 .

1 Me rops, vo l. i, p . 47 1 (18791 Saad i, v ol. iv , p . 39 (18823 The Apo logy, vol. i, p . 466 (1879W o odn otes, v ol. iv , pp. 134—5 (1882

5 Forerunn e rs, v ol. iv , pp . 68—95 Bacchus, v ol. iv , p . 1 187 Merlin , v ol. iv , p . 1 1 611 Ibid . , vo l. iv , p . 1 147 The Problem , vo l. iv , pp . 14—151 “ The Sphinx, vol. iv , p . 1 11 1 I n itial, Daemon ic, and Ce le stial Love , vo l. iv . pp . 104- 5Give all to Love , vol. iv , p. 45 1Each an d All, vo l. iv , p . 1 2

1 ‘ The W orld -Soul , p . 27The Hamatr eya, pp . 70- 1

1 “ The Rhod ora, p . 5 81 7 The Humble -b e e , p. 5 91 “ Od e to Beauty, pp . 80—11 “ W o odn ote s, iv, pp . 127—81 “ Dirge , p . 188—9 (1882”1 W o odn otes, ii, p . 140

EDGAR ALLAN POE

181 1— 1 849

THEY ar e all dreams , if manufactured dreams— TheRaven , Leno re , The Be lls , Annabe l Lee , Eulalie , Ulalume ,

Dreamland , The City iii the Sea, A Dream within a Dream ,

Fo r Anni e , Bridal Ballad , Israfel, To He len . W e see

things happening , be ing done , be ing su ffe re d . W e hearwo rds . W e speak them . Though we are the re only be cau sewe ar e subje ct o r object , we know we have no thing inreality to d o with the who le . W e are conscious that it isan illusion fro m which we ar e sur e to wake

«up ,if once we

can shake ou rse lve s . Throughout the entire range of po etryno thing like it is to b e found ; n o t Christabe l : Kubla

Khan may compare , tho ugh chi efly by way o f contrast o fthe spontane ity in it with the artifice in Po e . In pro sesome o f D e Qu incey’s visions might stand in the same line ,we re they n o t pe rvade d by a palpable reasonablene ss .

Po e ’s in a sense have ne ithe r thought n o r fe eling an d ina sense they ar e no thing e lse . Somewhe re

,seve ral years

ago , a write r suppo se d Man to po sse ss, o r be po sse sse d .by ,

two souls o n e immo rtal , a heavenly spark the o ther atan y rate n o t heavenly , an d ce rtainly mo rtal , capable o f

dyin g with the fle sh . That is the so rt o f sou l which animate sPo e ’s ve rse , if n o t himse lf .The grace an d me lody o f mo st o f hi s few po ems ar e

indisputable , an d all but impo ssible to analyse an d define .

The charm is as inscrutable . In The Raven wave afterwave o f so lemn myste ry keeps ro lling up . There is theo pening scene



Wretches .y e loved her fo r he r wealth an d hated he r fo r her pride ,An d when she fe ll in feeble health y e blessed he r , that she diedHow shall the ritual , then, be read— the requiem how b e sung ,By y ou— by yours, the evil ey e— by yours, the slanderous tongue ,That d id to death the inn o cence that died, an d died so youn g 3

No t that e ithe r is o the rwise than clear an d simple bythe side o f Ulalume ! A maze o f fantastic , intentionallydisheve lle d romance that y e t o f an absu rd, prepo ste rou sbeauty, sme lling strong o f the lamp by the light o f whichd oubtle ss it was conjured up , on the

night in the lonesome Octobe rOf my most immemo rial year

through an alley TitanicOf cypress , I roamed with my Soul ,Of cypre ss, wi th Psyche , my Soul .These were days when my heart was vo lcan icAs the sco riac rivers that ro ll ,As the lavas that re stlessly ro llThe ir sulphurous currents down Yaan ekIn the u ltimate climes o f the po le ,That groan as they ro ll down Moun t Yaan ekIn the realms o f the bo real po le 4

Re lative ly the lay o f The Bells is simple an d sane , as

they sound the ir appeals o f triumph , dismay , ange r , an d

lamentation , till we fe e l , as it we re , the towe r ro cking unde rour fe et . But even the re the reade r is puzzle d by thegratu itous crue lty o f the ringe rs o f the chime s— that

The pe ople— ah, the pe opleThey that dwe ll up in the ste eple ,

All alon e ,Te lling, to llin g , to llin g ,

In that muffled mono tone ,Fe e l a glo ry in so ro llin g

On the human heart a stone .

5

EDGAR ALLAN POE 203

Annabe l Le e itse lf , which , be sides be ing bewitchinglyswe e t , is rational , still contains an enigma, if o n e needingn o Danie l fo r its so lution

I t was many and many a year ago ,In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom y ou may knowBy the n ame o f An n abe l Lee

An d this maiden she lived with n o o ther thoughtThan to love an d b e loved by me .

I was a child, an d she was a child ,In this kingdom by the sea

B ut we loved with a love that was mo re than love ,I an d my Annabe l Le e

With a love that the winged se raphs o f heavenCoveted he r an d me .

The ange ls, n o t half so happy in heaven ,

Went envying he r an d me

Y e s that was the reason— as all men know,

In this kin gdom by the sea

That the wind came out o f the cloud by nightChillin g an d killin g my Ann abe l Le e .

“

And last, far fro m least , Fo r Annie On the face o f i t

a ridd le— o r it wo uld n o t b e Edgar Allan Po e ’s— it is , likeAn nabe l Le e , so on gue ssed only, the answe r is as d iflicultas the que stion . B ut the theme is grand ly audaciou s ,almo st sublime ; just an e cstasy o f life ’s unexplained ,pe rhaps inexplicable , pe rhaps unreal , unreasonable de spair ,be come , if n o t bliss , a tranqu il trance , through the embraceo f Death by Love

Thank Heaven the crisis,The danger is past,

An d the lin gerin g illn essI s over at last

An d the fever called ‘ livin gIs con quered at last.


And I rest so composedlyNow in my b ed ,That any beho lderMight fancy me dead

Might start at beho lding me ,Thinking me dead .

An d , 0 o f all to rturesThat to rture the wo rst

Has abated— the terribleTo rture of thirst

Fo r the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst

I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst

And , ah let it neverB e fo o lishly saidThat my ro om it is glo omyAnd narrow my bed

Fo r man never sleptIn a different bedAnd , to sleep, y ou must slumberIn just such a bed .

And so I lie happily,Bathin g in manyA dream of the truthAn d the beauty of AnnieDrown ed in a bathOf the tresses o f Annie .

She tenderly kissed me ,

She fondly caressed ,An d then I fe ll gen tlyTo sle ep on her breastDeeply to sle epFrom the heaven of her breast.



to o n e theme . I find betwe en it an d,fo r instance , The

Raven , a y et mo re intimate analogy ; a re lationship o f

o n e to the o the r as its conve rse . Thus , in The Raven , thereade r is continually led o n to expe ct an event o f impo rtwhi ch never happens ; in Fo r Annie , the ve ry o rdinaryidea which we suppo sed we we re contemplating deve lopsinto a monstro sity o f fancy at once spectral , mate rial , an dbeautiful . Contrasted as are the re su lts , I be lieve the ar t

to b e virtually identical . The effect Po e de sired to compassby a po em wou ld se em to have been that o f a single longpulsating sho ck , starting o n e do e s n o t know whence . Itwas a po int o f pride with him , bo th that he sho uld b e ableto te ll himse lf he had accomplishe d hi s obj e ct in confo rmitywith rigid rules , an d that hi s reade rs shou ld never guessthem .

He himse lf paraded in print the absence o f spontaneousinspiration from his compo sition o f The Raven . It was, hehas to ld the wo rld , the pro duct of a me chanical ope rationhe had cunningly devised . He who had boasted that withhim po etry was n o t a purpo se , but a passion detailse labo rate ly how an d why he intro duce d beauty, w ith itshighe st expre ssion , sadne ss , an d death ; a re frain , witha bird— by cho ice a raven— to repeat it , in unconsciousunison wi th the throbbings of de spair in dead Leno re ’

s

love r an d , beneath all, a sugge stive unde rcurrent o f

furthe r meaning — d e libe rate ly confining the who le withina few mo re than o n e hundred line s .

8

The explanation at the time tasked the capacity o f

popular beli e f mo re even than he we irdne ss of the po emhypno tized common unde rstandings . A natural conj ecturewas that Po e e ithe r de ce ived himse lf into measuring backstep by step ground hi s fancy had already taken in itsstride , o r simply was dive rting himse lf with an experiment

EDGAR ALLAN POE 207

o n public cre dulity . Really , howeve r , what would havebeen an altogethe r unlike ly mystificatio n if imputed to

ano the r po et, cease s to be who lly incredible with re spect tohim . The iron rigou r with which in The Raven the thr ead— chain rathe r— o f the central idea is stretched stiff an d

taut favours indee d the sugge stion o f artifice rathe rthan an unpremeditate d fl ight o f imagination . At all

events n o po e t but himse lf could have tr ie d to pe rsuadehis reade rs to think they sme lt in his inspiration the saw

dust an d o il o f the wo rkshop .

Although n o cri tic , n o t even Po e himse lf , has attemptedto apply the extreme me chanical theo ry to o the rs o f his

po ems , it canno t be denied that in gene ral they ar e liableto the charge of an exce ss o f ar t . None breathe o f simplenatur e . Even the e legance o f the line s to He len with herNaiad airs which bring admire rs

homeTo the glo ry that was Gre ece ,And the grandeu r that was Rome , 9

is but dumb sculpture , though o f ivo ry an d go ld . Thougha spontane ous spark— a lurid o n e— from the soul kindlesthe dead man’s appeal to his love Fo r Annie , its rush o f

fire is constrained it has had to flame along a line ruledfo r

,n o t by , it . Neve r was ve rse o f such apparent , an d so

li ttle real , freedom as all o f Po e ’s ; o r , consequently, so

artistic , which is le ss satisfying ; so pure o f lo o se taintwith le ss o f who le some freshne ss . No healthful breezeblows from o ff its Dead Sea surface . N o singing birds flyo ver it ; though itse lf , in its ebb an dflow , make s song,harmony, fairy music . Whateve r he wro te , from hi s

preco cio us an d libe rtine , n o t idle , youth to the de lirio usen d in the Baltimo re ho spital , po ssesse s the same qualitie so f unfailin g grace and tone . But the who le is like a reve rie


betwe en sleep an d waking , always fascinating,neve r

re stful , with an atmo sphe re about it as o f a sepulchralvau lt .

W o rks of Edgar Allan Po e , ed . J . H. Ingram . Four vo ls. 1874—5 . AlsoPo etical W orks, ed . James Hann ay. Lon d on : Charles Grffiin , 1852 .

1 The Raven , stan zas 1 , 7 , 18.

2 Len ore , st . 1 .

3 Ibid . , st . 2 .

4 Ulalume , st . 2 .

5 The Be lls, st . 4 . An n abe l Le e , stan zas 1 , 2, 4 .

7 Fo r An n ie , stan zas l , 3 , 6, 8, 1 1 , 12, 13 , 14, 1 5 .

3 Philo sophy o f Compo sition (W o rks), vol. ii, pp. 262—70.

9 T o He len (Po ems written in Youth), st . 2 .



vo cation ; mo re mo de st an d reve rential ; y e t in a sense alsomo re exacting . His natu re inco rpo rate d as much as itcou ld of o the r po etic so uls . Something was extracted he re ,something there . Eve ry constituent in the n ew creationwas genuine , with character istics of its own ,

but compre ssedto me et the demands o f the re st . Each was kept malleableto re ce ive a stamp fro m the bo rrowing se lf . That self wasthoughtfu l without be ing a thinke r given to learning , n o tto re search sympathetically inqu isitive , n o t philo sophicaccustome d to lo ok to a printe d page to put fancy inmo tion . From the vast sto re o f his reading Longfe llowse lecte d instinctive ly whateve r he co u ld assimilate an d fe e l .In his po ems we have the fru it o f his studie s an d the ire ssence has become his . The re the explanation is o f theange r , the bitte r contempt , which his succe ssive earlie rvo lume s stirre d in dive rs critics at the time s of the irappearance . They we re irritate d by catching an d lo singho ld continually o f clue s to source s from which he haddrawn . They rage d at the se lf-complacency , as theyregarded it , with which he propounded discove rie s byillustriou s pre dece sso rs as nove ltie s o f his own . They d idn o t care to unde rstand that his po etry came finally fromhis heart , whence so eve r its e lements might have beende rived ; that what to them we re tru isms we re fo r himve ry tr uths . Fo r hi s public they we re truths to o , an d

living truths . He was abso lute ly since re when he preache dvene rable mo ralitie s , like the Psalm o f Life an d Exce lsio r ,as a n ew Go spe l . The undoubting confidence with whichhe pro claime d it , if it raise d up sco ffe rs by the do zen

,

brought him disciple s by the ten thou sand .

The je e rs , coming from the inte lle ctual class in the OldCo untry , must , I am afraid , have cau se d ache s beyond thepowe r of applau se by the mu ltitude to heal . All hi s wo rk

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 2 1 1

indicate s a de licate , sensitive o rganism . It was an accidentthat his early popu larity was large ly due to some so undingplatitude s . Platitudes are n o t ne ce ssarily criminal . Lite rature is paved with them . Often they have be en with o ur

greate st the nursing-mo the rs o f royal sublimi tie s . InLongfe llow ’ s ve rse they ar e naive an d grace fu l but itwas his mi sfo rtune that they wo n him admiration , which ,fo r po ets to be allowe d to bear it in comfo rt , ought to fall ,a halo , from above , an d n o t steam rankly up from be low . He

endur ed the consequent obloquy, howeve r wo und ing , withuncomplaining digni ty . He did n o t , like famous Englishcontempo rarie s , turn upon his assailants an d rend them .

The exce llence o f so me o f hi s wo rk was neve r denied,

an d is indisputable . His translations , e spe cially from the

Ge rman an d Spani sh , ar e ful l of beauty . That o f Coplasd e Man rique ’

s Od e o n his fathe r Rodr igo ’s death is gravean d noble . Othe rs from Miiller , Uhland , Salis , enhance theme rits o f the o riginals . Take , fo r example s , Whithe r the

Statue o ve r the Cathedr al Do o r , the legend of the Cro ssbill ,an d the love ly Song o f the Silent Land

Into the Silent LandAh who shall lead us thitherClouds in the evening sky mo re darkly gathe r,An d shatte red wre cks lie thicke r o n the strand.

W ho leads us with a gentle handThither , O thither,Into the Silent Land ?

Into the Silent LandTo y ou , y e boun dle ss regionsOf all perfe ction Tende r mo rn ing-visionsOf beauteous souls The Future ’s pledge and bandW ho in Life ’s battle firm do th stand ,Shall bear Ho pe ’s te nde r blo ssomsInto the Sile n t Lan d


0 Lan d 0 LandFo r all the broken-heartedThe mildest herald by o ur fate allo tted,Be ckon s, an d with inverted to rch do th standTo lead us with a gentle handInto the land of the great Departed,In to the Silent Land 1

Gradually the sne e ring even at his o riginal ve rse wento ut o f fashion , as vo lume afte r vo lume demonstrate d an

unmistakable po e t . Evange line had be en a reve lation tomany an d sure ly fancy rare ly has create d a swe e te rmaiden , equal alike to jo y an d tearsFair was she to beho ld , that maiden o f seventeen summersB ut a ce lestial brightness— a mo re e thereal beautyShone o n he r face an d en circled he r fo rm ,

when, after confession,Homeward serene ly she walked with God’s benediction upon he r .

When she had passed , it seemed like the ceasin g o f exquisite music ?

Purists co u ld bring n o grave r reproach than the hexame te rs . Hiawatha, no twithstanding its hendecasyllable s ,conve rte d o the rs . Mark Pattison , who obj ecte d to Longfe llow fo r his indulgence in tru isms

, was oblige d to praisethe comparison o f the advent o f j o stling human disaste rsto the gathe ring o f a swarm o f vu lture s

N eve r sto ops the soaring vultureOn his quarry in the de se rt ,On the sick o r wounded bison,B ut ano the r vulture , watchin gFrom his high aerial lo ok-out ,Sees the downward plun ge , an d fo llowsAn d a third pursues the se cond,Comin g from the invisible e the r

,

First a speck , an d then a vu lture ,Till the air is dark with pin ion s.

3

The wonde r to me is , as I re call the fight o n the po e t’sbehalf , how an y oppo sition sho uld have su rvive d the still



The star of the unconquered will ,He rises in my breast,Serene , an d reso lute , an d still,An d calm, an d se lf-possessed 7

in The Reape r an d the Flowe rsMy Lo rd has need of theseflowe rets gay ,

’

The Reaper said , an d smiledDear tokens of the earth are they

,

Where he was once a child.

They shall all blo om in fie lds of light ,Transplanted bymy care ,And saints upon the ir garments white

,

These sacred blo ssoms wear 3

o r in Blind Bartimeus’s impo rtunate petition, with its

mu sical Greek .

9 They only know ,an d are content to kn ow ,

that such strains calm trouble d ne rve s , an d touch the heart .Even pe rsons who habitually requ ir e o f po etry that

it shall stimu late an d inflame , have o ccasional mo odsinclinin g them to listen to gentle r music :

No t from the grand o ld masters,N o t from the bards sublime ,

Who se distant fo o tsteps echoThrough the co rrido rs of Time .

Fo r , like strains of martial music,The ir mighty thoughts suggest

Life ’s endless to il an d endeavour ;And to -night I long fo r rest.Read from some humbler po et,Who se songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds o f summer,Or tears from the eye lids startAnd the night shall be filled with music,An d the cares that infest the day ,Shall fo ld the ir tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away.1 0

HENRY WADSW ORTH LONGFELLOW 215

Nowhe re may the tho ught , the fee ling itself , rise fromunknown depths but the singe r had be en in spir itual com

pan ion ship with great minds of the past and the present ;an d a consciousne ss , dim ,

suspicio us , an d he sitatin g at

first, came at length to pe rvade each side o f the Atlanticthat his le sse r instrument beats time in unison with the irs .Neve r , indeed , was the re a mo re grate ful , a mo re en thusi

astic sympathy than his . He re jo ice d to dwe ll upon granddeeds as we ll as upon grand thoughts . His fancy hauntedthe scene s o f memo rable actions , an d the home s of the irdo e rs . Fo r many o f us it is impo ssible to visit citie s whe rehe has be en without tracing hi s fo o tsteps by a gracio uslight they have le ft behind them . W e find him in Nurembe rg attend in g upon the illustrious in song an d art

Here , when Art was still re ligion, with a simple , reverent heart,Lived an d laboured Albre cht D ii re r , the Evange list of ArtHence in silence an d in so rrow, to ilin g still with busy hand ,Like an emigrant he wandered, se eking fo r the Better Land .

Emigravit is the in scription on the tombstone where he liesDead he is n o t— but departed— fo r the artist never di es.Fairer se ems the an cient city, an d the sun shine seems mo re fair,That he once has trod its pavement , that he once has breathed its

air ! 1 1

His ve rse beautifies W ur tzburg’

s minste r towe rs with thememo ry o f Walte r vo n d e r Vogelwe id the Minnesinge r ,and his beque st to his teache rs in the ar t o f song

Thus the bard o f love departedA nd , fulfilling his desire ,

On his tomb the birds were feastedBy the children o f the cho ir.

The re they san g the ir merry caro ls ,Sang their lauds on every sideAnd the name the ir vo ices utte redW as the name of Vogelwe id .


Time has long effaced the inscriptionsOn the clo ister’s funeral stones,And tradition only te lls u sWhere repose the po et’s bones.

But around the vast Cathedral ,By swe et e cho es multiplied ,Still the birds repeat the legend ,And the name o f Vogelweid .

1 2

If I were eve r , as doubtle ss I shall never b e , in the Palaceo f Pale rmo ,

mode rn as it is , I should expectthrough the open window,

loud an d clear,To hear the monks chant in the Chape l n ear,Above the stir an d tumult of the stre etHe has put down the mighty from the ir seat ,And has exalted them o f low degre e 1 “

Fo r thousands o f trave lle rs since Longfe llow ,have ,

As the evening shades descended,Low an d loud an d swe etly blended

,

Low at times an d loud at times,And chan ging like a po e t’s rhymes,Rung the beautiful wild chimesFrom the be lfry in the marke tOf the ancient town o f Bruges.

They still have heard , blending with the ir dreams ,those magic numbers

,

As they loud pro claimed the flightAnd sto len marches o f the nightTill their chimes in swe e t co llisionMi n gled with each wanderin g vision,Min gled with the fo rtune -te llingGipsy-bands o f dreams an d fancies

,

Which amid the waste expansesOf the silent land of trancesHave their so litary dwe llin g .“

Peculiar, an d exo tic , as, fo r twentieth-century Europe ,



An d n ow aflagon fo r such as may ask

A draught from the noble Bacharach cask,An d I will be gone , though I know full we llThe ce llar ’

s a cheerfuller place than the ce ll .“

The devo tion to his ar t o f the Friar in the Scripto rium ,as

he clo se s wo rk at dusk , an d gaze s from his window , make sa de lightful contrast

How sweet the air is How fair the sceneI wish I had as love ly a gre enTo pain t my landscape s an d my leavesHow the swallows twitter under the eavesThere , n ow, there is on e in he r nestI can just catch a glimpse of her head an d breast ,An d will sketch he r thus in her qu ie t no ok,Fo r the margin of my Gospe l bo ok .

1 7

And , lastly, the e cstasy of Monk Felix— taught , by thelapse o f a hundred years in as many moments o f a bird ’ssong , that no thing with God is impo ssible— is some thingto dream of

On e mo rning, all alone ,Out of his convent of gray stone ,Into the forest, o lder , darker, grayer,His lips movin g as if in prayer,His head sunk en upon his breast,As in a dream o f rest ,Walked the Monk Fe lix . All aboutThe broad, swee t sunshin e lay without ,Fillin g the summer air ;An d within the wo odlan ds as he trod ,The twilight was like the Truce of God

With wo rldly wo e an d careUnder him lay the go lden mossAnd above him the boughs of hemlo ck-treesWaved, an d made the sign o f the Cro ss,And whispered their Benedicites.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 2 19

He heeded n o t , but ponderedOn the vo lume in his hand

,A vo lume of Saint Augustine ,Where in he read of the un se enSplendours of God’s great townIn the unknown land ,And , with his eyes cast downIn humility , he saidI be lieve , O Go d ,What here in I have read ,But , alas I d o n o t understandAnd 10 he heardThe sudden singing o f a bird ,A snow-white bird that , from a cloudDropped down,An d among the branches brownSat sin gin gSo sweet , and clear, an d loud ,I t se emed a thousand harpstrings ringing .And the Monk Fe lix clo sed his bo ok,An d long , lon g ,With rapturous look,He listened to the song,An d hardly breathed o r stirred ,

Until he saw, as in a vision,The land E lysian,An d in the heavenly city heardAn gelic fe etFall on the go lden flagging of the stree t.And he would fainHave caught the wondrous bird

,

But strove in vainFo r itflew away, away ,Far over hill and de ll ,And in stead o f its sweet singingHe heard the Convent be llSuddenly in the silence ringin gFo r the service of no onday .An d he retracedHis pathway homeward sadly and in haste .

“


If the many productions o f Longfe llow’s late r years didn o t o ften rise to the level o f thi s , y e t things o f beau ty we reinte rspe rse d an d already he had pe rmanently triumphedo ve r pre judice an d fastidiou sne ss . Had he be en o n e to

bo ast , he might have claimed that English lite rature couldmo re easily dispense wi th seve ral o f his brilliant contemporarie s than with him . Neve rthe le ss— I canno t but suspe ct ,canno t but fear , that the singer o f the wo ful an d swe e ttrage dy o f Grand-Pré , of the Indian Edda— as various asi t is harmonious— o f the frankne ss o f the bright Puritanmaiden , o f the Go lden Legend itse lf , may some times havesighed to himse lf , as his brush laid-on his silve ry mo onlight , o r evening afte rglow— may have be en tempted toenvy the sto rmy passionatene ss o f membe rs o f his craftbo th in the New Wo rld an d the Old— may have complainedo f his Muse that she was placid ly content to refle ct theradiance o f o ther luminarie s instead o f burning with fireo f he r own .

The Po etical W o rks o f Henry Wadswo rth Longfellow. CompleteEd ition . Lon d on : Ge orge Routledge Son s, 1 865 .

1 So ng of the Silen t Land . From the Ge rman of Salis.

7 Evange lin e , Part I .

3 The Son g o f Hiawatha, XIX, The Gho sts.

4 Fo otsteps o f Angels.

5 A Gleam o f Sun shin e .

The Bridge .

7 The Light o f Stars.

5. The Reaper an d the Flowers.

9 Blin d B artimeus.

1 ° The D ay is Don e , stan zas 5 , 6, 7 , 10, 1 1 .

1 1 Nuremberg. 1 7 W alter von Vogelwe id .

1 “ King Robert o f Sicily. The Be lfry o f Bruges : Carillon1 “ The Beleaguered City. The Go ld en Legen d , iv.

1 7 I bid .

1 “ Ibid . , ii.



he mounted the pu lpit . His po ems , the se rious as muchas the bu rle sque an d satirical , the Gho st-See r , an d Hungeran d Co ld , equally with the Biglow Pape rs , ar e part of thehisto ry of the pe riod an d its thought . Justly to appreciatee ithe r so rt , his reade r must in memo ry , o r in fancy, descendinto the fie ld , an d imagine himself a combatant .

A ne ce ssary re su lt is some risk of confusing in the po e trymatter an d spirit . The e the real is apt to get chained toan incident antiquated o r dead . When the subje ct-matte ris philo sophy , it is philo sophy blo wn r ed -ho t with disputation . The song , which at the time it was sung was itse lfthe comment , n ow itse lf wants co mmentarie s . No t eve rybo dy is able , an d comparative ly few are at pains , to readbe tween the line s . Then to o the po e t ’s impe tuous fluencyadds to the tu rmo il . His fancy exu lting in the chances o fa fie ry conflict , whethe r to en d in a victo ry o r a rou t,wou ld bu rst into a rush o f ve rse . On it spe d , disdainingto b e staye d while the re was a public stil l passionateenough to supply reade rs . As I tu rn page after page

,it

is tantalizing to fe e l that a living idea, a burnin g thought ,is gasping fo r breath beneath a cinde r-pile o f newspape rwranglings , o r o f free -fights in Congre ss . To its love rspo etry is se lf-sufficin g, a be ing with a comple te life o f itsown ,

ne ithe r a conflagration , n o r a scaffo lding . They are

n o be tte r pleased when the bard abandons party strife ,an d take s , as his legitimate an d no rmal vo cation , to

philo sophy . Reade rs o f Lowe ll ar e gene rally betwe enScylla an d Charybdis . They ar e o ffe re d the ir cho ice o f

vital so cial an d me taphysical problems to gue ss , o n e mo reintricate than ano the r . He neve r sat down to wri te a linewitho u t a driving sense o f a me ssage to de live r, n ow downupon earth, an d n ow alo ft among the stars . His publicis expe cte d to fo llow an d de ciphe r the who le . Wisdom ,

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 223

gene rous indignation , pho spho ric wit , criticism , constructiveas we ll as de structive , lightnings opening Heaven as theystrike the earth, ar e all the re . The pity is that to o o ftene ithe r the thinke r has ove rlaid the po e t , o r the inspiratio nis playing about a dead theme . It is as when a canvas hasro tted unde r a masterpie ce o f ar t .

The po e t , howeve r , is the re always , though , it may b e ,

in the background it is the reade rs , I am afraid , who ar e

like ly to be in de fault . The gene ral public ne ithe r inte re stsitself in bygone partisanships , n o r has spare intelligencefo r diale ctics . Even an enthusiast fo r po etry do e s n o t

expect to have to ke ep the fire on his hearth alight withthe ashe s of ye ste rday

,o r steam coal . None could pe rce ive

mo re clearly how he misse d popularity fo r his graver ve rse ,o r bear the le ss mo re che erfully, than Lowell himse lf

who’

s striving Parnassus to climbWith a who le bale of isms tied together with rhyme 1

an d ,visiting Chartre s ,

to feed my ey e ,An d give to Fancy o n e clear ho liday,Scarce saw the minster fo r the thoughts it stirredThe painted windows, freaking glo om with glow,

Dusking the sunshine which they se em to che er,Meet symbo l of the senses and the soul ,An d the who le pile , grim with the No rthman’s tho ughtOf life an d death, and do om ,

life ’s equal fe e ?

When the po e t in him has clear po sse ssion o f the fie ld ,the sadde r an d mo re pensive phase s o f human expe r iencestil l ar e tho se to which he turns by pre fe rence . He mou rnsthe death of an infant so n

A cherub who had lo st his wayAnd wande red hithe r, so his stay


With us was sho rt , an d ’twas mo st me e tThat he shou ld b e n o de lver in earth’s clod ,N o r n e ed to pause an d cleanse his fe e tT o stand befo re his Go dOh, ble st wo rd— Evermo re 3

The contrast between unive rsal laughing , busy natu re an d

the sudden pause an d muteness o f death su rprise s , an d

bewilde rs himThe be e hums on around the blo ssomed vineWhirs the light humming-bird the cricket chirpsThe lo cust’s shrill alarum stin gs the ear

Hard by, the co ck shou ts lustily from farm to farm ,

H is che ery bro thers , te lling o f the sun ,

Answer, till far away the joyance diesW e never knew befo re how God had filledThe summer air with happy living soun dsAll round us seems an ove rplus o f life ,And y e t the on e dear heart lies co ld an d still .4

He gazes down , while he shudde rs , at the abyss , y e t de epe rthan the grave , which separate s the neare st an d dearestfrom the darkened mind

There thou sittest n ow and then thou meanestThou dost talk with what we canno t see ,Lo okest at us wi th an ey e so doubtful ,I t do th pu t us ve ry far from theeThere thou sittest we wou ld fain b e nigh thee ,B ut we know that it can neve r b e .

Strange it is that , in this open brightness,Thou shou ldst sit in such a narrow ce llStran ge it is that thou shouldest b e so lonesomeWhe re tho se are who love thee all so we llNo t so

‘much o f the e is left amon g u sAs the hum outlivin g the hushed be ll . 5

Akin to the attraction— with mo re stil l in it o f the

attraction o f repu lsion— which draws him to the contem



N ext mo rnin g some thin g heavilyAgain st the openin g do o r d id weigh,

And there , from sin an d so rrow fre e ,A woman on the thresho ld lay .

Fo r , whom the heart o f man shuts out ,Sometimes the heart o f God takes in ,

And fences them all round aboutWith silence ’

mid the wo rld’s loud d in .

7

But fo r soulle ss gre e d , fo r the irre de emably lo st bondsmeno f go ld , whom he me ets in the no isy City

’s stre e ts , his cre edspare s n o t a glimme r

They pass me by like shadows , crowds on crowds,D im gho sts of men , that hover to an d fro ,

Hugging the ir bodies roun d them ,

—like thin shroudsWhere in the ir souls were buried lo ng ago .

Lo how they wan der round the wo rld , their grave ,Who se ever gapin g maw by such is fed ,

Gibberin g at livin g men , an d idly rave ,W e , only, truly live , bu t y e are dead .

’

Alas po o r fe e ls, the ano inted ey e may traceA dead soul ’s epitaph in eve ry face

Happily he po sse ssed , an d fro m time to time u sed , thegift o f simple swe e tne ss , as we ll as tho se o f preache r an djudge . Reade rs , if they please , may sun themse lve s in pu recharm , se eking no thing fu rthe r . The deafne ss to divinesinging , until the minstre l has departe d back to his n ativeHeaven , was neve r mo re pre ttily mo ralized than in theballad o f the exile o f Pho ebu s Apo llo from Olympu s to theshe ep -fo lds o f King Adme tu s

Men granted that his spee ch was wise ,B ut , when a glance they caught

Of his slim ' grace an d woman’s eyes,They laughed, an d called him go o d-fo r-naught.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 22 7

Ye t after he was dead an d go n e ,

And e’

e n his memo ry dim ,

Earth se emed mo re swee t to live upon,Mo re ful l o f love , be cause o f him.

And day by day mo re ho ly grewEach spo t where he had trod,Till after-po e ts only knewTheir first-bo rn bro the r as a go d .

“

As his pen wande rs about the glade s , the fo re st be co me sa wo o dland enchanted

The great August no o n light ,Through myr iad rifts slanted ,

Leaf an d bo le thickly sprinkleWith flickerin g go ldThere in warm August gle aming,With quick, silent b r ighten ings ,From meadow-lands roaming ,The fire -fly twinklesHis fitful heat-lightnings .

The little fo unt twinklesI ts silver saints’-be lls,That n o sprite ill-bodin gMay make his abode inThe se inno cent de lls.1 0

He dr eams bright dreams , as he watche s the de spiseddande lion fringing , in blithe so me May , the dusty road wi thharm le ss go ld

Then think I o f de ep shadows o n the grass,Ofmeadows where in sun the cattle graze ,Where , as the bree zes pass ,

The gleamin g rushes lean a thousand way sOf leaves that slumbe r in a cloudy mass,Or whiten in the win d o f wate rs blueThat from the distance sparkle throughSome wo odland gap , and o f a sky above ,Where o n e white cloud , like a stray lamb , do th move .

Heaven an d earth seem to mee t in hi s tale o f the Chri stP 2


like Yussouf’

s dealing with the o utcast , whom he was

he lping with ho rse an d money tofle e the avenge rs o f

blo o dO Sheik , I canno t leave the e so

I will repay thee all this thou hast doneUnto that Ibrahim who slew thy son

Take thrice the go ld , ’ said Yussouf, fo r with the eIn to the desert , neve r to re turn,My o n e black thought shall ride away from me

First-bo rn, fo r whom by day an d night I yearn,Balan ced an d just ar e all o f God’s de cre esThou ar t avenged , my first -bo rn sle ep in peace 1 2

Reade r , like po e t , will b e haunte d by the pictu re o f the

maiden attende d home fro m a dance , an d le ft at her do o rho lding a candle to light her cavalie r , as he drive s awaydown the rainy, dark avenue

The vision of scarce a moment ,An d hardly marked at the time ,

It comes unbidden to haunt me ,

Like a scrap o f ballad-rhyme .

Had she beauty We ll , n o t what they call soY ou may find a thousand as fair

An d y et there’

s he r face in my memo ryWith n o special claim to b e there .

As I sit some times in the twilight,An d call back to life in the coals

Old faces an d ho pes an d fan cie sLo ng buried— go od rest to the ir souls

He r face shine s ou t in the embersI se e he r ho lding the light,

An d hear the crun ch o f the grave l ,An d the swe ep o f the rain that n ight.

’

Tis a face that can n eve r grow o lder ,That never can part with its gleam ,

’

Tis a gracious po sse ssion fo reverFo r is it n o t all a dream ? 1 3



Pape rs , fo r whom Longfe llow is as a compatrio t , who evenar e familiar with the name s o f Whittie r an d Bryant , wou ldb e amaze d to hear o f Jame s Russe ll Lowe ll as among thewo rld ’s po ets — Y e t he is .

The Po etical W orks o f James Russell Lowe ll . Ho useho ld Ed ition .

Bo ston : Houghton , Mifflin Cc . , 1 882 .

1 A Fable fo r Critics.

7 The Cathedral .3 Thren odia (Earlier Po ems) .

On the Death of a Frien d ’

s Child (Miscellan e ous Po ems) .5 The Darken ed Min d (Un d er the W illows) .5 Hunger an d Co ld (Miscellan e ous Po ems) .7 The Fo rlorn (Earlier Po ems) .8 The Street (Sonn ets ) .The Shepherd o f Kin g Admetus (Misce llan eous Po ems) .

1 ° The Foun tain o fYouth (Un d er the W illows) .1 1 T o the Dan d elion (Miscellan e ous Po ems) .17 Yussouf (Un d er the W illows) .An Ember Picture

1 1 In the Twilight

EDWARD F ITZGERALD

1809— 1 883

IT is at once easy an d hard to account fo r the FitzGe raldCult . The fe rvo u r o f many be lieve rs in the go spe l pr opo unded , acco rding to Edward FitzGe rald ,

’ by the Pe rsianastronome r-po e t , is inte lligible enough . The faith is that o fEpicuru s withou t the incubus of a philo sophi cal system .

None cou ld be simple r , o r mo re chee rfu lly practise d : Live

yo u r life on earth as if earth , n o t y ou , we re ete rnal as i fthe re we re ne ithe r Heaven n o r He ll . Live fo r the day ,

without conce rn fo r the mo rrow o r , if the re be a mo rrow ,

an y mo re fo r that than fo r ye ste rday . Play , if you can

find n o be tte r d ive rsion , with whateve r theo rie s o r dogmas ,re ligio us o r o therwise , y ou please . Neve r , at all events ,allow them to co lour o r cloud your fle eting mo ments . Yo u ractive busine ss is to take advantage of the pleasur e s o f

the bo dy, while you have a bo dy . Espe cially, enjoy musican d drinking ; if in a garden of ro se s , with a fair companion ,

s o much the bette r . The re in lie s all your duty, whi ch is onlyto yo urself . ’ Neve r was a mo re une the really agre eable cre e dpreache d . But many of FitzGerald

’

s reade rs who abho rOmar Khayyam ’s philo sophy enthusiastically appre ciate theve rse an d it is much le ss difficu lt to explain acceptance ofthe o n e than why the o the r satisfie s to the po int o f rapture .

FitzGerald inte rpo late d into the labo rious indo lence heloved a bare mo dicum o f po e tical wo rk . Of the pie ce sd irectly o riginal the mo st impo rtant is B r edfield Hall . The

description o f the home of succe ssive squires o f his race isde licio usly simple


Lo , an English mansion foundedIn the e lder James’s re ign,Quaint an d state ly, an d surroundedWith a pasto ral domain.

With we ll-timbe r ’d lawn an d gardens ,And with many a pleasant mead ,Skirted by the lo fty covertsWhere the hare and pheasant fe ed .

Flank’

d it is with go odly stables,Shelte r

’

d by co eval treesSo it lifts its hon est gablesToward the distant Ge rman seasWhere it once disce rn ’

d the smokeOf old sea-battles far away

Saw victo rious Ne lson’s topmastsAncho rin g in Ho llesley Bay .

But whatever sto rm might rio t ,Cannon r e ar , an d trumpet ring ,Still amid these meadows qu ietD id the yearly vio le t springStill Heaven’s starry hand suspendedThat light balance of the d ew,

That each night on earth descended ,

And each mo rning ro se anew

And the ancient house sto od rearingUn disturb

’

d he r chimneys high,

An d her gilded vanes still veeringToward each quarter of the sky

While like wave to wave succeedin gThrough the wo rld of joy an d strife ,Househo ld after househo ld spe edin gHanded o n the to rch of life .

Here they lived , an d here they gre eted,Maids an d matron s, sons and sires,Wan derin g in its walks, o r seatedRound its ho spitable fires



plays , an d of three Gre ek tragedie s , Oe dipu s , at Thebe s ,an d in Attica, an d Agamemnon . He adde d o n e o f Virgil ’sgarden , an d renderings o f Omar Khayyam

’s Rubaiyat , an dJaimi’s Salaman an d Ahjal . All te stify to unsparing painsan d an extrao rdinary gift in him fo r imagining himself intohis autho r . At time s we might almo st say that he was theautho r as in the tale by the Argive Cho rus in the Agamem

n o n,taken from Ae schylus ,

’

of the use by Fate o f the

passions of Go ds an d Men to accomplish its dread decree s .

That magnificent Od e lai d a spe ll upon me when long agoI came upon it an d the charm wo rks still

Soon o r late sardonic FateWith Man against himse lf conspiresPuts on the mask of his de siresUp the steps o f Time e lateLeads him blin ded with hi s pride ,An d gathering as he go es alongThe fue l of his suicideUntil having topt the pyreWhich Destiny permits n o higher,Ambition sets himse lf on fire ;In conflagration like the crimeConspicuous through the wo rld an d time ,Down amidst his brazen wallsThe accumulated Ido l fallsTo shape less ashes ; DemigodUn der the vu lgar ho o f down -trodWho se neck he trod on n o t an ey e

To weep his fall , n o r lip to sighFo r him a prayer ; o r , if there were ,No God to listen, o r reply.

The children have to pay fo r the sin o f the father, and sirefo r the gu ilt o f son

Thus with old Pr iam, with his royal line ,Kindred an d pe ople y ea, the very towersThey cr ouch’

d in , built by masonry divin e ?

EDWARD FITZGERALD 235

Then , at the thought o f the home d e so lated by He len’ s

flight , the stately appro val o f the fate ful do om upo n cr imean d its abetto rs become s a flo od o f so r rowing sympathywith the inju red

Like a dream through sleep she glidedThrough the silent city gate ,By a guilty Hermes gu idedOn the feathe r

’

d fe et of The ftLeaving betwe en tho se she le ftAnd those shefled to lighted disco rd ,Unextinguishable HateLeaving him whom least she should ,Mene laus brave an d go od ,Scarce believing in the mutte r

’

d

Rumour, in the wo rse than utte r’

d

Omen o f the wailin g maidens ,Of the shaken hoary headOf deserted board and bed .

Fo r the phantom of the lost o n eHaun ts him in the wonted placesHall an d Chamber, which he pacesHither, Thi ther, listening, lo oking,Phantom-like himse lf alone ;Till he comes to loathe the facesOf the marble mute Co lo ssi ,Go d -like Fo rms, an d half-divine ,Founde rs of the Royal line ,

W ho with all unalte r’

d quie tWitness all and make n o sign .

But the silence of the chambers,An d the shaken hoary head ,

And the vo ice sjof the mourning

Women, an d of o cean wailin g ,Over which wi th unavailingArms he reaches, as to hailThe phantom o f a flyin g sailAll bu t answer, FledfledfledFalse ! d ishon our ’d wo rse than dead

236 FIVE CENTURIES o r ENGLISH VERSE

N ight at last he dreams an d She

Once mo re in mo re than bridal beauty standsB ut , ever as he reaches fo rth his hands,Slips from them back into the viewless deep,On tho se so ft silent wings that walk the ways o f sleep .“

The Rubaiyat , howeve r , is that by whichFitzGerald live s ,an d will live . It we have to search in o rde r to discove r these cre t o f the po et ’s fame . The first fe e ling ,when reade rs havele isure to review impre ssions , is o f surprise at the in d iffer

ence to the que stion o f the translato r ’s fide lity . It isa matte r o f co mplete unimpo rtance to us whe the r it bea translation at all. At the same time all o f us

,howeve r

abso lute ly igno rant o f Pe rsian , ar e confident that , if it be ,it is perfe ct in spiri t , d ivine ly done ,

’

a plane t equal tothe sun whi ch cast it ,

’

as Tennyson , much to oflatteri nglyat any rate to Omar , sums it up .

4 W e ar e to o entire lydominate d by a conscio u sne ss o f fo rce , comprehensivene ss ,will , su fficiency , to b e dispo se d to que stion FitzGerald

’

s

right to d eal as with his own .

The me re language , in its e lastic strength as o f stee l ,se ems to have be en created to make aweapon o f an agno sticism indistinguishable from dogmatism . Eve ry fre sharticle in the indictment against on e o r ano the r o f the

seventy—two emu lou s religions o f the wo rld cuts with theke enne ss o f Su ltan Saladin’s swo rd . FitzGerald , thoughn o fo llowe r in hi s own mo st simple regimen o f OmarKhayyam ’s philo sophy o f the sense s , was re so lve d to d o histenets ju stice . He is scrupu lo u s to marshal them in all

their hete ro doxical e ffronte ry, with a challenge to o rthodoxyin any po sitive fo rm to d o be tte r . The vigou r with whichthe gauntle t is hu rle d is tremendou s : an d the defianceis set o ff with the u tmo st

’

charms o f rhythm . The textu reis a mo de l o f po e tic jo ine ry . Eve rywhe re , in eve ry detail ,



An d this revivin g Herb whose tender greenFledges the River-Lip on which we leanAh lean upon it lightly fo r who kn owsFrom what once love ly Lip it sprin gs unse enAh

,my Be loved, fill the Cup that clears

To -D ay o f past Regrets an d Future FearsTo -mo rrow W hy , To

-mo rr ow I may b eMyse lf with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.Fo r some we loved, the love liest an d the bestThat from his Vin tage ro lling Time hath prest ,Have drunk the ir Cup a Round o r two be fo re ,And on e by on e crept silently to rest .An d we , that n ow make merry in the Ro omThey left, an d Summer dresses in n ew blo om ,

Ourselves must we ben eath the Couch of EarthDescend— ourse lves to make a Couch— fo r whom 5

The Sage declare s he had struggle d against the convictiono f the mo rtality o f eve rything earthly

Myse lf when youn g d id eagerly fre quentDo cto r an d Saint , an d heard great argumentAbou t it an d abou t but evermo reCame out by the same do o r where in I wen t.

With them the se ed ofWisdom d id I sow ,

And with min e own hand wrought to make it growAn d this was all the Harvest that I reap

’

d

I came like Wate r , an d like Win d I go .

’

He had aske d fo r e vid en ce ,whethe r o f the senses , o r spiritual ,against the tragic conclu sion an d in vainStran ge , is it n o t that o f the myriads whoBe fo re us pass

’

d the do or o f Darkne ss through,No t on e return s to te ll us o f the Ro ad ,Which to discover we must trave l to o .

7

W e ar e no thing , he conclude s at last , bu t Shape s o f Clay,an d reason as wou ld they in the ir Po tte ry , if endowe d withspe e ch

EDWARD FITZGERALD 239

Said o n e among them Sure ly n o t in vainMy substance o f the common Earth was ta’

enAn d to this Figure moulded , to be broke ,

Or trampled back to shape less Earth again.

’

Then said a Second Ne’

e r a pe evish B oyWould break the Bowl from which he drank in joyAnd He that with H is hand the Vesse l madeWill sure ly n o t in after Wrath destroy. ’

After a momentary silence spakeSome Vesse l of a mo re un gain lyMakeThey sneer at me fo r leanin g all awry

What d id the Hand then of the Po tter shake

Whereat some on e o f the lo quacious Lo tI think a Sufi pipkin— waxin g ho tAll this of Pe t an d Po tte r— Tell me then,

W ho is the Po tte r, pray, and who the Po t‘

1 3

The breadth an d grasp of thought , the Pro tean grace o f

the harmony, have the ir seve ral share s in the fascinationthe handful of ve rse exe rts . B ut such mer its d o n o t

so lve the problem o f its astonishing degre e , though the fullanswe r will include the ir cc -ope ration as agents . It is thepe rsonality of the Man

, a real Man , which explains theextrao rdinary rank the po em has asse rt e d fo r itse lf inlite rature , an d ,

unfo rtunate ly, tho ugh , I am pe rsuade d ,witho ut FitzGe rald

’

s intention , partly in so cie ty itse lf . A po e t’ s

own characte r is always a main conditio n o f the place tobe assigne d to him an d he re we find a genuine EdwardFitzGe rald eve rywhe re , except o n the title -page . It isa manly , adequate pre sence always . Real as we re the

v e rsifie r s we signify unde r the name o f Omar Khayyam ,

they d o n o t equal FitzGe rald in realne ss fo r us . He is n o tthe le ss real to us that in his life time the o n e quali ty he


manage d fo r the mo st part to hide was his inte lle ctualascendancy . He mo ve d in the narrowe st o f o rbits , n o tdisdaining intimacy with his po sthumou s fathe r -in -law , the

Quake r,banke r

,an d hymn-write r , wo rthy Be rnard Barton .

Always he care d le ss fo r admiration than fo r affe ction ,

which he prized , while he se eme d to slight . F ew even o f

his familiars , pe rhaps n o t Tennyson himse lf , n o twithstan ding the de dication , co u ld have gue sse d that he was se cureo f immo rtality o n Parnassu s . He neve r fre tted at the

n o n - recognition o f his genius .

Fo r the wo rld n o man o f lette rs could have be en mo reobscure . Of the bulk o f his do ings in lite ratu re it remainsse rene ly unconscious still . His anonymou s ve rsio n o f

Omar ’s reputed mu sings itse lf , it re fused to take at hisown final valuation o f a penny pie ce . A quarte r o f a centuryafte r the o riginal publication in 185 9 , the EncyclopaediaBritannica , in a list o f e ditions o f the Rubaiyat , re fe rs tohis as ju st a po rtio n o f the same rende re d in Engli sh ve rseby E . Fitzge rald The co ldne ss o f lite rary opinio n , whilehe live d , stru ck his sense o f humou r rathe r than o f re sentment . It neve r o ccu rre d to him to complain . His inte re stwas in his wo rk fo r the time be ing— as much in a plo ddingve rification o f the Fie ld

.

o f Naseby , as in the inspire dinte rpretation o f a go lden Easte rn lay 1 “ So long as he

fe lt he had done his part tho ro ughly , an d to the be st o f hispowe rs , he was sove re ignly content .So live d Old Fitz an d so he died to have the

minute st , half-legendary , scrapings o f his characte r lit upin the grave with a blaze o f renown . No r without reaso n ,

as I since re ly think though I have be en expo sing myse lf ,I know , to condemnation , alike , fo r exagge rate d praiseo f the ve rse , by pe rsons neve r touched with the rapture o f

the Englished Rubaiyat as me re harmony, an d by vo tarie s


COVENTRY PATMORE

1 823— 1 896

As I read Coventry Patmo re , I wonde r if the re b e n o t

a se cre t re ligion among e ducated women . Man wou ld haven o right to b e surprise d if they kept in the ir boudo irs , the irscho o lro o m de sks , their wardrobe s , along with Jane Eyrean d The Christian Year , copie s o f The Ange l in the House ,

an d Victo rie s o f Love . Be fo re they go down in the mo rn ing ,while they dre ss fo r dinne r , afte r o r be fo re the ir eveningpraye r , they might we ll find time fo r a few ve rse s , if n o tfo r a bo ok . May the re n o t b e ladie s ’ clubs at which he isregularly studied , Girton Extensio n le ctu re s at whi ch heis expounde d ? When men praise the ir Milton , Wo rdswo rth , Browning , Tennyson , d o they neve r hear Patmo re

’

s

name whispe re d by feminine lips ? True that he is se ldommentione d openly , an d n ow le ss o ften than thirty yearsago . It may me re ly b e ano the r pro o f o f the adage that halfo f us know no thing o f the way in whi ch the o the r half live .

I find it hard to credit that the o n e real po et who pro claime dthe right divine o f women to b e ado red n o le ss afte r thanbefo re mar riage , an d mo re so as wive s an d mo the rs than as

bride s , has ceased to b e habitually reve red by the ir sex .

Po etesses d o n o t count,be sides that they rare ly ar e genu ine

woman-love rs . Until Coventry Patmo re po ets had be enwont to e n d the ir wo rship as so on as the Altar steps we rereache d . As he boasts

,it was re serve d fo r him, last o f all,

to sing the first o f theme s .

COVENTRY PATMORE 243

He trace s it in a se ries o f so ft-swee t idylls , ve ry fullyfrom the wo o ingto the we dding-ring , an d thence , in o utline ,rathe r shadowy , through happy years o f nuptial an d

parental love . The husband-love r prays to be inspire d as

chronicler

Thou , Primal Love , who gran test wingsAnd vo ices to the wo odland birds ,Grant me the power of saying thingsTo o simple an d to o swee t fo r wo rds.1

His verse sufficiently prove s that his petition was granted .

With charming de licacy he de scribe s the discove ry, inHono ria Chu rchill— playing

The Wedding March ofMende lssohn— 2

o f the girl whom he had known as a child six years befo rethe reve lation to himse lf o f his passion through a passingtremo r at the thought of a po ssible rival an d its e levatinge ffe ct

Whatever in her sight I ’d seemI’

d really be I’

d never blendWith my de light in he r a dream’Twould change he r che ek to comprehend .

“

affe ction to be unreturned , he wo uld be

If fate Love ’s dear ambition mar ,And lead his breast with hope less pain,

An d se em to blo t out sun an d star,Lo ve , lost o r won , is coun tless gain

His so rrow boasts a secre t blissWhi ch so rrow of itse lf begu il

An d Love in tears to o noble isFo r pity, save of Love in smiles.4

Fo r him it enve lops the universe spreading , in the eyesQ 2


of the sle eple ss watche r , unce rtain as y e t o f the issue of hissuit , a grim pallo r at dawn ove r

The landscape , all made sharp an d clearBy stillness, as a face by death.

“

A little later the ble ssed answe r has been given an d the

same landscape is tran sfigured’Twas when the spousal time ofMay

Hangs all the hedge with bridal wreaths,An d air

’

s so sweet the bo som gayGives thanks fo r every breath it breathes

That I , in whom the swee t time wrought ,Lay stre tch

’

d within a lone ly glade ,Aban d on

’

d to de licious thoughtBeneath the so ftly twink ling shade .

The leaves , all stirrin g , mimick ’

d we llA neighbouring rush of rivers co ld ,And, as the sun o r shadow fe ll ,So these were gre en an d those were go ld

In dim re cesses hyacinths d ro op’

d ,

And breadths of primro se lit the air ,Which, wanderin g through the wo odland , sto op

’

d

And gathe r’

d perfumes here an d thereUpon the spray the squirre l swung ,And care less songsters , six o r seven ,

Sang lo fty son gs the leaves among,Fit fo r the ir o n ly listener , Heaven .

“

If the re cou ld be a drawback to the wo oe r ’s own e cstasy ,

it was cause d by its completene ss

She answering , cwn’d that she lov ’

d to o .

The avowal o ve rwhe lme d the victo r with compassion , evenshame , at his lady paramount

’s abdication o f her throneBy that consentin g scared an d sho ck

’

d,

Such change came o’

e r her mien an d mo odThat I fe lt start led an d half mo ck

’d

At winning what I had n o t wo o ’d .



o f all, her bridegro om ,fir st become s b eautified fo r him by

mate rnity, as with penitent astonishment he avows

When the n ew-made Mo ther smiled ,She seemed herse lf a little child,Dwellin g at large beyond the lawBy which, till then, I judged an d saw ,

And that fond glow, which she fe lt stirFo r it , su ffused my heart fo r herTo whom , from the weak babe , and thenceTo me , an influen t inno cence ,Happy, reparative of life ,Came , an d she was inde ed my wife ,As there , lovely with love , she lay .

“

It is a furthe r stage when he discove rs Jane , in the com

pan ion ship o f Hono ria— the obj e ct o f his early ido latrytransfo rmed into a Divinity he rself . On e step still onwardan d w ife ’s , mo the r

’s , godde ss’s love , that had neve r tire d

o r fainted , turns back the cu rrent o f time , devo tion , an dpassion , to the steps o f the marriage Altar itse lf an d ,

inthe dead woman’s written legacy o f triumph

,

Death, which takes me from his Side ,Shows me , in very de ed , his bride ! 1 0

Alas , fond wretch !W e pass from gentle fluency in Victo rie s o f Lo ve to

the strange st o f wild labyrinths o f fancy mini stering tothe o lo gy, in The Unknown Ero s . Patmo r e

’

s entreaty wasfar from granted if he we re se riou s in be se eching Uraniato inspire him with

Chan ts as o f a lone ly thrush’

s throatAt latest eve ,That do es in each calm no teBo th joy an d grieveNo tes few an d strong an d fin e ,Gilt with sweet day’s decline ,An d sad with promise of a different sun .

COVENTRY PATMORE 247

But , in compensation , the who le is full o f grand spasmso f tragic emo tion po ssibly, o f allego rie s as e labo rate as inThe Purple Island ; ce rtainly, o f enigmas , whi ch I

‘ co uldn o t wish to b e a thought , a throb , plaine r . I am contentwith the beauty, if feve red , which is indisputable .

What a cry o f pro te sting , unavai ling anguish is theDeparture

I t was n o t like your great and gracious waysD o you , that have nought o ther to lament ,Never, my Love , repentOf how, that July afterno on,You went,With sudden, unin te lligible phrase ,An d frighten

’

d ey e ,

Upon your jo urn ey o f so many days ,Without a single kiss, o r a go odbyeI knew in deed that y ou were parting so onAnd so we sate , within the low sun ’s rays,Y ou whispering to me , fo r your vo ice was weak,Yo ur harrowing praise .

We ll , it was we ll ,To hear y ou such things speak ,And I could te llWhat made yo ur eye s a growing glo om o f love ,As a warm South-wind sombres aMarch grove .

An d it was like yo ur great an d gracious waysTo turn your talk o n daily thin gs , my Dear,Lifting the luminous , pathe tic lashT o le t the laughter flash,

Whilst I drew near,Because y ou spoke so low that I could scarcely hear.B ut all at once to leave me at the last ,Mo re at the wonde r than the lo ss aghast,With huddled , uninte lligible phrase ,And fr ighten

’

d ey e ,

And go your journey o f all daysWith n o t on e kiss, o r a go odbye ,An d the only love less lo ok the lo ok with which y ou pass

’

d’Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways ? “


If aught could be as pathetically, affectionate ly crue l aswhat— though it may have an inner an d metaphysicallytheo logical meaning— reads like a wife ’s plo t to spare herhu sband the agony o f a farewe ll on the brink o f an opengrave , it is his charge that the me rcy had be en treason tolove . His wakeful nights ar e harassed by reco llections o fhis Love ’s pre sentiments ; by the bitte r thought that heo ught to have re cognized in them a warning, howeve ruse le ss , of the impending blow

If I were dead ,’ you ’d some times say ,‘Po o r Child

The dear lipsquiver ’d as they spake ,An d the tears brakeFrom eyes which, n o t to grieve me , brightly smiled.

And did y ou think , when y ou so cried an d smiled ,How I , in lone ly nights, should lie awake ,An d o f tho se wo rds your full avengers makePo o r Child, po o r Child 1 “

Then , when he falls asleep , come s , to he ighten , blacken ,

the grie f o f be reavement , a recu rrent nightmare , in whi ch

I the e , in mo rtal so rrow, still pursueThro ’ so rdid stree ts an d lanesAnd house s brown an d bareAn d many a haggard stairOchrous with ancient stain sB ut ever, at the last , my way I winTo where , with perfe ctly sad patience nur st

By so rry comfo rt o f assured wo rst ,Ingrain

’

d in fretted cheek an d lips that pine ,On pallet po o rThou ly est , stricken sick,Beyond love ’s cure ,By all the wo rld’s neglect , but chiefly mine .

And y et anothe r dream— d ream o n dream— by the openw indow , outside whi ch climbed an odo rou s azalea



Fo r , o n a table drawn be side his head,H e had put , within his reach,A box of coun ters , an d a r ed -ve in ’d stone ,A pie ce of glass, abraded by the beach,

An d six o r seven she lls,A bo ttle with bluebe lls ,And two French copper co ins , ranged there with care ful art ,To comfo rt his sad heart .So when that night I pray

’

d

To God , I wept , an d saidAh, when at last we lie with tranced breath,No t vexing the e in death,

An d The n rememberest of what toysW e made ou r j oys ,How weakly understo od ,Thy great commanded go od .

Then, fatherly n o t lessThan I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay ,Thou ’ lt leave Thy wrath, an d say ,

I will be so rry fo r their childishness. ” 1 “

The succe ssion o f the entire vo lume to The Ange l in theHouse , with itsqu ie t , limpid grace , almo st gaiety, an d tothe almo st tamene ss o f Victo rie s o f Love , is among thecurio sitie s o f po e tical lite ratu re . I can discove r n o lite raryaffinity be twe en this an d e ithe r o f the earlie r wo rks . Didn o t the hi sto ry o f po etry fu rnish many example s o f exo ticgrowths in e stablished reputations , it would be hard tounde rstand the phenomenon . A bright reasonablene ss ,amusing itself with passion , is the distinctive no te o f

Coventry Patmo r e’

s previou s love -dramas . His typ e o f

womanho od neve r lo se s her balance— is such,

even at its brighte st play,That her mirth was like the sun shine in the closin g of the day .

1 7

In grie f an d adve rsity her emo tions wou ld have been as

discree tly o rde re d ; an d in weal an d wo e the he ro must

COVENTRY PATMORE 25 1

have matche d her . No t to speak o f Jane an d Frede rick ,n o be ings could b e imagine d le ss like ly than Hono ria an d

Fe lix Vaughan to to ss to an d fro the thunde rbo lts o f Ero s .

Obviou sly it is vain to attempt to link the two se ts o fsto rie s an d the ir characte rs . Any clue s se eming to lead inthat dire ction so on break in the hand . The utmo st whichcan be asse rte d is the existence o f a pair o f situations ,o r , rathe r , trains o f fe e ling , with a re lation be twe en them ,

mo re o f oppo sition than re semblance . The Ange l in theHouse is a picture o f human love , o f the pure st that earthcan o ffe r . Be ing o f earth it is mo rtal an d The UnknownEro s may exhibit the en d o f such in disease an d death , inconjugal de spair , an d an o rphan’s de so lation . By the Sideis a second pictu re o f ano the r love widowe d , o rphane dto o as passionate , y e t immo rtal , an d triumphant in themidst o f so rrow an d abasement a pe rse cute d Chu rch .

An analogy is traceable , if bare ly, be twe en the wr eck o f

love in Tennyson’s Maud,raving into madne ss , heale d by

a Be rse rke r fit , an d Patmo re’

s ido latry o f home , flamingin its ruins into a raptu re o f Catho lic mysticism . A t allevents , The Unknown Ero s marks such a revo lution in thepo et . The re was , as he do e s n o t deny, a struggle be fo re hewande red far from his o ld

Crystal-flowing so urce .

Fo r an instant inde ed the re may have been an impulse toturn back . Ame lia? “ in its lodging within the precincts o fthe furnace o f Ero s , is a breath of pious , simple tende rne ssas to o is the exqu isite pictu re of the Virgin-Mo ther ado ringat once De ity an d Infancy

All Mo thers wo rship little fe et ,And kiss the very groun d they’ve trodB ut , ah, thy little Baby swe e tW ho was indeed thy God “0


B ut the attraction o f the light whi ch

Shone from the so litary peak at Edgbaston,21

was to o strong . Patmo r e’

s Mu se learnt to speak

A language dead ? “

Instead o fputtingwo rds to aWeddingMarch o fMendelssohn ,

she sang hence fo rth of De liciae Sapientiae d e Amo re “3 an dAuras o f De light .

24

Hearth an d home lo st the ir mo st sympathetic minstre lpo etry, I think , has gained . Patmo r e

’

s earlier ve rse isclear an d sparkling . Often it has charm . Whe re it islacking is in strength , impe tu s . He disco ve red that he hada go spe l to preach,

a me ssage to de live r ; an d the be lie ftransfo rmed him . The advent o f a n ew faith was as ifa fo untain o f inspiration— bitte r wate rs an d sweet— hadsu ddenly we lled up within . The flo o d is pe rturbed an d

angry ; but it carrie s away . Any who de sire to know whatpowe r , fire ,

Patmo re had in him , mu st study n o t so muchThe Ange l in the Hou se as The Unknown Ero s .

Po ems by Coven try Patmore v ol. iii, Victories of Love vo l. iv ,_The

Unkn own Eros. George Be ll Son s (n o date ) .The Unkn own E ro s, by Coven try Patmore . Third Ed ition . G . Be llSon s, 1890.

1 The Ange l in the House Pre lud e s, 5 , The Impossibility.7 Ibid . , Cathedral Clo se , 2 .

3 Ibid . , The Morn in g Call, 3 .

4 Ibid . , Pre lud e s, 2 .

5 I bid . ,Go ing to Church, 1 .

5 Ibid . , The Revulsion , 1 .

7 Ibid . , The Abdication , 4, 5 . Ibid . , Husban d and W ife , 1 .

Victorie s o f Love , From Fred erick .

1 Ibid . , From Jan e t o Mrs. Graham .

1 1 The Unkn own E ro s, Pro em.

1 “ Ibid . , 8, Departure .

1 “ Ibid . , 14, If I were Dead .

’

Ibid . , 9 , E urydice .

1 “ Ibid ., 7 , The Azalea.

1 “ Ibid 10, The Toys.


D ANTE GAERIEL ROSSETTI

1 828— 1 882

THERE ar e reade rs who like the ir po ets unmixed— po e tsonly, n o t philanthropists o r misanthropists , the o lo gianso r sceptics

,me taphysicians o r bio logists , wits , satirists ,

humo rists, as we ll . Ro ssetti was made to su it them .

Ju st an d noble sentiments ado rn his ve rse . Its scene rycou ld have be en represented only by a painter o f genius ,a thoughtfu l obse rve r o f natu re . Allusions continuallyte stify to the student bo th o f men an d o f bo oks . The

things are , howeve r whe re they ar e so le ly to serve thedemands o f the po e t S ar t . He is po e t in eve ry line , eve ryturn of a phrase , in the mode lling o f eve ry cadence . Ina piece o f a hundre d an d e ighty stanzas I find bu t o n e

which is pro saic . H e might have seeme d o f a nature to ofine ly constituted , to o subtle , to o exclusive , fo r a balladwrite r . Whateve r instinct , pe rhaps wearine ss o f the so lecompanionship o f his own emo tions , the craving fo r an

appeal to wide r sympathi e s , turne d his Muse in that dircetion , as po e t he accepted free ly its obligat ions . Be ing thetho rough artist he was , the mo st fastidiou s of wri te rsbecame plain

,rough , an d brusque the faultlessly metrical

versifier stumble d in half rhyme s . It can plainly be

d isce rne d that the uncouthne ss , the irr egularitie s , ar e as

intentional as they ar e popu larly e ffective . I be lieve thatthe White Ship

,the King’s Trage dy, we ird Ro se Mary

itself— Be ryl Songs an d all— would at a Penny Read ing be'

sure o f che e rs an d tears , even o f comprehension , if partial ,from the humblest audience .

-The Three rank among the

DAN TE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 25 5

fo remo st o f the ir frankly popular class in English ve rse ; an dthey are the wo rk o f o n e o f the mo st ae sthetic o f po e ts .

Take the first an d trace how ,unde r cove r o f a sto ry

fitte d to captivate a peasant , a me chanic , a chi ld , as fin ea web o f thought an d fe e ling is wo rke d as could have be enspun fo r a study in brain-wo rk . Lawle ss licence is dulychastise d in Knight an d damse l , but as the climax o f a

mo st intricate game o f cro ss purpo se s . Out o f a mo the r ’ sbeautiful pride in a daughte r ’s imagine d pu rity

Mary mine that art Mary’s rose ,

is hamme re d an engine at once to pie rce the guilty heart ,an d to slay its betraye r . The love r who wou ld have livedif loyal , die s fo r his faithle ssne ss . The Be ryl -stone itse lf ,in all its brilliancy, perishe s fo r its perfid io us complicitywith devils .

The magical jewe l refle cte d the future in its gleamingdepths

,but to none but a pur e maid . It had be en read by

the girl in he r childho od . She was to read it n ow ,at he r

mo the r ’s di ctate,to learn on whi ch ro ad an ambush might

be laid to take the life o f he r affian ced lo ve r,Sir Jame s o f

He r onhaye ,as he ro de to be shriven at Ho ly Cro ss . She

dared n o t te l l he r mo the r that she fulfille d the fate dcondition n o longe r

Pale Ro se Mary sank to the flo o rThe night will come if the day is o

’

e r

Nay , heaven takes co unse l , star with star,An d he lp shall reach your heart from afarA bride you ’ ll be , as a maid y ou are .

’

The lady unbound he r j ewe lled zoneAn d drew from her robe the Beryl-stone .

Shaped it was to a shadowy sphere ,Wo rld o f our wo rld, the sun ’s compeer,That bears and buries the to iling year.


With shuddering light ’twas stirred and strewn ,

Like the cloud-nest of the wading mo onFreaked it was as the bubble ’s ball ,Rainbow—hued through a mi sty pal! ,Like the middle light of the wate rfall .The lady uphe ld the wondrous thingIll fare ,’ she said , with a fien d

’

s-fairingB ut Moslem blo od poured forth like wineCan hallow He ll ’neath the Sacred SignAnd my lo rd brought this from Palestine .

Spirits who fear the Blessed Ro odDrove fo rth the accursed multitudeThat heathen wo rship housed herein,Never again such home to win ,

Save only by a Christian’s sin .

’

Low spake maiden Ro se Mary0 mo ther mine , if I should n o t seeNay , daughte r, cover your face n o mo re ,But bend love ’s heart to the hidden lo re ,And y ou shall se e n ow as here to fo re .

’ 1

She gaze s , and pe rce ive s by the broken wate r-gate armedmen

,as watching fo r the ir prey, with the Warden o f Ho ly

cleugh,Sir Jame s ’s swo rn fee

,at the ir head . All e lsewhe re

is clear ; e xcept that,o f se ven hi ll -cle fts on the road to

Ho lycleugh’

s castle -steep,the se venth is brimmed with

mist The mo ther cease s to fearSmall hope , my girl , fo r a he lm to hideIn mists that cling to a wild moo rside :So on they me lt with the wind and sun ,

And scarce would wait such deeds to be doneGod send the ir snares be the wo rst to shun.

’

The vision had passe d an d as the Lady, content , W rapsthe stone clo se in her silken ro be

,

a music rained through the ro omLow it splashed like a swee t star-spray,And sobbed like tears at the heart ofMay ,

And died as laughter dies away.“



He knew he r face , an d he heard her cry,And he said , Put back she must n o t d ie

An d back with the current’s fo rce they re e lLike a leaf that ’s drawn to a water-whe e l.

Low the po o r ship leaned o n the tideO

’

e r the naked kee l as she best might glide ,The sister to iled to the bro ther’s side .

He reached an car to he r from be low,

And stiffened his arms to clutch her so .

But n ow from the ship some spied the boat ,An d Saved was the cry from many a thr eat .

And downto the boat they leaped and fe llI t turned as a bu cket turns in a we ll ,And no thing was the re but the surge an d swe ll .

The Prince that was an d the King to come ,There in an instant gone to his do om .

He was a Prince o f lust an d prideH e showed n o grace till the hour he died .

When he should be king , he o ft would vow,

He’

d yoke the peasant to his own plough.

O’

e r him the ships score the ir furrows n ow.

God only kn ows where his sou l did wake ,B ut I saw him die fo r his siste r’s sake .

“

To the mainyard,rent from the mast

,two

,Be r o ld

,the

butche r ’s son o f Rouen , an d Gode froy d e l’Aigle , we reclinging

,when

10 a third man ro se o’

e r the wave ,And we said, Thank God us three may He saveHe clutched to the yard wi th pan tin g stare ,And we lo oked an d knew Fitz-Stephen there .

He clun g, an d What of the Prin ce quo th he .

Lost , lost we cried . He cried , W o e on me

And lo osed his ho ld, an d sank through the sea.

“

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 25 9

I d o n o t ventine to require,as a right

,o f The King ’s

Tragedy an y explanation o f its cho ice o the r than the

fascination o f the pro longed ho rro r itse lf . W e fe e l theawe o f the suspense

,be fo re the assassins had re turned fo r

a furthe r search afte r the king ’s hiding-place to the ro omtenante d n ow only by he ro ic Cathe rine Douglas

,he lple ss

from the to rture o f he r shatte red arm

Through the open do o rThe night-wind wailed round the empty room,

An d the rushes sho ck on the flo o r.

An d the bed dro oped low in the dark recessWhence the arras was rent away

And the firelight still shone ove r the spaceWhere ou r hidden secret lay .

And the rain had ceased , an d the moonbeams litThe window high in the wall ,Bright beams that On the plank that I knewThr ough the painted pan e d id fall ,

And gleamed with the splendour of Sco tland ’s crownAnd shie ld armorial.

But then a great wind swept up the skiesAnd the climbin g mo on fe ll backAnd the royal blazonfled from the flo o r,An d nought remained o n its track

An d high in the darkened window-paneThe shie ld an d the crown were black .

7

The murde r -scene is depicte d with the me rcile ss fide lityo f an artist ’s eye . Even in blo odie r-red glare s the re lentle ssne ss o f swe e t Queen Jane to the assassins of he r un

burie d husband

The month ofMarch wo re o n apaceAnd n ew fresh couriers faredStill from the country of the Wild Sco tsWith news of the traito rs snared .

R 2

260

.

FIVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE

And evermo re as I bro ught he r wo rd ,She ben t to he r dead kin g Jame s,

An d in the co ld car with fi re -draw n breathShe spoke the traito rs’ names.

Bu t when the name o f Sir Robe rt GraemeW as theon e She had to give ,

I ran to ho ld he r up from the flo o rFo r the fro th was o n he r lips , an d so reI feared that she cou ld n o t live .

An d n ow o f the ir do oms dread tidings came ,An d o f to rments fierce an d dire

And nought she spake ,— she had ceased to speak ,B ut her eyes were a sou l o n fire .

But when I to ld he r the bitte r en dOf the stern an d just award ,

She leaned o ’

e r the bie r , an d thrice three timesShe kissed the lips o f he r lo rd .

An d then she said,My King , they are dead

An d she kne lt o n the chape l flo o r,And whispered low with a strange proud smile ,James

,James, ' they suffered more 8

It was the joy o f vengeance ; an d the po e t se ems toshare it . Y e t I suspe ct that he had be en thinking mo reo f the singe r of the King ’s Quair than o f the crowne dre fo rme r o f wrong , the administrato r o f e ven justiceto high an d low ; le ss o f the Avenge r o f treason againsthe r royal c onso rt than o f he r who from the time whenfirst she was wedded , o ft would sigh

To be bo rn a kingAn d oft alon g the wayWhen she saw the home ly lovers pass,She has said, alack the day 9

who se farewe l l cry Ove r her slain husband -lo ve r was



Sonne t -building was in his blo o d . The rapture o f Dantewo rship constitute d it his pro fe ssion . From his mode lsin the Vita Nuo va

,an d the cycle o f the Maste r ’s harbinge rs

an d companions,he learnt how to e xtract the utmo st

music from the jangling o f the curious under-ve sture o f

shackle s . His inimitable translations show his skill . Partienlarly admirable in his o riginal wo rk is the serie s he entitledThe House o f Life . In it

,with a hand comparative ly free ,

he constructs,brick by brick

, to be o ve rlaid with a marbleco ating

,a temple o f Lo ve . I confe ss the marve l o f the

masonry ; in e ach segment the inte rdependence at once ,

an d independence ,with final unity . Ove r an d abo ve all

blows an air o f re fre shing spontane ity . They to whom the

rigours o f the me tre ,e spe cially in a chain with a hundred

links,are distaste fu l

,may fin d a pleasant surprise in The

House o f Life . They will,I think

,acknowledge that it

has pro ve d it po ssible,if by n o means a thing of co urse ,

fo r a sonne t to be a poem also .

Unfair as it always is to te ar away membe rs o f a seri e s ,I am compe lled by the laws o f space to o ffe r spe cimens only

On this swe e t bank your head thrice swee t an d dearI lay , an d spread your hair on e ither side ,An d see the newbo rn wo od flowers bashful-eyedLo ok through the go lden tresses he re an d there .

On these debateable bo rders of the yearSpring’s fo o t half falters scarce she y e t may knowThe leafless blacktho rn blo ssom from the snowAnd through he r bowers the wind’s way still is clear.

But April’s sun strikes down the glades to -day

So shut your eye s upturn ed, an d fee l my kissCre ep, as the Spring n ow thrills through every spray,Up you r warm throat to your warm lips fo r thisI s even the hour o f Love ’s swo rn suit-service ,With whom co ld hearts are counted cast-away.1 1

DAN TE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 263

fo r the contrast o f a mo re se rious no te

The lo st days of my life until to -day ,What were they, could I see them o n the stre e tLie as they fe ll Would they be ears o fwheatSown once fo r fo od but trodden into clayOr go lden co ins squande red and still to payOr drops of blo od dabblin g the gui lty fee t ‘

2

Or such spilt wate r as in dreams must cheatThe undying throats of He ll , athirst alway ‘

2

I d o n o t see them here but after deathGod knows I know the faces I shall see ,

Each on e a murdered se lf, with low last breathI am thyse lf ,— what hast thou done to me

An d I— and I— thyself, ’— lo each o n e saith,An d thou thyse lf to all eternity 1 2

The vo lume o f Ballads an d Sonne ts contains little o r

no thing impe rfe ct . The re st o f the gene ral co lle ction o f

poems is n o t liable to that somewhat invidious praise .

Among its contents are pie ce s beautiful only to a few

o f whom I myse lf am n o t on e— an d the re are pie ce s whi chmust

,I should suppo se ,

be be autifu l to all ; fo r e xample ,the line s , Sudden Light , o n that phase o f se cond sightwhich shadows the past from the pre sent

I have been here befo re ,B ut when o r how I cann o t te ll

I know the grass beyond the do o r,The swe e t keen sme ll ,

The sighing soun d , the lights around the sho re .

Y o u have be en mine befo re ,How long ago I may n o t know

But just when at that swallow’s soarYour n e ck turn ed so ,

Some ve il did fall, —I knew it all o f yo re .

264‘ FIVE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH VERSE

Has this be en thus befo reAnd shall n o t thus time ’s eddyin g flightStill with our lives our love resto reIn death’s de spite ,

And day and night yie ld on e de light once mo re 27 1 3

Love lier still is The Po rtrait

This is he r po rtrait as she wasI t seems a thing to wonder on ,

As though mine image in the glassShou ld tarry when myse lf am gone .

I gaze until she se ems to stir,Until mine eyes almost averThat n ow, even n ow, the swe et lips partTo breathe the wo rds o f the swe e t heart

An d y et the earth is over he r .

In painting her I shrined he r face’

Mid mystic tre es , whe re light falls inHardly at all a covert placeWhere y ou might thin k to fin d a d in

Of doubtful talk , an d a live flameWande ring , an d many a shape who se nameNo t itse lf knowe th, an d old d ew ,

And your own fo o tsteps me e tin g y ou ,

And all things go in g as they came .

A de ep d im wo od an d the re she stan dsAs in that wo od that day fo r so

W as the still movemen t o f he r handsAnd such the pure lin e ’ s graciousflow .

And passing fair the type must se em ,

Unkn own the presence an d the dream .

’

Tis she : though of herse lf, alasLess than he r shadow o n the grass,

Or than her image in the stream .



Be side s be auty , he re the re is tende rne ss an d so far the

pie ce is , fo r Ro sse tti , unique . The prevailing want o f thatprope rty is a natural consequence o f the empire o ve r himo f on e canon an d go spe l conne cting all hi s many characte ristics . From o ld memo rie s I indicate d it when I started . Now

that I clo se the re view o f my mo re re cent impre ssions o f hispo ems I find my be lie f confirmed . Mo re than with She lley—who was a prie st o f humanity as we l l as singe r— mo re

e ven than with Keats— in whom a distinct cu rr ent o f youth ’swarm blo od

,un chi lled by the shadow o f death

,is pe rceptible

-the rule with Ro sse tti is to obey n o o the r maste r an den d than art . W hile he re cognize s the existence o f o the rimpulse s

,aims

,an d condi tions— while he make s use o f them

himse lf— he ne ve r forge ts,o r pre tends to fo rge t , that fo r

him the ir obje ct is to se rve as poe tic material . He shrinksfrom n o sadne ss

,so urne ss

,ugline ss

,which .will widen the

compass o f hi s lyre . I d o n o t suppo se I am libe lling thegeneral educate d public if I find in that impe rious e clec

t icism ,o r ae sthe ticism ,

a key to his lack at all time s o f

common popular favou r . I canno t affe ct to be sur prisedwhen I re co lle ct some o f his be autifu l monstro sitie s . Afte rall

,it is n o t an unwho le some instinct which demands o f

po etry that it shall be life ’s conse crated ministe r , sanctifying

,purifying

, an d swee te ning . Ro sse tti the po e t re cogni zedn o such o bligation an y mo re than Ro sse tti the painte r .

Acco rdingly , the po e t , like the painte r,probably will

continue to be wo rshippe d by a se ct,an d n o t by a

nation .

However,po e try is an independent Kingdo m with its

own laws . It ne ithe r is obliged , n o r de sire s , to be e xclusive .

Its bo rde rs are wide . They have made ro om fo r Dryden as

fo r Milton ,fo r Burns as fo r Cowpe r , fo r Byron as fo r

Wo rdswo rth .

“

W e ll can they contain Ro sse tti also . Po ems

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 267

to o have a be ing as we l l as the poe t an d,so long as the

language lasts , the re are many o f his which de se rve alwaysto be re ad , an d some which will be .

The Po etical W orks o f Dan te Gabrie l Rossetti, ed . by W . M. Rossetti.On e vol. E llis E lvey, 189 1 .

(Ballad s an d So nn ets, by Dan te Gabrie l Ro ssetti. Fourth Editio n .

E llis W hite ,(The Early Italian Po ets, A . D . 1 100—1200- 1300. Together withDante ’s Vita Nuova, translated by D . G . Ro ssetti. )

1 Rose Mary, Part I .

3 Ibid .

3 Ibid .

Ibid . , Part II .

5 The W hite Ship .Ibid .

7 The King’s Tragedy.8 Ibid .

9 Ibid .

1 ° I bid .

1 ‘ Yo uth’

s Spring Tribute (The House o f Life— a Sonn et Sequen ce ) ,No . 14 .

1 “ Lost Days N o . 86.

1 “ Sudd en Light1 ‘ The Po rtrait, stan zas 1 , 3 , 4, 7 , 10, 1 1 , 1 2 .

WILLIAM MORRIS

1 834— 1 896

TAKE from the she lf a bo ok by William Mo rris , n ew o r

o ld to y ou ; read o r r e -read in it an d y o u will be ve ryunwilling to put it down . The fie ld is wide . The vo lumemay be the wondrou s que st of the Go lden Fle e ce ; the

narrative enchants as if Orpheus again we re the musician .

A saga o f the Vo lsungs may have furni shed the theme an d

y o u find charm in a rio t o f pe rfidy an d slaughte r . Or itmay be a sto ry from the mytho logy o f Gre e ce o f Pe rseus ,Psyche

,A lce stis

,Pygmalion

,Be llerophon . Ye t ano the r

vo lume an d y o u are arbitrating be twe en fallen Guineve rean d he r accuse r

,Sir Gauwain e sitting with Laun ce lo t

,an d

his remo rse,be side King Ar thur ’s tomb o r watching with

pure Sir Galahad fo r the Sangreal . Valiant de e ds are

de scribed,an d shame fu l o r he ro ic do oms , o f Gascon knights

an d Gascon thieve s to rturing o ptions be twe en somesudden en d to gay ,

glo rious life,an d its continuance with

dishonour . The who le are a o f fancy,histo ry

,fable

,Mo rris

claims fo r his own,whe reve r his genius divine s a po ssi

bility o f fo o tho ld . An ywhe re on the wo rld-wide heath hero o fs -in a house

,lighting a fir e o n the hearth to pro ve his

title . Eve rywhe re y ou to o have be en at home with him .

Y o u pass o ut,an d fo rge t his e xistence . It is a riddle ve ry

hard t o gue ss why the reader who has gladly warme d hishands by the blaze

, so rare ly come s back ; why, afte rhaving given apparently so much o f himse lf to the po e t ,he carrie s little o r no thing o f the po et away .



That I am beautiful , Lo rd , even as y ou

An d your dear mo ther why did I fo rge tY o u we re so beautiful , an d go od , an d true ,That y ou loved me so , Guen eve re 0 y e t

If even I go to hell , I canno t cho o seB ut love y ou , Christ , y ea, though I cann o t ke epFromlovin g Launce lo t O Christ must I loseMy own heart’s love see , though I canno t we ep ,

Y e t am I very so rry fo r my sinMo reover , Christ , I canno t bear that he ll

I am mo st fain to love y ou ,an d to win

A place in heaven some time— I canno t te llSpeak to me , Christ I kiss, kiss, kiss your fe etAh ! n ow I weep !

’

The maid said , By the tombH e waite th fo r y ou ,

lady, ’ co in ing flee t,No t knowing what wo e filled up all the ro om .

1

He found fo o d fo r sympathy an d de light alike in the

dauntle ss adventurousne ss o f the Argonauts,in Me dea ’s

fratricide an d lie s,an d in Jason ’s ungrate fu l infide lity .

Oppo rtun itie s we re waiting eve rywhe re to reward hisinsight an d industry

,whe the r in re constructions o f a savage

feudalism,o r in visions o f demo cratic Gardens o f Eden to

be do tte d about the happy wilds o f re -affo re sted, repentantBlo omsbury . Nay ,

his romance upho lste red straightlegged chairs scattered he re an d there be side pomegran atewall-pape rs . A l l appealed to his instinct fo r picture squevarie ty

,his ho rro r o f earthine ss an d mono tony . He stamped

himse lf,hi s taste s an d di staste s , visibly an d tangibly, o n

co ttage s an d palace s by the thousand o r ten thousand .

Spiritually he was audible in vo lume afte r vo lume o f

admirable verse an d pro se . Unlike his po e t-pee rs , he d idn o t abso rb his subje ct into himse lf rather, he sought toinco rpo rate himse lf into it .

‘His aim was to suffuse histo ryan d life with the atmo sphere o f lo ve ly po ssibilitie s he

WILLIAM MORRIS 27 1

discove red in them . He de sire d to inspire and invigo rateby de scribing bo th as he saw them . Strange ly -eno ugh,

the re sult is n o t the robust picture o f actual things which hemay b e pre sume d to have contemplated . Each succe ssivescene flo ats in a haze of dreamy sunshine , through whichthe uproar an d sto rm o f human passion soun d as me lodi ouslyunreal to the reade r as the e cho o f past labo urs to the

lo tus -eating sailo rs . Ever in vain the po e t raise s hispro te sting battle -cry of the tale he has

to te ll ,Of the wonderful days a-coming , when all

Shall be better than we ll .2

Neve r was Muse readie r to re -se ttle Past,Pre sent

,an d

Future . A chie f bar to he r succe ss in attracting co lonists isthe requisition she make s upon them o f abundant le isurean d patience . There are tricks o f style which be comewith repe tition trying in the e xtreme . Such are the habito f invete rate re frains , an d a pervading varni sh o f me lancho ly which an invariable swee tne ss do e s anyt hing butre lieve . But , above all

,diffusene ss is carrie d to an e xtent

which pays n o regard to the brevity o f human life . Itis the mo re ve xatious that Mo rris o ccasionally indicate show he can pre sent a scene in a way to make on e catchone ’s breath . His be se tting vice in ano the r shape cause shim to steep legends of prehi sto ric Gre e ce , No rman Sicily ,Scandinavian fo lklo re

,in on e same o intment

,fragrant an d

de lightfu l in itse lf, but almo st repulsive when foun d to bene ithe r individual , n o r native .

Ye t e ven so— what a fo rce the age lo st when he diedHow utte rance s o f his with all the ir faults dwe l l o n an y

memo ry whi ch has once taken ho ld o f them It may b e

a me re e xe rcise in rhythm ,like Two Red Ro se s acro ss the

Mo on . I read the crazy ballad the o the r day ; an d the


fe e ling with which I had ‘ heard it re cited by an Oxfo rdfriend , sho rtly afte r its publication

,at once came back .

The j ingle o f it had staye d with me unfo rgo tten fo r fiftyyears

,an d unfo rge ttableThere was a lady lived in a hall,Large her eyes, an d slim an d tallAnd ever she sun g from no on to no on,Two red ro ses acro ss the mo on.

’

There was a Knight came riding byIn early spring , when the roads were dryAnd he heard that lady sin g at the no o n ,

Two r ed ro ses acro ss the mo on.

’

Y e t none the mo re he stopp’

d at all,

B ut he rode a-gallop past the hallAnd left that lady singin g at noon,Two r ed ro ses acro ss the mo on.

’

Be cause , fo rso o th, the battle was se t ,An d the scarlet an d blue had go t to be met ,He rode o n the spur till the next warm no onTwo r ed ro ses acro ss the mo on.

’

That was the battle -cry he raised an d be fo re it an d hisgo ld armour down went the scarle t an d blue . Re turningas victo r

,this time he halts at the hall an d the lady

Under the may she sto op’

d to the crown ,

All was go ld, there was no thing of brownAn d the ho rns blew up in the hall at no on,Two r ed roses across the mo on.

’ 3

In highe r so rts the re is,fo r example

,the re so lve o f

Vo lsung Signy to die Queen , still , o f the abho rred Go ths ,in the flame s o f racial vengeance upon them ,

which she hadhe rse lf caused to be kindle d in her Go th Conso rt ’s palace .

The strange e vidence o f fide lity to the le tte r o f the bondshe was be traying must n o t be pe rmitted to founder



There comes a murmur from the sho re ,An d in the clo se two fair streams ar e ,Drawn from the purple hills afar,Drawn down into the re stless seaDark hills who se heath-blo om fe eds n o be e ,Dark sho re n o ship has ever seen,To rmented by the billows greenWho se murmur come s unceasinglyUnto the place fo r which I cry.Fo r which I cry bo th day an d night,Fo r which I le t slip all de light,Whe reby I grow bo th deaf an d blind ,Care le ss to win ,

un skilled to fin d ,And quick to lose what all men se ek.

Y e t to ttering as I am an d weak,Still have I le ft a little breathTo se ek within the jaws o f deathAn entrance to that happy place ,T o se ek the unfo rgo tten face ,Once se en , once kissed , once re ft from me

An igh the murmuring o f the sea.

5

He has,with the po e t ’s gift o f myste ry

,thepo e t ’s se cre t

o f charm . Bo th are pre sent in Gunn ar ’

s Howe abo ve theHouse at Lithen d .

6 Bo th,with a deep thought to o ,

unde rlie,in Mo the r an d Son

,a woman ’s confiden ces to her

infant spoken that he may imbibe in his spirit what sheyearns that he shou ld know

,but would blush to te ll him

when o ld enough to unde rstand,an d

,after all

,leave s unsaid '

— perhaps,has n o t cou rage to say aloud to herse lfNow sle eps the lan d o f houses,

An d dead night ho lds the stre et ,An d there thou lie st my babyAnd

'

sle epest so ft an d swe e t .Lo amidst London I lift the e ,And how little an d light thou art ,

And thou withou t hope o r fear,Thou fear an d hope o f my heart 1

WILLIAM MORRIS 275

L0 he re thy body beginning ,O so n , and thy soul an d thy lifeBut how will it be if thou livest ,An d en te rest in to the strife ,An d in love we dwe ll toge the rWhen the man is grown in thee ,When thy swe e t speech I shall hearkenAn d y e t

’ twixt the e an d me

Shall rise that wall o f distance ,That round each o n e do th grow,

An d make th it hard and bitte r,Each o ther’s thought to kn ow.

Now ,there fo re , while y e t tho u art little

And hast n o thought o f thine own ,

I will te ll thee a wo rd of the wo rldOf the hope whence thou hast grownOf the love that once begat the e ,Of the so rrow that hath madeThy little heart o f hunge r,An d thy hands o n my bo som laid .

Then mayst thou remember hereafte r,As W hiles when people sayAll this hath happened be fo reIn the life of an o the r daySo mayst thou dimly rememberThis tale of thy mo the r

’s vo ice ,As o ft in the calm o f dawnin gI have heard the birds re jo ice ,As o ft I have heard the sto rm-windGo moanin g through the wo od :And I kn ew that earth was speakin g ,And the mo ther’s vo ice was go od .

7

Fu ll o f grace,again

,is the Praise o f My Lady

,whi ch

the shy lo ve r , like the Mo the r , dare s utte r only to the air

My lady se ems o f ivo ryFo rehead , straight no se , an d che eks that beHo llow

’

d a little mournfu lly .Beata mea Domina

S 2


He r fo rehead , over-shad ow’

d muchBy bows of hair, has a wave su chAs Go d was go od to make fo r me .

No t greatly lon g my lady’s hair,No r y e t with ye llow co lour fair,But thick and crisped wonderfully.

Beneath he r brows the lids fall slow,

The lashes a clear shadow throwWhere I wo uld wish my lips to be .

I wonde r if the lashes longAre tho se that d o he r bright eye s wrong ,Fo r always half tears se em to be

Lurking be low the un de rlid ,Darkening the place where they lie hidIf they should rise andflow fo r me

He r full lips be ing made to kiss,Curl

’

d up an d pensive each o n e is

This makes me faint to stand and se e .

Nay , ho ld thy peace fo r who can te ll ‘

2

But this at least I kn ow full we ll ,Her lips ar e parted longingly,So passionate an d swift to move ,To pluck at an y flyin g love ,That I grow faint to stand an d see .

Ye a there beneath them is he r chin,So fin e an d round, it were a sin

To fe e l n o weaker when I se e

God’s dealings fo r with so much careAn d troublous, faint lines wrought in there ,He fin ishes he r face fo r me .

All men that see he r any time ,I charge y ou straightly in this rhyme ,What, and wherever y ou may b e ,



An d Harald re igned an d wen t his way ,Sd fair upr iseth the rise o f the sun .

’

An d still is the sto ry to ld to -day ,

So grey is the sea when day is done .

Histo rie s,legends

, sofigs , philo sophie s , mo ralitie s— theyconstitute to ge the r a vast to tal

,with an astonishing e ven

ne ss o f me rit . The seve ral components are,on e an d all

,

intere sting , an d,n o t se ldom

,fascinating . Where then is

the ir place in English po e try ? My o bje ct throughout myrapid review o f our Po e ts has be en to de termine whicho f them are among the Immo rtals— have le ft us he irs o f

po sse ssmn s we canno t d o without . Po ems o f such so rt areat once ne ce ssarie s an d treasure s an d I have co ve te d themultiplication o f them . W hen I began my ske tch o f

Wil liam Mo rris , I intimated a fear that his wo rk was n o t

o f the kind ; an d this continue s to be my impre ssion .

Much in it charms me wheneve r it place s itse lf undermyeye s . I d o n o t long to re turn to it . A divine spark iswanting . It is n o t that a star has be en hidden in a ce llar ,as an o ld an d great po e t imagine d . Such as it is , it hasbe en visible enough . Its o rbit has be en half a century o f

energetic mode rn life . Somehow,I suppo se

,Mo rris had to

cho o se be tween the e xe rcise o f a single powe r , an d d ive rsan d he pre ferre d many to much .

The De fen ce o f Guen evere an d Other Po ems, by W illiam Mo rris .

E llis W hite , 185 8. Reprin t : Lon gman s, 1896.

The Story of Sigurd the Vo lsun g, an d the Fall o f the Niblungs, byW illiam Morris. E llis W hite , 1877 .

Po ems by t he W ay , by W illiam‘

Morris . Reeves Turn er, 189 1 .

1 Kin g Arthur’s Tomb (Defen ce o f Guen evere , stan zas 4 1 - 6.

2 The D ay is Coming (Po ems by the W ay ), st . 1 .

3 Two Red Roses across the Mo o n (Defen ce o f Guen evere ), stan zas1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 9 .

Sigurd the Vo lsung, Bo ok I .

WILLIAM MORRIS

5 A Gard en by the Sea (Po ems by the W ay ) .3 Gun nar

’

s Howe above the House at Lithend

7 Mo ther an d So n9 Praise o f My Lady (Defen ce o f Guen eve re ) .9 The Haystack in the Flo ods stan zas 1—5 .

The King o f Denmark’

s So ns (Po ems by the W ay ) .

279

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

1 837— 1 909

IN 1897,when this bo ok first appeare d

,Swinbu rne was

living . By the plan o f the wo rk I had debarre d myse lf,there fo re , from including him . On the issue o f the pre sente dition I cou ld n o t have passe d him o ve r . But it wasimpo ssible to pre tend to depo se A lfre d Tennyson from hisplace as crowning the succe ssion o f British po ets . I havecompromise d by disregard ing the accidents o f birth an d

death,an d seating the newcome r be side William Mo rris

,

an d Ro sse tti,his companion

,an d in some so rt his maste r .

Po ets o f the first rank neve r are duplicate s . It isimpo ssible to bracke t Swinbu rne with an y among hisnine te enth-century contempo rarie s o r pre de ce sso rs . He

reminds o f Ro sse tti in sensuo usne ss he had a far ho tte rfaith in a poe t ’s duty to conce rn himse lf with the wo rldan d so cie ty . With She lley he may compare in bitte r discontent with Earth as it is

,with Heaven as it is commonly

unde rsto o d to be but bo th fo r go o d an d il l he was fo rShe lley to o realistic an d mate rial . Fo r himse lf he was

entire ly devo id o f lite rary je alou sy o f co evals o r senio rs .

Lando r he reve re d as

Father an d friend .

He e xto lle d an d bewaile d Ro be rt Browning,own e r o f

The cleare st eyes in all the wo rld.

Victo r Hugo he hymne d bo th in English an d French as

a king o f men as we ll as bards . Al l singers,native an d

fo re ign ,ancient an d mo dern

,we re e qually o f his fe llowship .

He had the courage to rende r his homage to Catullus in



The full , rich swe e tne ss o f The Ye ar o f the Ro se encou rage sthe same inclination to trace a tone

,a thrill , to Keats

we ar e left with the same fin al conviction of an essentialdiffe rence in the music in consequence o f an e ssentiald istinction in po e tic fe e ling

In the red-ro se land n o t a mileOf the meadows from stile to stile ,Of the valleys from stream to stream,

But the air was a long swe et dreamAn d the earth was a swee t wide smileRed -mou thed of a goddess, re turnedFrom the sea which had bo rne her an d burn ed ,

That with on e swe et smile o f he r mouthLo oked full on the no rth as it yearned ,And the no rth was mo re than the south.

3

Then , again ,fo r qualitie s go ing de eper than fo rm ,

conside rSwinburne ’s cho ice— allhis own— o f theme s the tempe r withwhich he contemplate s humani ty , its place in the universe ,

how circumstance s affe ct it,how it we ighs an d accepts , o r

shape s them . He began by vi ewing life habituallyas childreno bserve an e clipse o f the sun through smoked glass . In timehe o utgrew the she e r inso lence , as it is , no twithstanding themuch o f grandeur , in a pie ce like A Litany . The glo om whichd istinguished the first se rie s o f Po ems an d Ballads survive d ,an d constantly re cur s . The re it had be en cynical . In theBallad o f Life bo di ly joys are accumu late d to break-in a

bondsman in the Ballad o f Death fo r the conquero r

Seek out Death’s face e re the light altere th,An d say My master that was thrall to LoveI s be come thrall to Death ’

.

4

No t satisfie d to conduct all the rio t o f sense into the grave ,he fashions from it a nightmare to harass the last sleep

The four boards o f the co ffin lidHeard all the dead man d id .

5

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 283

He compe ls Nature to se rve Man ’s de so latio n by layingwaste a garden plante d fo r purpo se s o f human de light

No t a flowe r to be prest of the fo o t that falls n o tAs the heart o f a dead man the seed-plo ts are dry

From the thicket of tho rns whence the nightingale calls n o t ,Could she cal! , there were never a ro se to reply.6

Affe ction itse lf is fo r his Muse as epheme ral as a blo ssom

The old year’s dead hands are full of the ir dead flowe rs,The old days are full o f dead old loves o f ours,Bo rn as a ro se , an d briefer bo rn than she

Couldst thou n o t watch wi th me‘

2 7

With advancing years the darkne ss deepens inste ad o f

dispe rsing . The climax is in the third se rie s o f Po emsan d Ballads , The We ary We dding . Fo r piling up ho rr o r ,step by step ,

that might pair with the Sco ttish ballad o f

Edward Edward 8

Me lancho ly, dainty , swe e t , an d lo ve ly me lancho ly, hasalways been a privilege o f po e ts

,from Fle tche r to Keats .

It be ars little re semblance to Swinburne ’s . His dirge s an dLitanie s ar e war -crie s . With the heart -broken bride ’s sobs ,and the taunts to the rich bridegro om

O fo o l , will y e marry the wo rm fo r a wifeO fo o l , will y e marry the dust o f death ‘

2

mingle s the man ’s triumphant insistence to the girl

Nay , y e are mine while I ho ld my life .

Nay , y e are mine , while I have my breath.

’ 9

Swinburne e xu lts in passion,-an d the price paid fo r it ;

in death whi ch is life,an d life which is death . He e xults

in the ru in o f the Armada in

the fierce July when fle e ts we re scattered as foam ,


an d EnglandLaughed loud to the wind as it gave to he r ke eping the glo ries o fSpain and Rome .

His ve rse be come s a trumpet ’s blast as it magnifie s andW RI

'

II S

A light that is mo re than the sunlight , an air that is brighter thanmo rning’s breath,

Clo thes England about as the strong sea clasps he r , and answersthe wo rd that it saith

The wo rd that assures he r of life if she change n o t , an d cho ose n o t

the ways of death.

1 1

He exults in the grace of his type of gleaming Italian hi lltowns

,which

far to the fair sou th-westward lightens,Girdled and sandalled and plumed‘ with flowers,At sunse t over the love -lit lands,

The hill-side ’s crown where the wild hi ll brightens,Saint Fina’s town of the Beautiful Towers,Hailing the sun with a hundred hands.1 2

Eage r,audacious

,defiant he always was

,when in 1866

,

at the age o f twenty-nine,he was flinging wild music in the

face o f English de co rum whi ch he de spise d as insularprude ry ; when ,

n o t without pride in the repro bation hehad brought down upon himse lf

,he sat himse lf apart

,an d

utte re d his crie s against a universe o f dust an d ashe s .

Le t him,howeve r

,fo r a moment fo rge t , as he could , all but

an immensity o f sunshine an d ful l bro ad billows an d ho w

radiant,jubilant a nature eme rge s

,an d soars

,singin g !

Read the hymn to the south-we st wind s

Wind be loved of earth an d sky an d sea beyond all winds that blow,

Wind whose might in fight was E n gland’s o n her mightiest warrio rday ,

South-west wind , who se breath fo r he r was life , an d fire to scourgehe r fo e ,

Stee l to smite an d death to drive him down an un return ing way ,



The t ragedie s,though least o f all

,the e arlie st— Atalanta

in Calydon— with the re lie f o f its lo ve ly cho ruse s— labou runde r the same e xce ss o f emo tions

,an d o f o n e in particular .

It mars them as dramas, which canno t live withou t varie ty ,light an d shade . They ar e clogge d by me re bulk . Flee tso f charm ing fancie s drift he lple ssly abo u t vo lume s fromtwo hundre d an d nine teen to five hundre d an d thirty-twopage s long . B ut the ir abiding enemy is mono tony o f

emphasis . From that they ar e the wo rst , n o t the only,

suffe re rs . In n o fo rm d o e s the po e t ’s ve rse e scape it . The

hab it is the mo re to be regre tte d that when,as o ccasionally

e lsewhe re , the chronic tempe stuousne ss abates , the gift o fm e lo dy remains n o t the le ss surpassing that it be come s gentlean d repo se ful . As , lu lle d by bre e ze an d wave s

,he floats

I lean my che ek to the co ld grey pillow,

The de ep so ft swe ll o f the full broad billow,

An d clo se my eyes fo r delight past measure ,And wish the whe e l of the wo rld wou ld stand .

1 5

And it stands fo r him ,by n o means in joy ,

though n o t inso rrow altoge the r

,as he watche s be side the cradle o f a baby

deadThe little hands that neve r soughtEarth’s prizes , wo rthless all as sands,What gift has death, God’s servant , brought

The little hands

W e ask bu t love ’s se lf silent stands,Love , that lends eyes an d wings to thoughtTo search whe re death’ s d im heaven expands.

E re this, perchance , though love know nought ,Flowers fill them , grown in love lier lands,Where hands of guidin g ange ls caught

The little hands.1 6

He has prove d that he could write with n o le ss tende rne ss ,

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 287

and mo re gaie ty, abo u t living babyho o d . And how he

ado re s he ro ism an d geni u s— contemporary as we ll as pastThe mo re the pity that he has n o t sung so me time s o f

eve ryday li fe , o f o rdinary manhoo d an d womanho o d ina like tempe r Amidst the lo ftine ss , the into xication , thesplendo ur o f hi s panegyrics an d male dictions

, the inte n sityo f his landscape -drawing , even the grand thoughts which helavished

,I o ften pine

,to my shame ,

fo r a cup o f co ld wate r,

a little sobe r calm,a ray o f common human househo ld

kind liness . B ut , I kno w ,it was n o t his way ,

un le ss fo r aninterlude . Whe the r in much maste rly pro se ,

o r in o ve rwhe lming ve rse

,a bo rn fighte r , he must rank as such ;

though a gene rous combatant , as we ll as a fie ry o n e

Mr . Swin burn e ’s Po ems, re ferred to be low, are published by Messrs.

Chatt o W indus .

1 Sidn ey’s Arcadia (Astrophe l), st . 2 .

7 Itylus (Po ems an d Ballad s, 1st stan zas 3 , 4, 5 .

The Year o f the Ro se (Po ems an d Ballad s, 2n d st . 3 .

4 A Ballad o f Death (Po ems an d Ballads, lst st . 1 1 .

5 After Death st . 1 .

6 A Fo rsaken Gard en (Po ems an d Ballads, 2nd st . 4 .

7 A Wasted Vigil st . 8.

9 Se e p . 361 , an d Percy’s Re liques .

9 The W eary W edd ing (Po ems and Ballads, 3rd last threestan zas.

1 ° The Armada I I , st . 2 .

1 1 England : an Od e (Astrophe l), st . 20.

Four Songs o f Fo ur Season s : Sprin g i n Tuscany (Po ems and

Ballads, 2md st 9 .

1 3 An Autumn Vision (Astrophe l ), I I .

1 4 Inscription s I I .

1 5 A Swimmer’s Dream V, st . 2 .

1 5 A Baby’s Death (A Century of Roun d e ls ), I II .

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

1 81 9— 1 861

POET S in gene ral lo ve to preach,an d to a congregation .

When they so lilo qu ize they cho o se a marke t-place . Fo r

a ve ry few the primary,if n o t the fin al

,fo rum is themse lve s .

Afte rwards they may be pe rsuade d to admit the public to7

the ir confidence . At the moment of singing they had be enhone stly unaware o f its e xistence . They re so rte d to po e trysimply be cause they knew o f n o be tte r instrument withwhich to hamme r o ut thoughts vital to the ir own sou ls .

If the re su lting ideas fail to to uch o the r hearts o r e ars theyd o n o t mind . The ir disregard of mi sce llane ous sympathy ,the o ccasional crudity o f fo rm ,

have n o common o rigin withthe roughn e ss o f a write r who

,having studie d his ar t as

a vio linist studie s his,challenges criticism t o di sentangle

the be auty from the e xcre scence s ’ concealing it . The seso litarie s d o n o t concern themse lve s with the artistic requi rements o f the medium o f e xpre ssion they have adopte d .

They harbour n o intention,unle ss to mould an d deve lop

fo r the ir own use a conception o r an aspiration .

To this limite d class o f po e ts who , first an d last , ar e

thinke rs,Arthur Hugh Clough be longs . Nature

,howeve r ,

endo wed him with po e tical gifts mo re o r le ss independento f that spe cific characte ristic . Thus

,a pe culiarly de licate

sense o f rhythm di stinguishe d him from the commence mento f his care e r . A Rive r Po o l , written when he was twentyon e

,has

a dreamy soundOf ripples lightlyflung.

1



In mo onlight is it n ow , o r shade ‘

2

In planes of sure divi sion made ,By angles sharp o f palace wallsThe clear light an d the shadow fallsO sight o f glo ry, sight o f won derSe en, a picto rial po rtent , under ,O great Rialto , the vast roundOf thy thrice -so lid arch pro foundH ow light we go , how so ftly Ah,

Life should be as the gondo la 4

Some thing even mo re , from the sugge stion o f aching regre t,is the musicalflow of the herd-girl ’s hastening cry to

he r cows

The skies have sunk, an d hid the uppe r snowHome , Rose , an d home , Provence an d La PalieThe rainy clouds are falling fast below,

And we t will be the path,an d we t shall we

Home , Rose , an d home , Provence an d La Palie

Ah dear , an d where is he , a year agon e ,W ho stepped be side an d che ered us on and o n

My sweetheart wanders far away from me ,

In fo re ign land , o r o n a fo re ign sea

Home , Rose , an d home , Provence an d La Palie 5

He had o the r qualitie s be side s , marking a po e t an d at

the opening o f life he won the rank at a stroke,with The

Bo thie o f Tobe r -n a-Vuo lich . The re cou ld be n o mo re vividde scription o f a typical Highland scene than that o f the

students ’ bathing-placeThere is a stream

Springing far o ff from a loch unexplo red in the fo lds o f great mountains,

Falling two miles through rowan and stun ted alder, enve lopedThen fo r four mo re in a fo rest of pine , where broad an d ampleSpreads, to convey it , the glen with heathery slopes on bo th sides

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 29 1

Broad and fair the stream , with occasional falls and narrowsBut , where the glen o f its course approaches the vale o f the rive r,Me t and blo cked by a huge inte rposing mass o f granite ,Scarce by a channe l deep-cut , raging up , and raging onward ,Fo rces its flo od through a passage so narrow a lady would step it .

There , across the great ro cky wharves , a wo oden bridge go es ,Carrying a path to the fo rest be low, three hundred yards, say ,Lower in leve l some twenty-five feet , through flats of shingle ,Stepping-stones an d a cart-track cro ss in the open valley.B ut in the interval here the bo iling pent-up wate rFree s itse lf by a final descent , attaining a basin,Ten fee t wide and e ighteen long , with whiteness an d furyOccupied partly , but mo stly pe llucid , pure , a mirro r ;Beautifu l there fo r the co lour derived from green ro cks underBeautiful , most of all, where beads of foam uprisingMingle their clouds of white wi th the de licate hue of the stillness,Cliff ove r cliff fo r its sides , with rowan and pendent birch boughs ,Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge an d pathway,Still mo re enclosed from be low by wo od an d ro cky pro je ction.

You are shut in , left alone with yourse lf an d pe rfection o f wate r,Hid on all sides, left alone with yourse lf and the goddess of bathin g .6

A Long Vacation party ’s humours we re neve r be tte rtouche d -o ff. W e hear the learne d Tuto r ’s grave disse rtations fo r instance ,

o n nature ’s obje ctions to equalityStar is n o t equal to star , n o r blo ssom the same as blo ssomThe re is a glo ry o f daisies , a glo ry again o f carnations ;Were the carnatio n wise , in gay parte rre by green-house ,Should it decline to accept the nurture the gardene r gives it ,Should it refuse to expand to sun and genial summer,S imply because the field -daisy that grows in the grass-plat beside it ,Canno t , fo r some cause o r o ther, deve lop and be a carnationWould n o t the daisy itse lf pe tition its scrupulous n eighbourUp

,grow, blo om , and fo rge t me be beautiful even to proudness ,

E’

en fo r the sake o fmyse lf , and o ther po o r daisies like me .

’ 7

Contempo rarie s we re able,and amuse d

,to fo llow the gay

bante r o f his pupils among themse lve s , n o t e xtrao rdinarilywitty

,any mo re than the ir sage instructor

’s philo sophyT 2


is particularly convincing , but curiously dive rting the

playing at reading an d at lo ve -making the ho spitalitie s o fchi e ftains an d lo cal noblemen

,when Oxfo rd un de rgraduate s

we re still nove ltie s in the No rth . The who le carried thepublic taste by sto rm . Hope o f Ilay

,Lindsay the Pipe r ,

Po e t an d Chartist Hewson , Arthur Audley , an d the greatHobbe s ,

Contemplative,co rpu lent, witty,

be came househo ld wo rds . Even the me tre,o dious from

o the r pens,was accepte d smilingly from Clo ugh— hexa

me ters in de shabille .

The re he an d hi s wo rld we re in entire uni son . That hisMuse po sse ssed mo re than o rdinary gifts , had he cho sen touse them

,fo r continuing to draw it in he r train

,is evident

from Pe schiera,an d the applause which gre e ted it

You say ,Since so it is,— go od-by e

Swee t life , high hope but whatso e ’erMay be , o r must , n o tongue shall dareTo te ll, The Lombard feared to d ie

Ah n o t fo r idle hatred, n otFo r honour, fame , n o r se lf-applause ,But fo r the glo ry of the cause ,Y ou d id , what will n o t be fo rgo t.

An d though the strange r stand, ’tis true ,

By fo rce an d fo rtune ’s right he standsBy fo rtune which is in God’s hands,And strength, which y e t shall spring in y ou .

This vo ice did on my spirit fall ,Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost,’

Tis better to have fought an d lo st ,Than never to have fought at all 8

It an d the siste r lyric , carrying a step onward the samehero ic thought

,that brave and blo o dy failure s in a ho ly



service . His youth was cast in a time ofmental an d spiritualque stionings

,active e spe cially among pupils of Arno ld .

Pe rilously as they disturbe d the great teache r ’s own son,

singing kept o n the who le with him its independence . Hisfriend

,his Thyr sis , had a le ss imperious imagination o r

a mo re re stle ssly an d un se lfishly logical conscience . Froman early peri o d the po e tic instinct in him be came primari lyan instrument fo r embo dying

,fixing

,if only fo r a time

,

his shadowings o f e xistence , pre sent , past , an d future , o fthe go ve rnment o f the Unive rse , o f Infinity . Ve rse be came

his means fo r expre ssing the conflict in his.

soul be tweenscepticism an d mysticism .

At moments the songste r in him would rise an d caro l .It was only as it we re by an accident . Really he was mo rehis prope r se lf even in unsatisfying Easte r D ay Ode sChrist n o t Risen y e t Risen The Que stioning SpiritBe the sda ’ 1° — than in the music o f the Swiss girl ’s

cattle -call . Mo st o f all was he himse lf in a moving , ifunhope ful

,cry

,such as Parting

O tell me , friends , while y e t y e hear,May it n o t be , some comin g year,These ancient paths that here divideShall y et again run side by side ,An d y ou from there , an d I from here ,All o n a sudden reappear0 te ll me

, frien ds , while y e t y e hear

O te ll me , friends, y e hardly hear,An d if indeed y e d id , I fearY e would n o t say , y e wou ld n o t speak ,Are y ou so strong , am I so weak,An d y e t , how much so e

’

e r I yearn,Can I n o t fo llow, n o r y ou turn0 te ll me , frie nds, y e hardly hear 1 1 1

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 295

o r in the so lemn chant o f an appeal against dogmatizingo n the Unknowable

0 Thou ,in that mysterious shrine

En throned , as I must say , divineI will n o t frame on e thought o f whatThou mayest e ither be o r n o t .

I will n o t prate of thus and so

And b e pro fane with y es an d n o

Enough that in our soul an d heartThou , whatso e ’e r Thou may’st be , art .

Unseen , se cure in that high shrineAckn owledged present an d divin e

,

I will n o t ask some upper air ,Some future day to place Thee the reN o r say , n o r y e t deny, such me n

An d women saw Thee thus an d thenThy name was such, and there o r hereTo him o r he r Thou didst appear.D o o n ly Thou in that d im shrine ,Unkn own o r known , remain, divine ;The re , o r if n o t , at least in eyesThat scan the fact that ro und them liesThe hand to sway, the judgment guide ,In sight an d se n se , Thyse lf divideB e Thou but there , —ih sou l and heart ,I will n o t ask to fee l Thou art .

1 2

Whe the r at all,o r how far

,he succe e de d in di scove ring

a clue to the pro blems he handle s— whe the r he might n o t,

by passing them by , have had a brighte r caree r,an d be en

happie r pe rsonally, is a que stion n o strange r can answe rwith assurance . To me he neve r appears to have fe lt thatout o f all hi s se lf-in te rr ogatings he had pione e re d a via

media . Ce rtainly the go spe l he preache d to himse lf madefew converts outside . W ith the exceptions o f The Bo thieand Pe schiera with its companion ,

his po ems we re as littlehe eded in his life time . They are , with the same e xceptions


le ss read n ow . He himse lf did n o t mind,an d would n o t

mind . He did n o t seek fo r the fame e ithe r o f po e t o r o f

prophe t . Neve r could it have o ccurred to him to be dis

appo inte d that it did n o t , an d has n o t , come . The Englishpublic take s small pleasu re in phi lo sophical po e try, unle ssan extrao rdinary harmony be inspire d by an earthy se lf-lovelike Omar Khayyam ’s an d Ar thur Clough’s me lo dy an d

philo sophy ar e n o t thu s inspire d . Meanwhile,he wande rs

about Victo rian lite rature like a phantom . Some’

time s,

howeve r,phantoms be come as much fo rce s as are substance s

an d he re afte r it may happen to be so with him . It is intruth difficult to be lieve that a spiri t so gracious , so eage rto learn as we l l as te ach ,

so o riginal,so re ve rent

,so open

minde d , so pene trating in its insight , with a pe rsonality so

inte re sting , so star -like , so gene rously ho t against injusticean d tyranny— an d against them alone —can actually be as

faint in its influence as the deadn e ss o f popular attentionto the wo rks it pe rmeate s would seem to pro ve .

Po ems by Ar thur Hugh Clo ugh. W ith a Memo ir. Sixth Ed ition .

Macmillan Co . , 1878.

1 A River Po o l (Early Po ems) .2 Songs in Absen ce , st . 4 .

3 £e Ad'rpq) (Early Po ems) .

4 D ipsy chus (published after Clough’

s death), Part I I , Sc . 2 .

5 Ite d omum saturae (Misce llan e ous Po ems), stan zas 1—2 .

6 The Bothie o f T o be r-n a-Vuo lich, 3 .

7 I bid . , 2 .

3 Peschiera (Misce llan eous Po ems), stan zas 8, 9, 10.

9 Say No t

1 ° Easter D ay (Naples, 1849 ) (Re ligious Po ems) . Easter D ay , II .

The Question in g Spirit (Po ems on Life an d Duty) . Bethesda, a Seque l

1 1 Partin g (Early Po ems), stan zas 3—4 .

1 2 {Sm/or d'

v /o s (Re ligious Po ems), stan zas 3- 5 .



lighted lake an d o n the Te rrace at Be rne . Though thesin o f mono tony canno t be charged against his ve rse

,n o t

many keys are touched . Such as soun d are all so lemnan d auste re . Then ,

n o Matthew-Arno ld-Cu lt has arisen .

No congregation , howeve r minute ,o f reve rent disciple s

gathe rs togethe r in his name . Pe rsons of refinementadmire . They nurse the emo tion in the ir own breasts .

They fear to vulgarize it by publishing it abroad . The

contro ve rsial fame whi ch he acqu ired in the concludings tage s o f his career has itse lf in a way acte d adve rse ly .

The sentiment o f his e ssays was , though in the bitte rwithout the swe e t , akin to that o f his ve rse . In latte r dayshis po e try o ften appeare d to be regarded as an appendageto his e ssays rather than they to it .

Of the limitations , in fact , to his popularity there can

be n o que stion . They we re ne ce ssary re sults o f his who lehabit o f mind . He had an e xce ssive tendency towardsconside ring the poe t a preache r , towards chanting homilie so n the low aims an d pu rsuits o f mo de rn so cie ty

,its tinse l ,

its e arthine ss . He laid himse lf open to the reproach o f

parading as a di sco ve re r o f the ho llowne ss o f life . He was

proud o f be ing , thr ough his hone sty ,a home le ss wande re r

fo rlo rn fro m the hearth o f o rtho do xy . Some time s hephilo sophize d when he ought to have be en singing . Oftenhis thoughts pre sse d fo rward so eage rly as to threaten tostifle o n e ano the r . N o t me re ly are his poems unre lie ve dby a single flash o f gaie ty they are n o t lighte d by a sparkleo f joy . Lastly, an d mo st de trimentally , he insisted upon ,

pe rhaps cou ld n o t he lp,mixing the wo rk o f the critical with

that o f the creative facu lty . He wo u ld sit in judgementupon the purity of his own inspiration upon the quantityo f candle -powe r o f the tongue s o f fire as they alighte d uponhim . On e an d all are heavy fe tte rs upon fancy ; an d as

MATTHEW ARNOLD 299

such the gene ral , even the instructed,public has always

fe lt them .

Fo r an intimate circle they enhance re spe ct fo r the

powe rs which can burst through such obstacle s . The

drawbacks are fo r it the e xalting de fe cts o f his Muse ’squalitie s . Had he n o t deviate d into pre aching

,we should ,

it wi ll urge,have lo st the he ro ic dirge o f Rugby Chape l . No

appeal , in Chr ist’s name

,would have been raised in Progre ss

fo r sympathy with whateve r Faith regene rate s . Had he

n o t been apt to confound philo sophi zing an d singing,we

might have be en spare d the cro ss -graine d me ditations o f

Empedo cle s,but sho uld have misse d the lo ve ly inte rlude s

o n the harp o f Callicles . Thre e -fourths o f The Buried Lifeare psycho logy rathe r than po e try but without them we

had lest the music o f the clo se— the sudden pause in life ’sdistracte d turmo il

When our wo rld-d eafcn ’

d car

Is by the tone s o f a lov ’

d vo ice care ss’dA bo lt is sho t back somewhere in o u r breast ,And a lost pulse of fee ling stirs again,The ey e sinks inward , an d the heart lie s plain,And what we mean, we say , an d what we would we know !A man becomes aware of his life ’sflow,

An d hears its winding murmur, an d he seesThe meadows where it glides , the sun , the bre e ze ,An d there arrives a lull in the ho t raceWhere in he do th fo r ever chaseThat flying an d e lusive shadow, rest.An air o f co o ln ess plays upon hi s face ,An d an unwonted calm pe rvades his breast .An d then he thinks he kn owsThe hills where his life ro se ,And the sea where it go es.1

The Bacchanalia,witho ut the rambling pre lude , wo uld


n o t have danced from the silence o f death into the silenceof living light

An d o’

e r the plain, where the dead ageD id its n ow silent warfare wageO

’

e r that wide plain, n ow wr apt in glo om ,

Where many a splendour finds its tomb ,Many spent flames and fallen nightsThe on e o r two immo rtal lightsRise slowly up into the skyTo shine there everlastin gly,Like stars over the bounding hill.The epo ch ends , the wo rld is still ?

Without the vain e ffo rt in the Epilo gue to Le ssing ’sLao co iin to marshal the arts in the ir re spective ranks , weshou ld have lo st the noble tribute to M usic

Miserere , DomineThe wo rds are utte r

’

d , and theyfle e .

De ep is the ir penitential moan,Mighty the ir patho s, but ’

tis gone !Be ethoven takes them then— those twoPo o r , bounded wo rds — an d makes them n ew

Infini te makes them , makes them youn gTransplants them to ano ther ton gue ,Where they can n ow, without constraint,Pour all the soul of the ir complain t ,An d ro ll adown a channe l largeThe wealth di vine they have in charge .

Page after page of music turn,And still they live an d still they burn ,

Perenn ial , passion-fraught, an d freeMiserere , Domine 3

Even when we fee l him straining afte r an ideae vade s hi s grasp , as in The Strayed Reve lle r , the tendrilso f floating fancy cling to a hundred entrancing scenes .

Ego tistical is he ? If an y on e is a licensed ego tist,is n o t

a po e t ? Weary, wo rn-out, blasé to o ,

if he please , so long



I t sto od , and sun an d mo onshine rain ’d their lightOn the pure co lumns o f its glen-built hall.Backward an d fo rward r oll’d the waves of fightRoun d Troy but while this sto od , Troy could n o t fall.

So , in its love ly mo onlight , lives the sou lMountains surround it , an d swe e t virgin air ;

Co ld plashin g , past it , crystal waters ro ll ;W e visit it by moments , ah, to o rare

Still do th the soul , from itslone fastness high,Upon our life a rulin g efi’luen ce sendAnd , when it fails, fight as we will , we d ie ,And while it lasts, we canno t who lly en d .

7

The drama o f man ’s inne r life ,as se en by Arno ld

, is

a tragedy in many acts,with many actors . It commence s

with a struggle o ften the playe r cast fo r a leading partneve r se e s the en d ; o ften it has n o en d when the re isany ,

always it is grievou s . The bitterne ss of it all taintsHe ine ’s grave in trim Montmartre

Hark through the alley resoundsMo cking laughter A filmCre eps o ’

e r the sunshine a breezeRuffles the warm aftern o on,Saddens my sou l with its chillGibing of spirits in sco rnMars the benign ant reposeOf this amiable home o f the dead .

8

It had robbed him living o f the source o f the one supremegift as a po e t that he misse d

Charm , the glo ry which makesSon g of the po et divin e ; 9

The play’s climax may be the catastrophe o f a moment ,such as fro ze into e ternal de spair

MATTHEW ARNOLD 303

that Lo rd Arunde l ,W ho struck, in heat , his child he loved so we llAnd his child’s reasonflicke r ’d , an d did d ie .

Painted— he will’d it— ln the galle ryThey han g ; the picture do th the sto ry te ll.1 0

Or o it may be an unceasing ache , like the neve r stilled , o ldwo rld so rrowing o f tawny-throated Philome la

E ternal passionE ternal pain ! n

Vainly man se eks to rio t himse lf into fo rge tfulne ss o f theho llown e ss o f e xistence

,as in the d reary reve lry ofMyce rin us ,

who sesometimes wondering soul

From the loud j oyful laughter of his lipsMight shrink half startled, like a guilty manW ho wrestles with his dream.

1 2

Equally to n o purpo se will he plo t to circumvent his do omo f no thingne ss

,by condemning himse lf to the grinding

weariness o f a living death— the Carthusians ’

glo om pro foun d ,Y e so lemn seats of ho ly pain '

! 1 3

The battle always is lo st be fo re it was fought .

A time was when humanity se eme d at last to havegrasped triumphantly a saving Faith

Oh, had I lived in that great day ,How had its glo ry n ewFill

’

d earth and heaven, and caught awayMy ravish’

d spirit to o

No thoughts that to the wo rld be longHad stood against the waveOf love which set so deep and stron gFrom Christ’s then open grave .


No lone ly life had pass’

d to o slowWhen I could hourly seeThat wan ,

n ail’

d Fo rm , with head d ro op’

d low,

Upon the bitter tre e

Could se e the Mo ther wi th the ChildWhose tender winnin g artsHave to his little arms begui ledSo many wounded hearts

While we be lieved, on earth he went ,An d open sto od his graveMen call

’

d from chamber, church, and ten t ,And Christ was by to save .

1 4

That un tenante d grave , with the vision o f Him,who had

once lain the re in ,ascending to his He aven to prepare it

fo r men,tu rne d many a convu lsion o f de spair

,as in the

ado rable sto ry o f the Church o f Brou,an d its widowe d

Foundre ss , into ange lic re signation— a re signation ou t

lasting life

So sle ep , fo r eve r sle ep, 0 marble pairOr , if y e wake , let it be then, when fairOn the carved western fron t a flo od of lightStreams from the se ttin g sun , an d co lours brightProphe ts, tran sfigured Saints, an d Martyrs braveIn the vast western window o f the naveAn d on the pavement roun d the tomb there glin tsA chequer-wo rk o f glowin g sapphire tints ,And amethyst , an d ruby— then un closeYo ur eye lids o n the stone where y e repo se ,An d from your br o ide r ’d pillows lift your heads,An d raise y ou on your co ld white marble beds,An d lo okin g down on the warm rosy tintsWhich cheque r, at your feet , the illuminedflin ts,Say : What is this ‘

2 W e ar e in bliss— fo rgivenBeho ld the pavement o f the courts o f HeavenOr let it b e on autumn nights , when rainDo th rustlingly above your heads complain



clo se we always can imagine we hear a de live ry o f judgemento f de cay an d death . In varying cadence s o f mou rnfulne ss

,

so bs o f pro te st,re co gnize d by the victim as unavailing

,

are raise d against the inevitable blankne ss . They are

succee de d at be st by acqui e scence in wo e beyond compare ,which leave s n o mo re to suffe r . W hat though

,throughout

the who le,we are sensible o f so me affe ctation in the guilty

o f grie f which do e s n o t grieve— o f some po sitive, prepo s

te rous pride in the remarkable e levation o f sou l which hase le cted him to be a remo rse fu l e xile from the Kingdom o f

Faith instead o f a common comfo rtable be lie ve r ! At alle vents

,artistic value s in the pictur e are intui tive lyo bse rve d ;

an d the painte r mo re o ve r had actually passed through thespiritual e xpe rience s he po rtrays .

He had inte rrogate d human natur e ; particularly, hi sown . He had ransacked librarie s ; always fo r his own

mind ’s sake to discipline ,an d enrich it ; to learn what

manne r o f be ing he might have been an d was n o t,o r was .

Fo r him the on e thing wo rth unde rstanding was the complexo rganism o f man ’s heart an d inte lle ct . To kn ow it he use dhimse lf as subje ct

,scalpe l

,an d le cture r . His habit o f

i dentifying virtually the functions o f write r an d critic wasa ne ce ssity o f the po sition he assume d . W e can contemplate him disse cting hi s inne r personality

,no ting how his

so u l,whi ch o riginally had glowed with de vo tion

,exulte d

in the di sco ve ry o f its libe rty— then

Wan dering betwe en two worlds, o n e dead,The o ther powerless to b e bo rn,1 9

waited fo rlo rn in the disco rd o f contrary enthusiasms ,harassed by rival claims to allegiance

,scared

,distracte d

,

seare d , benumbe d ; an d ,finally

,when the co mpany

,lo st

in the sto rm,

MATTHEW ARNOLD 307

at nightfall , at lastComes to the end of its way ,

To the lone ly in n ’mid the ro cks

Whe re the gaunt and taciturn ho stStands o n the thresho ld , the windShaking his thin white hairsHo lds his lante rn to scanThe sto rm-beat figures , and asksWhom in our party we bringWhom we have le ft in the snow ‘

2 20

was content to le t the doubt remain unre so lve d e ven byhimself, whe ther he will be of the remnant to whom the

que stion is put . When n ow an d again suspicion arise s,as

I have said , of a want o f genuinene ss in the angui sh, itcan be admitted without to o much o ffence to the honourof the suffere r . He is o pe rato r , though o n himse lf

,an d

his primary duty was to apply the knife . To find faultwith hi s assumption of the double characte r is to strikeat the basis of hi s intimate po e try ; an d with that wecanno t affo rd to quarre l .Take him as he is— bo dy at once an d anatomis t

,poe t an d

critic— an d study o f his wo rk will bo th info rm and de light .Whethe r he vivise ct his own soul , o r ano the r ’s , he himse lfremains the principal o bje ct o f in te re st . The Scho larGipsy is a picture sque vision o f the legendary be ing whohad do ffed the tramme lling gown

, ye t could n o t tear himse lfout . o f hearing o f Oxfo rd ’s swee t jan gling be lls , among

the warm, green-muffled Cumno r hills ? 1So is departe d Thyr sis , in the siste r idyl l re do lent o f the

fragrant beauty alike o f Lycidas , an d the Ode to a Gre cianUrn , ye t di stinct from bo th. But the final cause o f each isto e cho Matthew Arno ld

,an d in each we search fo r and

d isco ve r him and his mo ods . Byro n himse lf do e s n o t loomU 2


mo re large ly in eve ry po em he wro te than Ar no ld in hi s .

The mo re impre ssive the po e t an d his ve rse,the mo re we fe e l

the critic,the psycho logist

,analysing

,characte rizing e ve ry

tissue,e ve ry ne rve -centre an d we admi re

'

an d sympathizewith bo th the mo re .

He was bo rn a po e t an d he had trained himself to bea consummate artist in wo rds . Milton in the cho ruse s o fSamson Agoniste s has n o t e qualle d the flexible harmonyo f the blank ve rse o f Rugby Chape l an d He ine ’s Grave .

Tennyson in the Swan ’s death—song scarce ly surpasse sDove r Beach in the music o f the ebb

,an d

I ts me lancho ly, lon g , withdrawing roar.

I am afraid to praise , le st I be accuse d o f e xagge ration,the

pe rfe ct acco rd o f harmony an d complaint in the Fo rsakenMe rman ’s cry o f mild hope le ssne ss

Children, at midn ight ,When so ft the winds blow,

When clear falls the mo onlight ,When sprin g-tides are lowWhen swe e t airs come seawardFrom heaths starr ’d with bro om ,

And high r o cks’

thr ow mildlyOn the blan ch

’

d sands a glo omUp the still , glisten in g beaches ,Up the cre ekswe will hie ,Ove r banks of bright sea-we edThe ebb -tide leaves dry.W e will gaze , from the sand-hills ,‘At the white , sle eping townAt the church on the hill-sideAnd then come back down ;Sin ging : There dwe lls a loved o n e ,

But crue l is sheShe le ft lone ly fo r ever,The kings of the sea.

’ 23



3 Epilogue to Lessing’s Laocoon .

4 Growing Old .

5 The Last W ord .

6 Lin es W ritten in Ke n sin gton Gard en s .

7 Pallad ium, stan zas 2 , 3 , 6.

Ibid .

Philome la.

1 3 Stan zas from the Gran d e Chartreuse .

1 4 Obe rman n On ce Mo re .

1 5 The Church of Brou , 3 , The Tomb .

Obermann On ce Mo re .

1 7 Bald er Dead . Sohrab an d Rustum .

1 9 Stan zas from the Gran d e Chartreuse , st . 1 5 .

Rugby Chape l . 7 1 The Scho lar -Gipsy.Dove r Beach.

23 The Fo rsaken Merman .

9 He in e ’s Grave .

1 ° A Picture at Newstead .

1 ’ Myce rinus.

ROBERT BROW N ING

1 812— 1 889

LIT ERARY histo ry fu rnishe s many e xample s o f pro sewrite rs who have employe d the ir wits an d pens in de ciphe ring the ir own tho ughts an d emo tions . Some among manyar e Cice ro ,

Marcus Aure lius,St . Augustine , Montaigne ,

Pascal , Rousseau , Ste rne ,pe rhaps Ce rvante s . W e have to

search be fo re fin ding clear paralle ls in po e try . I d o n o t

mean that po e ts d o n o t habitually light up the ir own mindsfo r the de light an d instruction o f the public . That is o fthe e ssence o f po e try . But they start by lo oking ahead ,

bytrying to pene trate into o the r minds

,an d te lling them what

they,without kn owing it

,think . The ir disco ve rie s outside

they carry within . At the ir le isure they take the ir spo il topie ce s

,repair

,add

,embe llish , re constru ct , an d give fo rth

tran sfo rmed .

Matthew Ar no ld an d Robe rt Brownin g are prominentamong the Great in English ve rse fo r beginning an d endingo n the ir own ground . Like all they we re re ady to gathe rsugge stions from e lsewhe re . They valued them as me remate r ial fo r the ir pe rsonal use an d en lightenment . So far

the two are alike an d yet none could diffe r mo re in the

manne r o f the ir se lf-revealing . The on e is some thingbe twe en hi sto rian an d advo cate

,the o the r an inspired

diarist . The on e passionate ly narrate s an d comments,

passionate ly apo lo gize s , pleads , an d de fends . The o the rremembe rs , compare s , fo re se e s , so lilo quize s , an d is at oncewho lly personal , an d as abso lute ly impe rsonal . A comple te


diagram o f the wo rking o f Browning ’s mind might bedrawn from his many succe ssive vo lume s . Po e ts in gene ralregard themse lve s as apo stle s commissioned t o go out an d

teach. Be ing distinctive ly a po et,with a po e t ’s id io syn

crasie s,he did n o t re fuse to le t his vo ice be heard . He

would n o t have denie d that he rather pre fe rre d it as i tsounde d to an audience . But fo r the purpo se disciple s hadto be at home with him . They had to listen

,as

, withentire dispassionatene ss

,he conversed with himse lf aloud .

His primary o bje ct was to te l l himse lf what from day to

day he thought . If reade rs in gene ral did n o t fo llow ,he

might regre t it o r n o t . The accident did n o t lead him to

change the fo rm o f his memo randa .

W ith this conception anybo dy who is sincere ly anxiousto profit by him has to begin . His way was to be fo r eve rchasing , o vertaking

,catching at

,the shadow o f an idea

flitting around outside,it might be by cho ice

,within .

Having grasped it,he would o rde r

,frequently to rture

,it

to de clare its substance . When the thing,un accustomed

to be thus rude ly cate chized , sto od mute , he se t to wo rkimagining all po ssible be ings it might be . On e by o n e he

he ld them up befo re it,to see whe ther they re co gnized

kinsmanship . Often he was le ft claspin g still an invete rate ly unsubstantial shadow . He had to clo the it withfle sh an d blo od from his own large

,warm ,

breathing,very

human sou l .Fo r the public

,when at a long last it came to be inquisi

tive about him,fo r students an d disciple s from the first

an d always,that was the sum o f the who le . The ve ry

dive rse classe s o f his u ltimate readers were content , if attime s bewildered , that it should be so . They wanderedin the gardens o f his spacious nature , sur veying it throughwhat were bars fo r mo st of them ,

afte r the manner o f



sake o f a rhyme o r rhythm . They have been said to becapable o f le tting a rhyme introduce a thought . Browningwould have sco rned to give up the least particle of an ideaat the demand o f di ction . He neve r scruple d to manufacture te rms an d phrase s as clo the s fo r an idea. Rathe rthan suffe r rhyme to le ad thought

,he co ine d rhyme s also .

He may seem to be pro lix . Again , it is thought which isto blame ; some idea will have had to disentangle itse lfpainfu lly from encumbe ring matter o r it is growing

,an d

ne e ds additional raiment in the shape o f spe e ch . Its parentneve r d reamt o f re fusin g so natural , ne ce ssary , e venlaudable an d d e cent

,a demand .

The Ring an d the Bo ok repo rts in four vo lume s a criminaltrial . That is the poe m ’s outward guise . The reality isa micro scopic analysis o f the life -be ats o f a group o f hearts .

Measur e its right to the space n o t by the crime,n o t by the

hearts,but by the pulsations o f the repo rte r ’s brain an d

the re is n o t a page to o many . Vo luminou s,if n o t d iffu se

,

rugge d a n d harsh , n o t care fu l to rende r the ideas hesupreme ly prize d inte lligible— much le ss

,palatable— to the

o rdinary Englishman,he stands

,in the mass o f hi s wo rk

,

altoge the r apart bo th from his contempo rarie s an d his

pre de ce sso rs . With all the ir variance s an d contrarie tie s,

the seve ral scho o ls o f poe try may be said at least to haveagre e d as a ru le upon a measur e o f complimentary re spe ctfo r the understanding o f the ir public . Fo remo st amongthe few dissidents stands the autho r o f So rde llo

,Caliban

upon Se tebo s,Prince Hohen stiel-Schwangau

,Re d Co tton

N ight -cap Coun try, Fifin e at the Fair,The Inn Album

,

J o co se r ia,Parleyings with Ce rtain Pe ople , La Saisiaz ,

the

two Po ets of Cro isic,an d Aso lando . No charge can be

lo dge d against him o f having pandered t o the populartaste

,o r igno rance .

ROBERT BROWN ING 3 1 5

The complacency with which he launche d upon lite ratur ethi s rapid succe ssion of conundrums enr aged the contemporarie s o f two -thi rds o f his caree r . He neve r appeare d tobe aware o f the sho cks he was admin iste ring . His gene raluncouthne ss seeme d the mo re audacious in the face o f

a sto re o f mo st tune fu l o ccasional po ems with which heinte rspe rse d his habitual experiments upon the enduranceo f reade rs . At wil l he showe d that

,when he cho se

,none

co u ld be mo re me lo dious than he . By turns he was gentlean d fie ry

,able to unseal the fo untain o f laughte r an d

the fo untain of tears . He was maje stic , te rrible , simple ,

tende r— e ven to impo sture , if hungry— content , with a

pro fo und thought beneath , to be ju st grace ful . With thesense upon us of the wo rks by whi ch apparently he meanthis name to live ,

we ask ,n o t so much why usually he

clashe s the harp-strings,as why the psycho logist , the me ta

physician has suddenly straye d into abso lute singing . W as

he mo ve d by compassion fo r the bewi lde re d an d daze dcritic ‘

2 W as he himse lf weary o f un tune fulne ss May

it n o t have be en that the mu sic always unde rlay the

philo sophy , that the phi lo sophy was always ready,in

favouring circumstan ce s , to break into song— that life’s

scowl o f cloud hide s behind itsplendid , a star ‘

2 2

I have be en glancin g thr ough the lyri cs scatte red o ve rmany vo lume s . It would be hard to say whe re e lse can be

found a more abso lute combination o f thought , sentimentrhythm— o r whe re mo re vari e ty .

In The Lo st Le ade r I read reproach,amazement

,revo lt

,

admiration , hope that he , the renegade ,in fighting the

fo llowers he has de se rte d,will keep all the prowe ss which

had won the i r wo rship— that he will repent in de ath— bethe ir s once mo re in Heaven— fo r they lo ve him


Le t him never come back to us

There would be doubt , hesitation, an d pain ,

Fo rced praise o n our part— the glimme r o f twilight ,Never glad con fident mo rn in g againBest fight on we ll , fo r we taught him— strike gallan tly,Menace ou r heart e r e we maste r his ownThen le t him re ce ive the n ew knowledge an d wait us,Pardon ed in heaven , the first by the throne 3

Bitte r humour in'

The So lilo quy o f a Spanish Clo iste r blastshypo crisy hiding unde r a cowl . The so lilo quy is a m icroco sm . It is an entire play

,which sums up the passions o f

unive rsal humanity ,raving in a pe tty monaste ry

,inside

a pe ttie r breast . The jo y o f se tting a trap to catch saintlyBro the r Lawrence

There ’s a great text in Galatians

Once y ou trip o n it , entailsTwenty-nine distinct damnations ,On e sure if ano ther fails

If I trip him just a-dyin g ,Sure o f heaven as sure can be ,

Spin him roun d , an d send him flyingOff to he ll , aManichee 4

In ano the r spirit,wearine ss o f the yoke o f libe rty be come s

a hymn to a Guardian Ange l to bend me low likeGuercin o

’

s pictur ed child at Fanoan d lay , like his, my hands toge the r,

And lift them up to pray, an d gently tetherMe , as Thy lamb there , with thy garment

’s spread.

5

Or defiance is hurled at DeathFear death ‘

I— to fee l the fog in my throat ,The mist in my face ,

When the snows begin, an d the blasts deno teI am nearing the place ,

The power o f the night, the press of the sto rm ,

The po st of the fo eWhere he stan ds, the Arch Fear in a visible form,

Y e t the stron g man must go :



A husband ’s glad cho ice— when bid fix his own rewardfo r the re scue o f France ’s so le survivingfle e t— o f o n e day ’scompany o f his wife as sufficient gue rdon

A beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke ,As the hon est heart laughed throughThose frank eyes o f Bre ton blueSince I ne eds must say my say ,

Sin ce o n board the duty ’

s done ,And from Malo Roads to Cro isic Po in t, what is it but a run

Since ’

tis ask an d have , I may

Sin ce the o thers go asho reCome A go od who le ho lidayLeave to go , an d see my wife , whom I call the Be lle Auro reThat he asked, and that he go t ,— no thing mo re .

8

A Parting,with seas to divide— an d

,pe rhaps

,fo r eve r

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,An d the sun lo oked over the mountain ’

s r im

An d straight was a path of go ld fo r him ,

An d the ne ed of a wo rld of men fo r me .

9

A pro te st , in the pre sence o f death,against a measure

ment o f the right to lo ve by Time ’s jealo us mi le stone s

I loved y ou ,Eve lyn, all the while

My heart seemed fu ll as it could ho ld;There was place an d to spare fo r the frank youn g smile ,An d the r ed young mouth, an d the hair’s youn g go ld.

So , hush,— I will give y ou this leaf to ke ep

See , I shut it in side the swe e t co ld han dThere , that is o ur secre t— go to sle epY ou will wake , an d remember, an d understand .

1 0

And,lastly

,a love ly psalm o f mar riage— By the Fire side

— whe re passion an d tende rne ss blend into o n e,an d trans

mute the still aching agony o f unce rtainty in the wo o ing

ROBERT BROWN ING 3 19

Oh, the little mo re , and how much it isAnd the little less, and what wo rlds away

How a sound shall qui cken con tent to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blo od’s best play,

And life be a pro o f o f this — 1 1

happy prideT o think how little I dreamed it ledTo an age so blest that, by its side ,Youth se ems the waste instead .

1 2

Eve ry lyric,e ve ry idyll , has its pro blem ,

tho ugh me rgedin an unde rcurrent o f me lody so bewitching that none ar e

o bliged to explo re be low . Abt Vo gle r , o f musical renown ,

defie s po e t and painte r , only human wo rke rs , noble as are

the ir arts, to rival hi s , whe reis the finger of God , a flash of the will that can ,

Existent behind all laws, that made them and,10, they are

An d I know n o t if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man ,

That out o f thre e soun ds he frame , n o t a fourth sound , but a star.Con sider it we ll : each ton e of our scale in itse lf is noughtI t is everywhere in the wo rld— loud, so ft, and all is saidGive it t o me to use I mix it with two in my thoughtAnd , there ! Y e have heard an d se en : consider an d bow the head

And at the he ight o f his e xultationI t is gon e , the palace o f music I reared

We ll, it is earth with me silen ce resumes he r re ign

I will be patient an d proud, an d sobe rly acquiesce .

Give me the keys. I fe e l fo r the common cho rd again,Slidin g by semi tones, till I sink to the mino r,— y es ,

An d I blun t it in to a ninth, an d I stand on alien ground ,Surveying awhile the heights I ro lled from into the de epWhich, hark, I have dared an d done , fo r my resting place is found ,The CMajo r o f this life : so , n ow I will try to sleep .1 3

To the glo ry o f his life the Musician see s an en d ;

while death,thre e centur ie s e arlie r

,leads the triumph o f

the Grammarian . I kno w few po ems in which the re ade r


can be mo re pre sent with the po e t in the acce ss o f inspiration . W e fe e l his succe ssive thr ills o f joy ,

as he climbs stepby step with the ado ring scho lars up through the dust o fburied learning into the pure e ther o f rebo rn He lleni sm

Let us begin an d carry up this co rpse ,Singing toge ther.

Leave we the unle ttered plain its herd an d cropSe ek we sepulture

On a tall mountain , citied to the top ,

Crowded with cultur eAll the peaks soar, bu t on e the rest exce ls

Clouds overcome itNo , yonder sparkle is the citade l’s

Circling its summit .Thither our path lies wind we up the he ights

Wait y e the warn ing 7Our low life was the leve l ’s an d the night’s

He’

s fo r the mo rning.Step to a tune , square chests, e rect each head,

’Ware the beho ldersThis is our master , famous calm and dead ,

Bo rne on our shoulders.He was a man bo rn with thy face an d throat,

Lyric Apo lloLong he lived nameless : how should spring take no te

Winter would fo llowTill lo , the little touch, an d youth was gone

Cramped an d diminished ,Moaned he , New measures, o ther feet anon,

My dance is finished ‘

2

No ,that ’s the wo rld’s way (ke ep the mountain-side ,Make fo r the city

H e knew the signal , and stepped on with prideOver men’s pity

Left play fo r wo rk , an d grappled with the wo rldBent o n escaping

What ’s in the scro ll, ’ quo th he , thou keepest furledShow me their shaping ,



Lo fty designs must close in like e ffectsLo ftily lying ,

Leave him— still lo ftie r than the wo rld suspects,Living an d dying.1 4

0

Who le librarie s o f the re sults o f Ge rman re searchpatient as the Grammarian ’s own— cou ld n o t refle ct thee cstasy o f the Renaissance

,the magic o f Go lden Age s

,

Pe riclean,Augustan

,come back to an amaze d , rough-hewn

Go thic wo rld— could n o t repre sent that wo rld ’s debt to thee arly mar try s o f learning

,the Scalige rs , Casaubon s , who

immo lated lyric youth,gowned manho o d

,bald

,hydroptic

o ld age , dead from the waist down , battling with the

e xpiring rattle o ve r a due se ttlement o f the enclitic d e

a tenth part as inte lligibly as the hundr ed an d fifty trumpe ting line s o f this fune ral chantAn idea is always

,so mewhe re , in e ve rything Brown ing

wro te . The varie ty o f frankne ss,o r the reve rse

,with

which it reveals,o r dissemble s

,itse lf is incalcu lable . Some

time s,as in a Lo st Leade r

,Abt Vogle r

,a Grammarian ’s

Fune ral,he

,mo re o r le ss fully

,unfo lds it . Frequently the

e xplanation is at hand,a little be low the su rface ; just

be low, as the accumu lation to Martin Relph’

s remo rse fo rhis dastardly treache ry

,that the se cre t o f his crime— with

its price— is safe,a to rturing He ll in his own bo som

You were taken aback, po o r boy ,’ they urge , n o time to regain

your wi tsBe side s it had maybe co st y ou life .

’Ay ,there is the cap that

fits ;1 5

just be low ,as the comfo rt to Hoseyn fo r the lo ss o f his

inv incible mare ,Muléykeh,

that he alone ho lds the clueto her last victo ry ; that none but himse lf unde rstandshow pride in he r pe e rle ssne ss could leave he r the robbe r ’srathe r than ke ep he r shame d

ROBERT BROWNING 323

And they je ered him on e and all Po o rHoseyn is crazed past ho peHow e lse had he wro ught himse lf his ruin ,

in fo rtune ’ s spite ‘

2

To have simply he ld the tongue we re a task fo r a boy o r girl,An d he re were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an ante lope ,The child of his heart by day , the wife of his breast by nightAn d the beaten in spe ed wept Hoseyn Y o u never have loved

my Pearl . ’ 1 “

Equally o ften we are le ft to grope about fo r an answe r,as

in Clive .

1 7 W e can but imagine po ssibilitie s with a se lfto rmenting temperament , like his . He re he was

,afte r

thirty years o f glo ry,bro o ding still with a shudde r o n

disgrace which might have ,but had n o t

,be fallen him in

o bscu re boyho o d . Such a natu re wou ld find the pro sp‘e cto f o blivion le ss into le rable than an o ld age o f ease an d

a throng o f that an d o the r as rankling memo rie s . I be lievethat the gallop from Ghent to Aix neve r had an y spe cifichisto rical foundation that it is a parable o f the e ssentialgrandeur o f human e ffo rt

,human sacrifice

,without regard

to the o bje ct ; o f the tru th that unsparing endurance isneve r waste d , though,

the re be n o go o d news,n o news at

all to be go o d o r bad .

Whe the r Browning indulge d o r baulke d the cur io sity o f

his admire rs o ve r a puzzle had no thing to d o with the irconvenience . It depende d who lly upon his own . A com

pen satio n is that he regarde d them so little as to have n o

shyne ss in thinking in public . He wou ld have minde d as

little had he known that,taking the same libe rty with his

wo rk , they pre sume d to comple te an unfinishe d picture ;to imagine , fo r example

,the Pie d Pipe r

,kindly to the

children as he had been venge fu l to the ir sharp -dealinge lde rs , playing e te rnal , wonde rfu l music to the tro op ingardens o f Fairyland

Where wate rs gushed and fruit-tree s grew,

And flowers put fo rth a faire r hue ,An d eve rythin g was strange an d n ew .

X 2


It is the same throughout . Browning , while he mightbe suppo se d to intend no thing but a song

,was thinking

,

an d o ften pro foundly . In re turn,when me ditating

,he

still sang . It wou ld be idle fo r me to asse rt that in hiswo rk

,o utside his idylls an d lyrics

,me lo dy is the primary

attribute which a reade r o bse rve s . Ne ithe r is it sentiment .The e ar do e s n o t in So rde llo

,in Parace lsus

,give

,by

drinking-in the music,the signal fo r the heart to glow .

But whateve r he wro te was po e try . None cou ld e ve rmistake a do zen line s o f his fo r pro se . I wou ld e ven goso far as to say ,

if a co mparison had to be attempte d , thatwhe n he is n o t making expe riments in metre

,o r o n the fo r

bearance o f his admire rs,his ve rse

,fo r instance

,in Christmas

E ve an d Easte r D ay ,La Saisiaz

,or Parleyings , could be

shown to be mo re abso lute ly distinguishable rhythmicallyfrom pro se than In a Year

,o r Home Thoughts from Abro ad

,

an d From the Se a . How various the blank ve rse is,an d

how strong H ow it se ems to have sprung,ripe an d fu ll

,

from the brain o f powe r ! The thought stands out fro mit as the muscle s in a statue by Miche l Ange lo . Intoa sentence it can condense mo re than cou ld b e expre sse din a page o f pro se . It can take a sentence o f pro se

,an d

draw from it a hundre dfo ld the meaning .

Singular merits ; an d as singular de fe cts ; the de fe ctso f the wr ite r ’s qualitie s an d with gre atne ss in bo th . The

se lf -commun ing in particu lar , which lie s at the basis o f

all his wo rk , has its drawbacks . He would have re jo ice de spe cially to shine as a dr amatist . The re the habit o f

dialogue un ceasmg might have be en e xpe cte d to be peculiarly valuable an d the re ,

on the contrary,it mars the

e ffe ct of his mo st promising ente rprise s . It rende rs themfu ll o f inte re st as poe ms it pushe s fatally into the backgro und the action which is e ssential to a play ’s succe ss .



lark-like songs— n o t the le ss happy fo r her rags— by thevilla which har bours squalid adu lte ry an d murde r , withremo rse as squalid !Nowhere in the so cie ty o f his ve rse is the re ro o m fo r

te dium .

‘

W e fe e l his me ditations to be be tte r companythan talk . On e who se friendship I have prized fo r mo rethan fo rty years

,as I hope an d be lieve he has mine , long

since o bse rve d to me that reading Brown ing is like dr amdrinking It enslave s an d I am willing to be lieve thatit might scarce ly be fo r the go o d e ithe r o f po e ts o r o f the irreade rs that many source s o f similar into xicants shou ld bese t running . Whe the r fo rtunate ly o r n o t , howeve r , thedange r o f temptation at an y rate is remo te . Such a poe tsoul as Browning ’s is

'

reare d n o t o ften o r e asily . W e may

we l l apply to himse lf his own account o f a po e t ’s birth

Ro ck ’

s the song-so il rather, surface hard an d bareSun an d d ew the ir mildn ess , sto rm an d fro st the ir rageVainly bo th expend

,— few flowe rs awaken there

Quiet in its cleft bro ods— what the afte r-ageKnows an d name s a pine , a nation’s heritage ? 0

The Po etical W o rks o f Ro bert Brown ing . Six vo ls. Smith, E ld erCo . , 1868 — B alaustion

’

s Adven ture , 1871 . Prin ce Hohen stiel

Schwangau , 1871 . Fifin e at the Fair, 1872 . Red Cotton N ight-capCo un try, 1873 . The Inn Album, 1875 . Aristophan es’ Apo logy, 1875 .

Pacchiar o tto , &c . , 1 876. The Agamemn o n o f Aeschylus, 1877 . La

Saisiaz, 1878. The Two Po ets o f Cro isic, 1878. Dramatic Idyls, 1879 .

Dramatic Idyls , Secon d Se r ies, 1880. J o coser ia, 1883 . Fe rishtah’

s

Fan cies, 1884 . Parley ings with Certain Pe ople , 1887. Aso lan d o , 1890.

1 Parley ings with Certain Pe ople , iii, W ith Christopher Smart, pp .

79—95 .

7 The Two Po ets o f Cro isic , Pre lud e .

3 The Lo st Lead er (Dramatic Lyrics), Po et . W o rks.

5 So liloquy o f the Span ish Clo ister, ibid , st . 7 .

5 The Guard ian An ge ls a Picture at Fan o , ibid .

5 Prospice , Po e t . W o rks .

ROBERT BROWNING 327

7 The Flowe r’s Name , stan zas 3 an d 5 (Gard e n Fancies, DramaticLyrics) , Po et . W o rks.

5 He rvé Rie l (Pacchiaro tto , st . 10.

9 Parting at Mo rn in g (Dramatic Lyr ics), Po et . W orks.

1 ° Eve lyn Hope , st . 7 (Dramatic Lyr ics), ibid .

By the Firesid e , st . 39 (Dramatic Lyrics), ibid .

77 Ibid . , st . 25 (Dramatic Lyrics), ibid .

1 3 Abt Vogler (Afte r he has be en playing upon the In strumen t o f hisIn ven tion ), stan zas 7, 8, an d 1 2 (Dramatis Person ae ), Po et . W o rks .

1 4 A Grammarian ’

s Fun eral, Shortly after the Revival o f Learn in gm Europe (Dramatic Roman ces), Po et . W orks.

1 5 Martin Re lph (Dramatic Idyls,1 5 Muléykeh (Dramatic Idyls

,Secon d Series,

Olive1 9 The Pied Piper o f Hamelin , st . 13 (Dramatic Romances), Po et .

W orks.

1 5 D e Gust ibus, st . 2 (Dramatic Lyrics), Po et. W orks.

7 5 Dramatic Idyls, Second Series, Epilogue .

ALFRED TENNYSON

1 809— 1 892

THE po e ts— n o t only the great,but all the true— how

each stands alone Search the who le Calendar o f Inspiration n o pair will be foun d fo r him with whom the re giste rfo r the ninetee nth centu ry clo se s ; n o real fe llow fo r

Alfre d Tennyson ! The characte r o f his genius was so

une xpe cte d that the gene ral public to ok long to appre ciateit . The de lay was a tribu te to its o riginality . T o a few

e le ct it was ce rtain an d heavenly . I envy the ir joyous an d

surprise d re co gnition . Mighty Wo rdswo rth,in the opini on

o f a youn ge r gene ration ,had de cline d to pro sing

,howeve r

wise ly . He llenic Lando r rave d . Roge rs was antedi luvianan d po o r Le igh Hunt had neve r counte d . The giants o f thepast we re bu rie d in the ir past , when a chant as e xquisiteas the irs , an d at least as n ew an d strange

,ro se into the

dead air . To a brilliant,youthfu l bro the rho o d it must

have be en as when Chr istabe l o r Childe Haro ld soare dabo ve the stagnant mists half a century e arlie r .

The initiate d we re enrapture d with all. The pre sentgene ration discriminate s . To a certain e xtent it has lo sttouch with much o f the phi lo sophy o f The Two Vo ice s ,The Palace o f Art

,The Vision o f Sin . It has outgrown the

gladne ss,the swe e t limpid so rr ow ,

o f the May Queen an d

its seque ls , the Early Victo rian e legance o f the Miller ’san d Gardene r ’s Daughte rs even Lo cksley Hall the First ,with its play o f pano ramic heart-flutterings . Thoughscarce ly on e discarde d favouri te but has line s , wo rds , to



And the wave -wo rn ho rns of the echo ing bank ,An d the silvery marish-flowers that throngThe deso late creeks an d po o ls among ,Were flo oded over with eddyin g song .

The land o f the Lo to s -e ate rs basks still in abiding me llowafte rn o on sunshine

How swe e t it were , hearing the downward stream ,

With half-shu t eyes ever to seemFallin g asle ep in a half-dreamTo dream an d dream

,like yonder ambe r light,

Which will n o t leave the myrrh-bush o n the heightTo hear each o ther’s whispe r

’

d spee chEating the Lo to s day by day ,

To watch the crisping ripples o n the beach,

An d tende r curving line s o f creamy sprayTo lend o ur hearts an d spirits who llyTo the influence o f mild-minded me lancho lyTo muse an d bro od an d live again in memo ry,With tho se o ld face s o f o ur in fancyHeap

’

d ove r with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn o f brass 3

W e have n o t ceased to wande r around the spe ll-boundsleeping palace— spe ll-bound o urse lve s— an d its gardens

Where rests the sap within the leaf,Where stays the blo od along the ve ins.Fain t shadows, vapours lightly cu rl’dFaint murmurs from the meadows come

Like hints an d e cho es o f the wo rldTo spirits fo lded in the womb

waiting till the fairy prince has kisse d back to life hisde stined bride

An d o’

e r the hills , and far awayBeyond their u tmo st purple r im ,

Beyond the night, acro ss the day ,

Thro ’

all the wo rld she fo llow’

d him .

4

ALFRED TENNYSON 33 1

The ancient wo o d has n o t lo st fo r us its company o f sto rie dwomen

A daughte r of the gods , divine ly tall ,An d mo st divinely fair

fo r who se beauty man y drew swo rds an d die dA Queen with swarthy cheeks and bo ld black eyes ,Brow-bound with burning go ld

who by Mark Antony ’s side sat as go d by go d murde redIphigenia

,an d Ro samond

,whom men call fair the

light o f ancient France an d her who,to a cry o f indignant

pity fo r the victim of the Gileadite ’s wi ld o ath,

r en d e r’

d answer highNo t so , n o r once alone a tho usand time sI would be bo rn an d die .

My God , my land , my father— these d id moveMe from my bliss o f life , that Nature gave ,

Lower’

d so ftly with a three fo ld co rd o f loveDown to a silent grave .

I t comfo rtsme in this o n e tho ught to dwe ll ,That I subdued me to my father’s willBecause the kiss he gave me

,e re I fe ll ,

Swe etens the spirit still .

Mo re over it is written that my raceH ew

’

d Ammon ,hip an d thigh, from Aro er

On Arnon until Min n e th.

’ He re her faceGlow’d , as I lo oked at he r .

She lo ck’

d he r lips she left me where I sto odGlo ry to God ,

’

she sang , an d past afar,Thridding the sombre bo skage o f the wo od ,Towards the mo rning star.

Lo sing he r caro l I stood pensive ly,As o n e that from a casement leans his head ,When midn ight be lls cease ringing sudden ly,An d the o ld year is dead .

5


Tennyson ’s imagination found its theme s anywhe re an d

eve rywhe re . Sometime s histo ry supplied them ,as in

the Dream o f Fair Women ; some time s legend an d tradition . Scene s

,incidents

,men an d women ,

touche d by him,

have be come his,an d real be cause his . W e see them as he

saw them,an d almo st fo rge t that they have had o the r an d

e arlie r owne rs . Through him ,an d fo r him

,the Lady o f

Shalo tt is an actual be ing,who

,wistfully impatient

,fearful

o f she knows n o t what,

still in he r web de lightsTo weave the mirro r’s magic sights,Fo r o ften thro ’

the silent n ightsA funeral, with plume s an d lightsAnd music, went to Camelo t. 5

It is in his vo ice that pure Sir Galahad te lls howSome times on lone ly mountain-meresI fin d a magic bark

I leap on board n o he lmsman stee rsI float till all is dark .

A gentlesound, an awful lightThree ange ls bear the Ho ly GrailWith fo lded fe e t, in sto les o f white ,On sle epin g win gs they sail .

Ah, blessed vision blo od o f GodMy spirit beats her mo rtal bars,

“

As down dark tides the glo ry slides,An d starlike mingle s with the stars 7

In a kindr e d e cstasy,the clo iste re d maiden o f his inspire d

creation ke eps her vigil,be side even Keats ’s

,o n St . Agne s ’

Eve . The Lamb‘ lifts me to the go lden do o rs

The flashes come an d goAll heaven bursts her starry flo o rs ,An d strows he r lights be low,

An d de epen s on an d up the gatesRo ll back, an d far within



difficult to suppo se that e ven he himse lf can have laboure dupon them . Each pie ce se ems to have flo ate d impulsive lyfo rth in the shape it keeps fo r us

,although we know that

in fact e ve ry on e has be en labo riously file d an d burnishe d .

When a theme is manife stly o f a nature to demand a

seve re expenditu re o f thought, y e t at his touch it se ems

unable to re sist bu rsting suddenly into me lo dy an d simpleswe etne ss . Against the counse ls o f de spair in The TwoVo ice s bursts the pro te st

Tho’

I shou ld d ie , I kn owThat all about the tho rn will blowIn tu fts o f ro sy-tinted snow ’ 1 1

against the lu rid pomp o f The Palace o f Art

An English home— gray twilight pour’

d

On dewy pastures , dewy tre es ,So fte r than sleep— all things in o rder sto red ,A haunt o f an cien t Peace

Or the maid-mo the r by a Crucifix,In tracts o f pasture sun n y-warm ,

Beneath branch-wo rk of co stly sardonyx ,Sits smilin g , babe in arm.

1 2

From beyond the sardonic harshne ss o f The Visiona divine glo ry be co me s visible

Every mo rn ing, far withdrawnBeyond the darkne ss an d the cataract,God made himse lf an awfu l ro se o f dawn.

1 3

Often the re is n o text , n o mo tive ,except an irrepre ssible

impu lse to sing

Break, break, break,On thy co ld gray stones, 0 Sea

An d I would that my ton gue cou ld u tte rThe tho ughts that arise in me .

ALFRED TENNYSON 335

0 we ll fo r the fishe rman ’

s boy ,

That he shouts with his sister at play0 we ll fo r the sailo r lad ,That he sings in hi s boat o n the bay

An d the state ly ships go o n

To the ir haven unde r the hillB ut O fo r the touch of a van ish

’

d hand ,And the soun d o f a vo ice that is still

Break, break , break,At the fo o t of thy crags, 0 Sea

B ut the tender grace o f a day that is deadWill never come back to me .

“

Tennyson had done a life ’s wo rk by the time he was

thirty . Fo r ano the r half- century he went o n writing .

Scarce ly did he cease singin g be fo re in extreme age he

ceased to bre athe . He e ven continue d to e xe rcise,as in

the two No rthern Farme rs , the gift o f humo ur , which hehad early manife sted in the gay Mono logue o f the Co ck ,an d

,mo re grim ly

,in St . Sime on ’s thirstily me ek acceptance

o f blasphemous ido latry . It is dange rous to o ppo se a critico f the intuition o f Old Fitz who depre cate d his co llegefriend ’s pe rsistent po etic diligence . I must

,howeve r ,

disagre e . If the late r se rious po ems miss the de licatefragrance , the real o r apparent spontane ity

,the audacity

,

o f the ir yo uthful pre de ce sso rs,the want is n o su fficient

groun d fo r impatience at the continuance o n the stage o f

the do e r o f gre at things in the past . Had the subsequentvo lume s by the creato r o f Oenone an d The Dream be enfailure s all, I sho u ld n o t myse lf have venture d to quarre lwi th him fo r pur suing his vo cation an y mo re than w itha last season ’s blackbird fo r warbling as so on as he fe e lsthe Spring in his thro at . B ut in truth lite rature woulditse lf have su ffe re d a grievo us lo ss had Tenn yson re ste d o n

his gathe re d lau re ls . Fo r the Plays alone I say no thing .


Dive rsions,I w il l hope ,

to the writer,they had n o busine ss

to sur vive him . Le t them be de cently bur ied— n o t in hisgrave ; though some late vio le ts may blo o m e ven fromthe ir unmonumental mo unds .

Elsewhe re we shou ld have lo st wealth o f fancy had hebe en frightene d , living , into silence by the shadow o f hisown fame . He would neve r have sung in the Garden at

SwainstonNightingales warbled without ,Within was we epin g fo r the eShadows of three dead men

Walk’d in the walks with me ,

Shadows of thre e dead men an d thou wast on e of the three .

N ightingales sang in hi s wo odsThe Maste r was far away

Nightin gale s warbled an d sangOf a passion that lasts but a dayStill in the house in

’

his co ffin the Prince of co urte sy lay .

Two dead men have I knownIn court esy like to thee

Two dead men have I lovedWith a love that ever will beThree dead men have I loved and thou art last of the three .

1 5

He would n o t have wrought that incomparable conce it ,The Prince ss

,o r be en tempted to inlay it with undyin g

lyr ics . W e shou ld have be en'

o rphan ed o f the music inO hark, O hear how thin an d clear,And thinn er, clearer, farthe r go ing

0 sweet an d far from cliff an d sear

The ho rns of E lflan d faintly blowin gBlow, le t u s hear the purple glen s replying :Blow, bugle answer , e cho es, dying, dyin g , dying

Home they brought he r warrio r dead



Some time s I have myse lf fe lt incline d to condemn theIdylls o f the King fo r unreality an d pro lixity ; as if o n ehad a right to require tale s o f chivalry to be rational, te rse ,

sententious,pithy When in a juste rmo o d

,I admit that

he must be a fo rtunate student o f romance who is con

ve rsant with an y mo re fascinating than Ge raint an d Enid ,Launce lo t an d Elaine

,the Last To urnament , fo r all the ir

diffusene ss ; with aught mo re divine than Guineve rewhe re Tennyson found at length a wo rthy match fo r thee lse pe e rle ss creature o f his youthful imaginings , kinglyMo rte d ’

Ar thur .

What stream le t , again,in a de l l o f Parn assus eve r

laughe d mo re gaily than the Bro ok,e scaped from its

encumbe ring frame 7 Whe re is the re a mo re happilyinspired Pro thalami on than the We lcome to A lexandra,

Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea 7 1 9

Where a battle -song to beat the Charge o f the Six Hundred

Into the valley of Death 2 °

W here a mo re triumphant fune ral hymn than that on theGreat Duke

,with the grand bre ak— the cry o f the mighty

Seaman from his tombW ho is he that cometh, like an hon our ’d guest,With bann er an d with music, wi th so ldier an d with priest ,With a nation we eping, an d breaking on my rest 21

If impatience be fe lt at the re suscitation,o n the grave ’s

brink , o f Lo cksley Hall,le t it be remembe re d that thre e

years late r the wo rn brain demonstrate d its victo ry o ve rage in Cro ssing the BarLong indeed be fo re that

, ye t many years afte r FitzGe raldwould have silence d his friend , the singe r had tried trium

phan tly a n ew strain . I we ll re co lle ct the depth o f the

impre ssion pro duced by the appearance o f In Memo riam .

ALFRED TENNYSON 339

No fin e r tribute,it was ack nowle dge d , had eve r be en o ffe red

to the dead,e ven byMilton

,o r by She lley . High as alr eady

was Tennyson ’s rank among po e ts,there had be en doubte rs

still . In Memo riam silenced them . It has neve r re laxedits ho ld on popular sympathy . Like his illustrious pred ecesso r

’

s Intimations o f Immo rtality,it was fe lt —an d

with a mo re attachin g me lo dy— to combine Inquiry an d

Po e try, to be o f the rare class o f ve rse whe reAll the bree ze o f Fancy blows ,

And every thought breaks o ut a ro se .

22

Lines in it have be come part o f ourse lve s . Fo r manyit is a manual o f Faith

What am I

An infant cryin g in the nightAn in fant crying fo r the lightAnd with n o lan guage but a cry.

I falte r where I firmly trod ,And falling with my weight of caresUpon the great wo rld’s altar-stairsThat slope thro ’ darkness up to God ,I stretch lame hands of faith, and gro pe ,And gather dust and chaff , an d callTo what I feel is Lo rd o f all,And faintly trust the large r ho pe ? 3

many it is e vidence fo r the Communion of

When summer’s hourly-me llowing changeMay breathe , with many roses swee t,Upon the thousand waves of wheat ,That ripple round the lone ly grangeCome n o t in watches of the night ,But where the sunbeam bro od e th warm ,

Come , beau teous in thine afte r fo rm ,

And like a fin e r light in light.

340 FIVE CENTURIES o r ENGLISH VERSE

I shall n o t see thee . Dare I sayNo spirit ever brake the bandThat stays him from the n ative land ,Where first he walk’d when claspt in clay ‘

2

N o visual shade of some o n e lo st ,Bu t he , the Spirit himse lf, may comeWhere all the n erve o f sense is numbSpirit to Spirit , Gho st to Gho st.

O therefo re from thy sightless rangeWith gods in uncon j ectured bliss,O,from the distance o f the abyss

Of tenfo ld-complicated chan ge ,

Descend , an d touch, an d ente r ; hearThe wish to o strong fo r wo rds to nameThat in this blindn e ss of the frame

My ghost may fe e l that thine is near.24

Nature had endowed Tennyson with ce rtain qualitie swhich defie d the tendency o f years to paralyse

,o r du ll .

His e ar pre se rve d its almo st inimitable refin ement,an d

instinct of harmony . His heart kept fire to kind le TheRevenge

,an d The Victim . Brain an d it maintaine d the ir

alliance . In eve ry line he still painted a picture . He

neve r de scribe d without having made himse lf se e the

scene an d he make s the reade r see it thro ugh his mind ’se y e . With the se ine stimable gifts was conjo ine d , in an

increasing rathe r than a diminishing degree , by expe rience ,a judgement which waite d , be fo re inte rvening , fo r inspiration to play its primary part . Finally

,bo rn o f unfailing

se lf-re spe ct first,an d due regard fo r his public next , the re

was genius ’s infin ite capacity fo r taking tro uble . Whata ste rn , Draconian cri tic he was o f his own wo rk , is manife st from a glance in the Life at the pie ce s he laid aside .

Think o f the exube rance o f fancy which could affo rd to



appended . He could n o t pass a contempo rary problem bywithout adventu ring an answe r . Mo re than on e co eval athome

,an d acro ss the Atlantic , had ,

as I have shown,the

same craving . His spe cial advantage was the po sse ssion ,o ve r an d above gifts he share d with o the rs

,o f the se cre t

o f irre sistible me lo dy . When once the strangene ss o f hisme tho d was su rmounted

,that acte d like a spe l l upon

Anglo -Saxon inte lligence . Long be fo re the en d he had

steepe d the re alm o f English ve rse in an atmo sphe re all

his own . Except from within o n e tent in the wilde rne ss,

n o lyr e sounde d which had n o t be en tun e d o r re tun ed inunison with his . Unde r the stre ss o f the unchallenge dabso lutene ss o f his u ltimate supremacy, an e ffo rt is ne e de dto re call that he had to fight fo r his throne that he himse lfhad o ften de spaired , complaining that

On ce in a go lden hourI cast to earth a seed .

Up there came a flower,The people said , a weed .

27

Have I o ve rpraise d ? I d o n o t mean,in view o f the

ve ry po ssible hint that I ought first to have conside re dwhat my eu logie s we re wo rth . To that taunt I kn owI have been expo sing myse lf throughout my seventy-two

comments . But,without regard to my title to an opinion

at all,is the panegyric he re ou t o f just propo rtion to the

claims o f o the r po ets 2 At an y rate I have neve r concealedfrom myse lf my theme ’s deficiencie s . I pe rce ive that theliqu id swe etne ss is to o invariable . The car pine s fo r a littleharshne ss

,a sense o f open air fo r an o ccasional un in ten

tion ally broken-backe d line . The mellifluous style temptsto ve rbo sene ss

,particularly in the Idylls in the re st

,as

we ll as tho se o f The King,whe re

,inde e d

,it is mo re e xcus

able . At time s it labo riously embalms a fly in ambe r . To o

ALFRED TENNYSON 343

many kno tty que stions are lightly propounded . The re isa propensity to mistake sittin g upon the puzzle s o f e xistencefo r the ir inve stigation ,

if n o t fo r the ir se ttlement . No t

rare ly the ar t by which Gray in the Elegy pro duce dthe e ffe ct o f entire simplicity fails Tenn yson . Thoughve ry se ldom ,

e ven his taste is n ow an d then at fault .

In brie f,his the o logy, mo ral philo sophy, science ,

an d

skill in the construction o f a plo t,are tho se o f a po e t ,

n o t o f a Bishop Butle r , a‘

D arwin,o r a Wilkie Co llins .

He sings darkling , n o t so aring . The re is the feminineno te in his music . He is n o t quite the magician o r

prophe t some o f hi s disciple s pro claimed him . Scrutinizedclo se ly his ar t be trays flaws which the de licate fin ishhad co ve re d— an d his Muse is the mo re ado rable fo r

them‘

all

Within its proper boundarie s his sove re ignty is in n o

ho stile rivalry with that o f his re igning pre dece sso rs . Onthe contrary ,

loyal admire rs may fre e ly admit that theancient enthronements we re a condi tion o f his . WithoutChauce r

,Spense r

,Milton

,Wo rdswo rth an d Co le ridge

,

She lley an d Keats,without Dryden an d Pope to o

,Cowpe r ,

an d Byr on ,he would n o t have be en that he was . Fro m

them all he learnt to cho o se the go od,an d

,as profitably

,

to re fuse the e vil . His poe tic soul,coul d its e lements b e

analyse d , wou ld rende r glad account o f the bountifu lpropo rtion o f the ir e ssence it owe s to its fo re runne rs . Y e t

he remains himse lf a distinct an d gracious be ing . The

lyrics in The Prince ss an d in Maud,with all the ir E lizaf

be than daintine ss , are as se lf -evidently his in the ir fire an d

fe e ling as are the wit an d wisdom of his No rthe rn Farme rs ’

pro ve rbial phi lo sophy . It was,as I have already intimate d ,

a glo ry an d a ble ssing fo r the ninete enth century that,just

when the peal o f inspiration which struck up at its opening,


seemed - to have rung all conce ivable change s o f poe ticthought and fe e ling , he aro se to demonstrate that , giventhe man

, the po ssible variations had in nowise beene xhausted .

S o may it be— so will it be— in the future as in the past,

tho ugh,had the sun o f great British singers actually be en

e xtinguished with Alfre d Tennyson ,its se tting would n o t

have dishonoured its dawn

The W o rks o f Alfred, Lord Tenn yson , Po et Laureate . Co llectedEd ition , Macmillan , 1884. Also , W o rks : Six vo ls . H. S . 1877

1 Reco llection s o f the Arabian N ights, st . 1 .

1 The Dying Swan .

5 The Loto s-Eate rs, Choric Song, st . 5 .

4g

The Sleeping Palace , st . 1 , an d The Departure .

5 A Dream o f Fair W omen , stan zas 22, 32, 5 1—62 .

5 The Lady o f Shalo tt , Part II , st . 4.

7 Sir Galahad , st . 4 .

5 St. Agn es ’ Eve , st 3 .

Oen on e .

Marian a in the So uth, st . 1 .

The Two Vo ice s, stan zas 20, 24.

The Palace o fArt, stan zas 22, 24.

1 1 The Visio n of Sin , st . 3 .

1 4 Break, break, break.

1 5 In the Gard en at Swainston .

1 “ The Prin cess : A Med ley, 6 . Song, Prelud e to Bk. IV st . 2 ; an d

Song, Pre lud e t o Bk. VI , stan zas 1 , 4 .

1 7 I bid . , 4, vv . 21—5 .

1 5 Maud : A Mon odr ama. V, stanzas 1 an d 3 .

1 9 A W e lcome t o Alexan d ra.

7 ° The Charge o f the Light Brigade .

“ 1 Od e o n the Death o f the Duke o f W e llington , st . 6.

In Memoriam, 122 , st . 5 .

7 3 Ibid . , 54, st . 5 , an d 5 5 , stanzas 4—5 .

1 1 Ibid . , 9 1 , stan zas 1—4, an d 93, stan zas 1—4.

7 5 Life o f Lo rd Tennyson by his Son , vol. i, pp. 124—5 .

2 “ The Po et, st . 14 .

1 7 The Flower (The Prin cess an d Other Po ems) .



know,at its birth , mo ve d , pe rhaps transfo rme d , the autho r .

W e fe e l that , fo r the moment , it has transfo rme d us . No

credentials are wante d , n o illustrious name . Suddenly thewo rds catch fire

,an d our souls with them .

The sense o f maste ry,o f transpo rt

,o f a kind o f magic

,

is always the same . The o ccasion,the circumstance s

,the

pate rnity an d affinitie s o f the V isitant,when we try to

account fo r its pre sence , diffe r as wide ly as Spenser’sinspiration from Pope ’s

,o r Wo rdswo rth ’s from Byron ’s .

Sometime s the po e t had constantly be en within the

autho r o f such ve rse , but asle ep,to rpid . A sho ck had

awakene d him it spent its fo rce an d he sank back intolethargy o r repo se . Some time s the pie ce repre sents thespring-tide o f mode st powe rs , a spasm o f concentration o f

the ir e ssence , uninte lligible to the ir owne r . The wri te r ’sdominant impu lse may have be en o the r altoge the r thanthat o f fancy . It may have be en wo rldly ambition

,

indignation at tyranny o r cru e lty,wonde r

,lo ve

,the

enthusiasm o f pie ty . A leve r has be en sought to ae com

plish the craving o f the ruling passion,an d fo r the in stru

ment ve rse has be en requisitione d . Pure imagination ’srival

,rheto ric itse lf

,will eve r an d an on

'

fo rce open in itsflo o d a spring o f patho s

,raptur e . Straightway we fe e l

ourse lve s rapt from chill admiration into glowing sym

pathy . Some time s it is all an accident . A vision,a

gho st,has stumble d upon a strange r lo dge d in the haun te d

ro om ; Some time s it simply is that inspiration has be enwande ring afte r its mann e r in se arch o f a home . Lo okingabout fo r re st to the so le s o f its fe e t

,it has taken re fuge

with n o be tte r than a ver sifier .

Po etry, from the time o f its Elizabethan revival fo r somethre e -quarte rs o f a centu ry onwards

,was in the British air .

A large r life had opene d fo r our islande rs,fre e dom o f sou l ,

UNCLASSED 347

n ew ambitions,an expanse o f art

,learn ing

,luxury . They

had grown into lo rds to go ve rn a larger wo rld . A languagefo r such a pe rio d waswanting an d many

,scarce ly compre

hending the change in the ir utte rance ,found themse lve s

po ets . They sang be cause they co uld n o t he lp it , an d we reincline d to be ashame d o f the impulse . It se ldom o ccur redto them to claim prope rty in the ir strains . Neve r

,tho ugh

they might court popu lar favou r fro m the stage,did it

ente r the ir minds to adopt minstre lsy as the ir vo cation .

In such a pe rio d on e who,had he cho sen to abandon

o the r pursuits,could conce ivably have qualified fo r futu re

gene rations,as a po e t pro fe sse d

,might wr ite Occasional

Ve rse comparable with that by re cognized maste rs o f

the craft . The Li e,commonly

,though n o t un ive rsally ,

attributed to Ralegh,is a succe ssion o f lightning flashe s

Say to the Court, it glowsAnd shines like ro tten wo od

Say to the Church, it showsWhat ’s go od, an d do th n o go od

If Church an d Court reply,Then give them bo th the lie .

1

No contempo rary eulogy o n Sidney surpasse s his epitaphWhat hath he lost that such great grace hath wonYoung years fo r en dless years , an d hope un sure

Of fo rtun e ’s gifts fo r wealth that still shall dureO happy race , with so great praises run ! 2

His sonnet ,Me thought I saw the grave whe re Laura lay ,

wo rthily intro duce d the Fae rie Que ene . His appeal in thePilgrimage from his pe rse cuto rs to He aven is inspire d

,if

e ve r ve rse wasBlo od must be my body’s balmerNo o the r balm will there be give nWhilst my soul , like quie t palme r,Travelleth towards the land o f heaven


Over the silver mountains ,Where spring the nectar fountainsThere will I kissThe bowl of bliss

And drink min e everlasting fillUpon every milken hill.Then by that happy blissfu l day ,

Mo re peacefu l pilgrims I shall see ,That have cast o ff the ir rags o f clay,And walk appare lled fresh like me

I’

ll take them firstTo quench the ir thirstAt tho se clear we llsWhere sweetness dwe lls .From thence to heaven’ s bribe less hallWhere n o co rrupted vo ice s brawlNo conscience mo lten into go ld ,No fo rged accuser bought o r so ld ,No cause de ferred , n o vain-spent journey,Fo r there Christ is the king’s Atto rney,W ho pleads fo r all withou t degree s ,An d He hath ange ls

,but n o fe es.

And when the grand twe lve -million juryOf our sins , wi th dire fu l fury,Against o ur souls black verdicts give ,Christ pleads his death, and then we live .

3

Fo r swe e t co urtline ss,if n o t fo r astronomical accuracy

,

almo st as much might be said o f W o tto n’

s addre ss to thehap le ss Winte r Queen

You meaner beautie s of the night,That po o rly satisfy our eye sMo re by your numbe r than your light,You common pe ople of the skies ;

What ar e y ou when the mo on shall rise‘

Z

Y ou vio le ts that first appear,By your pure purple mantles known

Like the proud virgin s o f the year,

As if the sprin g were all your ownWhat are y ou when the ro se is blow n



Ye t whil’st with so rrow here we live oppre st ,

What life is best ‘

2

Courts are but on ly superficial scho o lsTo dandle fo o ls

The rural part is turn ’

d into a den

Of savage men

And when ’

s a city from fou l vice so free ,But may be term

’

d the wo rst of all the three

Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed ,Or pain his head

Tho se that live single take it fo r a curse ,Or d o things wo rse

These would have children tho se that have none ,Or wish them gone

What is it , then, to have , o r have n o wife ,But single thraldom , o r a double strife ‘

2

Our own affections still at home to pleaseI s a disease

To cro ss the seas to any fo re ign so il ,Peril and to il

Wars with their no ise affright u s when they cease ,W e are wo rse in peace

What then remains , but that we still should cryFo r be ing bo rn, and be ing bo rn, to d ie 5

The o rigin o f a large bo dy of lyri c ve rse to be fo und inthe Elizabe than an d early Stuart dr ama is n o t ve ry diffe ren t . Wits who truste d fo r money an d fame to the irdeve lopment o f characte r on the stage

,sur vive by rhyme s

theyflung-in to employ some boy ’s tune fu l vo ice . ThomasDekke r

,who ye t had dr amatic genius , is sure o f surviving

through the simple grace of

Art thou poo r , y et hast thou go lden slumbers0 swe et content

Art thou rich, y e t is thy mind pe rplexedO pun ishment

UNCLASSED 35 1

Do st thou laugh to see how fo o ls are vexedTo add to go lden numbers go lden numbers

0 sweet content ! 0 swee t, 0 swe et content

Canst drink the waters o f the crisped spring ‘

2

0 swee t contentSwimm

’

st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears ‘

2

O punishmentThen he that patiently want’s burden bearsNo burden bears , but is a king , a king0 swee t content ! 0 swee t, 0 swee t contentWo rk apace , apace , apace , apaceHonest labour bears a love ly face 7

The same casual quality canno t indee d be assigne d tothe great song , which chills as with the damp o f death

,in

Webste r ’s Duche ss o f Malfy . Into that the who le sou lo f the te rrible play is condensed

Hark, n ow everythin g is still,The screech-owl, and the whistle r shrillCall upon our dame aloud ,An d bid he r quickly don he r shroudMuch y ou had of land and rent ;Your length in clay ’

s n ow competentA long war disturbed your mindHere yo ur perfe ct peace is signed .

Of what is’ t fo o ls make such vain keepingSin the ir conception, the ir birth weepin g ,The ir life a general mist of erro r,Their death, a hideous sto rm of terro r.Strew your hair with powders swee t ,D on clean linen, bathe your fe e t,And— the foul fiend mo re to checkA crucifix le t bless your neck’Tis n ow full-tide ’ tween night and dayEnd your groan, an d come away.“

But the ru le of the slende rne ss of the connexion be twe en adrama an d its songs ho lds true o f the twin lyrics o f Shirley ’s

,

who, though bo rn late , is , as a singe r , Elizabe than . Bo th

,


as fu l l o f awe— with no thing of the ho rro r— as W ebste r ’s,

might have been compo se d without re lation to the masquean d the ente rtainment they once glo rifie d . Cupid an d Deathhas cease d fo r centurie s to lay an y claim to the Ode

Victo rious men of earth, n o mo rePro claim how wide your empires ar eThough y ou bind in every sho re ,And your triumphs reach as far

As night o r day ,Y et y ou , pro ud monarchs, must obey,

An d mingle with fo rgo tten ashes, whenDeath calls y e to the crowd of common men .

Devouring Famine , Plague , and W ar ,

Each able to undo mankind ,Death’s servile emissarie s areNo r to these alone con fined,

He hath at willMo re quaint an d subtle ways to killA smi le o r kiss , as he will use the ar t ,Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart. 9

Even mo re independent,if po ssible

,must the sister hymn

have always be en o f its o bscure semi -dramatic attendantThe glo ries o f our blo od an d stateAr e shadows , n o t substantial things ;There is n o armour against fateDeath lays his icy hand o n kingsSceptre an d crown must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal madeWith the po o r cro oked scythe and spade .

The garlands wither on your browThen bo ast n o mo re your mighty deedsUpon Death’s purple altar n owSe e , where the victo r-victim bleedsYour heads must comeTo the co ld tomb

Only the actions o f the justSme ll swe et, and blo ssom in their dust.1 0



Within mine eyes he makes his nest ,His bed amidst my tende r breastMy kisse s ar e his daily feast,And y e t he robs me of my rest ;Ah wanton, will y e

‘

2

And if I sleep, then pe r cheth heWith pretty flight ,And makes his pillow of my kneeThe life lon g night.Strike I my lute , he tunes the stringH e music plays if so I singHe lends me every love ly thing ,Y e t crue l he my heart do th stingWhist, wanton, still y e

E lse I with ro se s every dayWill whip y ou hence ,And bind y ou , when y ou long to play,Fo r your o ffence .

I’

ll shu t my eye s to ke ep y ou inI’

ll make y ou fast it fo r your sinI’

ll count your powe r n o t wo rth a pin .

—Alas what hereby shall I winIf he gainsay me

What if I beat the wanton boyWith many a r od

‘

2

He will repay me with annoy,Because a god .

Then sit thou safe ly on my kneeThen le t thy bower my bosom b eLurk in mine eyes, I like o f theeO Cupid, so thou pity me ,

Spare n o t , but play the e ! 1 2

If Love ’s music is the mo st audible in the Occasionalsixteenth-sevente enth-century ve rse , that was to be

e xpe cte d ; an d,as naturally

,it is in all keys . It is

embodied daintiness in Carew ’

s mo ralizing

UNCLASSED 355

He that love s a ro sy che ek,Or a co ral lip admires ,

Or from star-like eye s do th seekFue l to maintain his firesAs old Time makes these decay,So his flames must waste away .1 3

To grace it adds a sunny glow, in Fo rd’s

Can you paint a thought o r numbe rEvery fancy in a slumber

Can y ou coun t so ft min utes rovingFrom a dial’s po int by movin gCan you grasp a sigh o r , lastly,Rob a virgin’s honour chaste ly ?No , oh n o y et y o u maySo oner d o bo th that an d this,This and that , an d never miss ,Than by any praise displayBeauty’ s beauty such a glo ry,As beyond all fate , all sto ry,All arms , all arts,All loves, all hearts ,

Greate r than tho se , o r they,D o , shall, and must obey ; 1 4

an d in that pre tty fo undling— if n o t Thomas Campion ’s

There is a garden in he r faceWhere ro ses an d white lilies blowA heavenly paradise is that place ,Where in all pleasant fruits d o growThere che rries grow that none may buy ,

Till Cher ry oRipe themse lves d o cry .1 5

It grows tumultuous in ano the r stray,Lo ve the Adventure r

Y ou may este em himA child fo r his mightOr y ou may deem himA coward fo r his flight

Z 2


B ut if she whom love do th honourB e con ceal

’

d from the day ,

Se t a tho usand guards upo n he r ,Love will fin d o ut the way

? “

It use s an d idealize s Davenant ’s Aubade,a de lightful

,if

manne red,e xtravagance— wo rth all his leaden Gon d ibe rt

The lark n ow leaves his wat’ry nest ,And climbing shakes his dewy wings.

H e takes this window fo r the East,And to implo re your light he singsAwake , awake the mom will never riseTill she can dress he r beauty at your eye s.

It is at once defiant an d tende r in Ge o rge Withe r ’s

Great, o r go od , o r kind, o r fair,I will ne ’e r the mo re despair ;If she love me , this be lieve ,I will d ie e re she shall grieveIf she slight me when I wo o ,I can sco rn ,

an d let he r go

Fo r , if she be n o t fo r me ,

What care I fo r whom she b e ! 1 “

W hen it kn ows itse lf safe , it wil l threaten , hecto r— and

ado reLike Alexander I will re ign,And I will re ign alone

My thoughts d id evermo re disdainA rival on my throne .

He e ither fears his fate to o much,Or his de serts are small,That dares n o t put it to the touch,To gain o r lo se it all.

But if thou wilt prove faithfu l then,And constan t of thy wo rd,

I’

ll make thee glo rious by my pen ,

An d famous by my swo rd



But fo r native Sco ttish imagination o f the highe st we mustlo ok to the wild-garden o f Bo rde r Minstre lsy . That

,while

singularly unlike,at its be st , to the coarsene ss o f English

bro adshe e t ve rse , an d the po lish o f Elizabe than dramaticlyrics

,matche s the latte r in fire o f inspiration . Thus the

English ve rsion o ffe rs n o counte rpart to the hauntingdream of Earl Douglas in the Sco ttish tale o f the Battleo f Otte rbourne

I have dreamed a dreary dream,

Beyond the Isle of SkyI saw a dead man win a fight,And I think that man was I ? 3

Eve rybody, again, must have fe lt bo th the wo e an d the

dignity o f the grand o ld ballad o f Sir , Patrick Spens . No tethe Captain ’s knowledge that he was be ing sent to his do om ,

an d his simple o bedience ; the instinct with which the

few maritime de tails have be en so cho sen as to add as

impre ssive reality to the impending disaste r as the manyin the famou s shipwre ck in D on J uan ; the narrato r ’ssplendid indiffe rence to the fate o f

The Kin g’s daughter 0’

No roway ,

in compari son with the lo ss o f gudeSir Patrick Spens , the be st sailo rThat ever sailed the seas 24

Then the lament fo r Willie Drown ed in Yarrow— howtouchingly, wanderingly wistful

Doun in y on garden swee t and gay ,Where bonn ie grows the lilie ,

I heard a fair maid,sighin g , say

My wish .b e wi’ swee t Willie .

O Willie ’ s rare , an d Willie ’

s fair,An d Willie ’

s wondrous bonnyAnd Willie hecht to marry me ,

Gin e’

e r he married ony .

UNCLASSED 359

Oh, gentle wind , that blowe th south,From where my love repaire th,

Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth,And te ll me how he fare th

B ut Willie ’

s gone , whom I thought o n ,

And do es n o t hear me we epingDraws many a tear frae true love ’s c’c ,When o the r maids are sleeping.

0 came y e by y ou water-sidePou ’d y ou the ro se o r lilie

‘

2

Or cam’

y e by y on meadow greenOr saw y e my swee t Willie

‘

2

She sought him up , she sought him doun,She sought the braid an d narrow

Syn c , in the cleaving o’

a craig ,She found him drown ed in Yarrow.

It an d the Dowie Ho ums o f Yarrow are in the ir acceptanceo f be reavement an d de so latene ss as admirable as the

conce rt o f great late r me lo die s to which they have givenbirth . In the se cond the final acquie scence

,if re luctant

,

and pride o f the girl in the o bligation upon he r bridegro om to face the certainty o f death at the handso f her jealous bre thren add a fin e touch . He has been

challenged,an d kn ows— an d she kn ows— he may n o t

ho ld backFo r I maun gae , tho

’ I ne ’er returnFrae the Dowie banks 0’ Yarrow.

She kiss’

d his che ek, she kaim’

d his hair,As she had done befo re , 0She be lted him with his noble brand ,An’ he ’

s awa to Yarrow ? “

She was as brave in le tting him go ,as He len o f Kir conn e ll

in inte rpo sing be tween the fatal sho t and the lo ve r she le ftde spairing


0 He len fair, beyond compareI’

ll make a garlan d o ’ thy hair,Shall bind my heart fo r eve rmair ,Until the day I d ie

0 He len fair ! 0 He len chasteIf I were with thee I were blest,Whe re thou lies low an d takes thy rest,On fair Kirconn ell lea.

I wish I were where He len lie sNight an d day on me she criesAn d I am weary o f the skies ,For he r sake that died fo r me .

The lamentation fo r burd He len is pure tenderne ss .

Mo re commonly in the se Bo rde r sto rie s the sense o f he lple ssne ss de epens to de spair . In Cle rk Saunde rs

,fo r

e xample,as in Keats ’s Po t o f Basil

,the affe ction o f the

bereaved bride is agony,n o t grie f . The lo ve r ’s pe rsonal

inno cence do e s n o t alleviate his mise ry in the tragedyo f the fo rlo rn repulse d Lass o f Lo chroyan . W he re remo rsean d patho s go hand in hand , guilt frequently fo rbids eventhe so lace o f a tear, as in the longing o f fair Lady Anneto clasp to her bo som the snaw-white dream -boy . It isher babe grown -up in Paradise ,

whom she had murder edto save her honour

Tis I wad clead the e in silk an d gowd,And nourice thee o n my kne e .

’

O mither mither when I was thine ,Sic kindness I cou ldna see .

’ 2“

Glo om is the favourite hue ,as was congenial perhaps in

an age an d land o f Douglas Tragedie s , Bonnie Earls 0’

Murray,an d Johnie Armstrangs , where every man carrie d

his own life,an d his o ve r -the -Bo rde r ne ighbour ’s , in his

hand . Though se ldom without gleams o f fin e r fancy,

the favourite subje cts are criminal wantonne ss , as in Earl



O, I hae killed my fathe r dear,Mithe r, mithe r ;

O, I hae killed my father dear,Alas , an d wae is me

An d whatten penance will y e dre e fo r that,Edward, Edward 7

And whatten penance will y e dree fo r that,My dear son , n ow te ll me 7

I’

ll set my feet in yonde r boat ,Mithe r, mithe r ;

I’

ll set my fee t in yonder boat ,And I ’ll fare ove r the sea.

’

And what will y e d o wi’ your tow’

r s and your ha’ ,E dward , Edward 7

And what will y e d o wi’ your tow’

rs an d your ha’

,

That were sae fair to see 7

I’

ll le t them stand till they doun fa’

,

Mithe r, mithe rI’

ll le t them stand till they doun fa’

,

Fo r here neve r mair maun I be .

’

And what will y e leave to your bairn s and your wife ,Edward, Edward 7

And what will y e leave to your bairns and your wife ,When y e gang ovir the sea 7

The warld’

s ro om let them beg throw life ,Mither, mither ;

The warld’

s ro om le t them beg throw lifeFo r them neve r mair will I see .

’

An d what will y e leave to your ain mither dear,Edward, Edward 7

And what will y e leave to your ain mither dear,My dear son , n ow te ll me .

’

The curse o f he ll frae me sall y e bear ;Mither, mithe r ;

The curse o f he ll frae me sall y e bear ;Sic counse ls y e gave to me 3 5

the shudde ring gho st,all along

,of the mo the r ’s

UNCLASSED 363

kno wledge that the parricide was inspire d by he r ; the

compulsion upon he r soul to fo rce he r so n to confe ss it ;his re luctance to damn he r with the avowal ; an d the

curse upon he rse lf which she exto rts fro m his unlo cke dlips an d heartW e are sensible almo st o f re lie f when free zing cynicism ,

as it se ems,rather than remo rse

,is vo iced , n o t by man

,

but by rive rsTweed said to TillWhat gars y e r in sae still 7Till said to TweedThough y e r in wi

’ speedAnd I r in slaw,

Y e t where y e drown ae man

I drown twa ; 3“

hoarse accents o f carrion birdsAs I was walking all alaneI heard twa co rbies making a mane ;The tane unto the t’o the r say ,Where sall we gang and dine to -day 7In behint y on auld fail dyke ,I wo t there lie s a n ew-slain knightAnd n aebody kens that he lies there ,But his hawk

, his hound , an d lady fair.H is hound is to the hun ting gane ,H is hawk, to fe tch the W ildfowl hame ,His lady ’

s ta’en ano the r mate ,

So we may mak o ur dinne r swe e t.Ye ’ll sit on his white hause -bane ,And I

’

ll pick o ut his bonny blue e enW i

’

ae lo ck 0’his gowden hair

We’ ll the ek our nest when it grows bare .

Mony a on e fo r him makes mane ,B ut nane sall ken where he is ganeO

’

e r his white banes when they are bare ,The wind sall blaw fo r eve rmair .

’ “7


No witty,airy minstre lsy this o f the Sco ttish heaths

,

when at its highe st . So dour it is as to sugge st that theunknown bards neede d a murde r

,o r a broken he art

,to

tun e the ir harp -strings . But the inspiration is unmistakable . And remembe r — I have be en able to give butshreds of a vast floating cloud o f song

,with neve r a po e t

to claim for hi s own the genius,an d the glo ry ! The

people ’s po etry— the ballads— in nine -tenths o f England,

by the en d o f the sixte enth century,whi ch revise d an d

vulgarized Che vy Chase , had lo st all native glamour ,independent vitality . Meanwhile

,in Sco tland

,at least o n

the frontier,the who le survived an d mature d . The

English Bo rde r,though

,as may we ll be hope d an d be lieved ,

it parto ok in the enjoyment,contribute d little

,except

,

po ssibly,the dialogue be twe en the Twe ed an d the Till .

Fo r some three hundred years , mo re o r le ss,the popular

lite rature on the no rthe rn side was ve rse . A l l was handeddown from memo ry to memo ry

,with a re cognized right in

the inte rpre te rs at each stage to modify,an d

,within

narrow limits,modernize . How the se wande re rs to ld a

tale,an d with a varie ty how rich How made to suit all

taste s an d classe s The musician might be earning fo odan d she lte r in a rustic inn

,o r sympathy an d large ss in the

halls o f high Buccleuch . Like the silly blind Lo chmabenharper he had sto re o f tale s , tragical an d pathetic , aswe ll as gro ss an d grisly . The me rit was as dive rse . Froma low depth it ro se to po ints o f sublimity, ho rro r, tenderne ss ,se lf-sacr ifice

,which educated inspiration may match

,but

rare ly has exce lle d .

In England,if doubtle ss mainly fo r the educate d classe s ,

an afte rglow o f the cu ltured Elizabethan splendour endure dto an d throughout the pe riod o f the Re sto ration . It may

be a me re co incidence but it faded away with the advent



I n Isaac W atts’

s Cradle Hymn I re co gnize trace s o f

native inspiration ,but inspiration pre sse d into do ing suit

an d se rvice to re ligio us enthusiasm

Hush my dear, lie still and slumber,Ho ly ange ls guard thy bedHeavenly ble ssings withou t numbe rGently falling on thy head.

How much bette r thou ’

r t attendedThan the So n o f God cou ld be ,When from heaven he descendedAnd became a child like thee

W as there no thing but a mange rCursed sinners cou ld affo rd ,

To rece ive the heavenly strange r 7D id they thus affront the ir Lo rd 7

So ft , my child I d id n o t chide the e ,Tho ugh my song might sound to o hard

’

T is thy mo the r sits beside the e ,And he r arms shall be thy guard .

Y e t to read the shame fu l sto ry,How the Jews abus’d the ir King ,

How they se rv ’

d the Lo rd o f Glo ry,Makes me angry while I sin g.

Se e the love ly babe a-dressin gLove ly in fant, how he smil

’

d

When he wept, the mo ther’s blessingSo o th

’

d an d hush’

d the ho ly child .

Lo , he slumbers in his manger,Where the ho rned oxen fedPeace , my darling here ’

s n o danger,Here ’

s n o ox a-near thy bed .

May’st thou live to know an d fear him,

Trust an d love him all thy days ;Then go dwe ll fo r eve r near him ,

See his face , and sing his praise 41

UNCLASSED 367

Ske tche s in black an d white by Shenstone in The Scho o lmistre ss appe al to o ur sense o f the picture sque . Fo urline s in his so -calle d Levitie s plumb depths o f humansickne ss at humani ty

W ho e’

e r has travel’

d life ’s dull round ,Where ’ e r his stages may have be en,

May sigh to think he still has foun dH is warmest we lcome , at an inn .

“2

Now an d then a gust o f pity o r se lf-pity blows rhe to ricaside— rhe to ric still , though o f a noble so rt , as in Londonan d The Vanity of Human Wishe s . Fo r an instant something true r take s its place

,an d Johnson marks with tears ,

instead of antithe se s,

what ills the scho lar’s life assail ,To il , envy, want, the patron, and the gao l 43

o r,mourning

,with affe ctionate simplicity , almo st with

kind ly envy,the o bscur e ly wise

,an d coarse ly kind practise r

in physio he see sLevet to the grave descend,

Oflicious, inno cent , sincere ,Of every friendless name the friend .

“

Pie ce s like the se are inte re sting as palliative s o f a

prevailing ste rility in re spe ct o f Occasional inspirationfo r some hundred years . Othe rs

,like Mickle ’s Cumno r

Hall,are endeared by habit an d tradition mo re than by

intrinsic me rit . But fo r a century afte r the clo se o f the

English po e tical renaissance,the di stinction I have drawn

be tween po e try an d write rs o f po e try has little practicalapplication . During this te dious inte rregnum

,such ve rse

as de serve s the name o f po e try was the wo rk o f its poe ts .

Ve ry se ldom did the phenomenon o ccur o f a spark o f

genuine inspiration lighting upon a po e taste r,o f a divine

emo tion visiting unconse crate d lips,an d insisting o n


be coming vo cal . Fo r po sitive po e tical insight I d o n o t

kno w that I co uld instance mo re than a trio o f lyrics thusqualifie d . Ambro se Philips fo r once caro lled , as a songste ro f the gro ve fo r its ne stlings , to his

Little go ssip, blithe and hale ,Tattling many a broken tale ,Singing many a tune less song ,Lavish o f a he edle ss tongue ,Simple maiden vo id of ar t ,

Babbling out the very heart,Sle eping , wakin g , still at ease ,Pleasing withou t skill to please .

Y e t aban d on’

d to thy will,Y e t imaginin g n o ill,Y et to o inno cent to blushLike the linne t in the bush,To the mo ther-linne t’s no teModuling he r slende r throatChirping fo rth thy pe tty j oys,Wanton in the change o f toys ;Like the linne t gre en in May

Flitting to each blo omy sprayWearied then, an d glad o f rest,Like the linne t in the ne st.45

Then there is Henry Carey ’s SallyOf all the girls that are so smartThere ’

s none like pre tty SallyShe is the darling o f my heart,An d she lives in o ur alley.There is n o lady in the lan dI s half so swe et as Sally

She is the darlin g o f my heart ,And she live s in our alley .

Of all the days that ’s in the we ekI dearly love but on e dayAnd that ’s the day that comes be twixtA Saturday and Monday



inspiration— then— years o f sanity , but uninspired— n o t to‘die , but live even sing

,o r fe ign to sing

How came it y ou resume the vo id and null,Subside to in sign ifican ce 7 4“

Conventionalism had all but stifled the life o f OccasionalVe rse , an d was threatening the main cu rr ent o f nationalpo e tic sensibility, when a temper o f rebe lliousne ss manifested itse lf . The malcontents lo oke d at once back an d

fo rwards . Thomas Warton,an d , still mo re practically,

Bishop Pe rcy,had the courage to remind o f the o ld popular

minstre lsy . They challenged continuing life— a twilightlife

,pe rhaps— fo r it in renovations o f divers fin e fragments .

Co llins,Gray

,an d Cowpe r threw down the gauntle t to

the scho o l o f Po pe . Much mo re revo lutionary e lementswere so on to be at wo rk . A fre sh lite rary renaissance gaveSco tland Burns . In England it was preparing fo r the

advent o f Wo rdswo rth,Co leridge

,Sco tt

,Byron

,She lley ,

an d Keats . Po e try,when thus it roused itse lf from its

to rpo r towards the opening of the ninete enth century ,woke into a n ew wo rld . Mo vement was in it

,with a sense

o f abun dance o f air . The po etic atmo sphe re , long sinceburnt up

,was fe lt to have be en renewe d , fo r reade rs as

we l l as autho rs . On bo th side s o f the Twe e d o n e characteristic o f the revival was the same as had di stingu ishedthe Elizabethan . True an d de lightful po e try wou ld n ow

an d againflow from the pens o f write rs hardly to be

d e scribed as po e ts . The fact in Sco tland is le ss surprising .

The re the po e tic spirit,with o r without po e ts , had neve r

ceased to stir,if inte rmittently

,in the indigenous minstre lsy

which reminded Burns that he to o might be inspire d .

Now,n o longer with the o riginal grim an d tragic accent

,

though sometimes with the o ld simple care le ssne ss of fame ,

UNCLASSED 371

many a sudden me lody will be foun d to have sprung up ,like a rare flowe r in the waste .

Verse the re was , though o f real me rit , with n o distinctlyindigenous prope rtie s ; such as Logan’s we lcome to the

Cucko o ,which warme d the heart o f Edmund Burke

Hail , beauteous stran ger o f the groveThou messenger of sprin g

Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,And wo ods thy we lcome sing.

Swe e t bird, thy bower is eve r gre enThy sky is ever clear.Tho u hast n o so rrow in thy so ngNo winter in thy year 4 “

But in o the r , somewhat late r , lyrics o f the e ighteenthnine te enth century, the Spirit o f the o ld minstre lsy, in itssad ,

if so ftene d an d mo re tende r tone s , is clearly audible .

It breathes in the lament fo r Flodden

We’ ll hear n ae mair lilting at our ewe -milking,

Women an d bairns are heartless an d wae ;Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan in g.The Flowers o f the Fo rest are a’ wede awae ; 5“

in musical wails o f longing regre t fo r Pri nce Charlie an d

in rustic me lancho ly,as o f Auld Robin Gray 5 1 passing

,

n ow,into an inte rje ction o f pro te st against man ’s lo t o n

earthWha’ ll buy my calle r herrin

’

7

Ye may ca’ them vu lgar fair in ’

Wives and mithers, maist despairin’

,

Ca’ them lives 0’

men ;5 2

farewe ll to Earth me rging in a vision

I’m wearing awa’

,Jean ,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,A a 2


I’

m wearin g awa’

To the land 0’

the leal .There ’

s n ae so rrow the re , Jean ,

There ’

s ne ither cau ld n o r care , Jean.

The day is ay e fairIn the land 0’

the leal .53

Although n o t the equal o f such strains,ano the r plaintive

,

Sco ttish Occasional lay— a cry o f exile s in Canada fo r the iro ld loved home— appears to me n o t altoge ther unwo rthy o fasso ciation with them

Liste n to me , as when y ou heard o ur fathe rSing long ago the song o f o the r sho re s

Listen to me , and then in cho rus gatherAll your deep vo ices , as y ou pull your carsFrom the lone shielin g of the misty islandMountains divide us, an d the waste of seas

Ye t still the blo od is strong, the heart is Highland,And we in dreams beho ld the Hebrides

W e ne ’er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,Where ’tween the dark hills creeps the small clear stream ,

In arms around the patriarchal banner rally,No r see the mo on on royal tombstones gleam .

When the bo ld kindred in the time long vanishedConquered the so il , an d fo rtified the keep,

NO seer fo re to ld the chi ldren would be bani shed,That a degenerate lo rd might boast his sheep.

Come fo reign rage— let Discord burst in slaughte r0 then fo r clansmen true , an d stem claymo re

The hearts that would have given their blo od like wate r,Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar.

Fair these broad meads, these hoary wo ods are grandBut we are exiles from ou r fathers’ lan d.

54

English write rs,who

,if bo rn twenty years earlie r , might

neve r have affe cte d to be poe ts , similarly yie lded— fo rtu



which was joy . I am only afraid he wou ld have misse dthe tende r humour in the so rrow

My sprightly neighbour ! gon e be fo reTo that unknown an d silent sho re ,Shall we n o t meet, as hereto fo re ,

Some summer mo rning ,When from thy cheerful eyes a rayHath struck a bliss upon the day ,A bliss that wou ld n o t go away .

A sweet fo rewarning 7 56

Again,how the air qu ive rs with gho stly sighs as we read

I have had playmates , I have had companions ,In my days of childho od , in my joyful scho o l-daysAll

, all ar e gone , the Old familiar faces.I have been laughing , I have been carousing,Drinking late , sitting late , with my bo som croniesAll, all ar e gone , the old familiar faces.I loved a love once , fairest among womenClo sed are he r do o rs on me

,I must n o t see he r

All , all are gone, the old familiar faces .I have a friend, a kinder friend has n o manLike an ingrate I left my friend abruptlyLeft him, to muse on the old familiar faces.Ghostlik e I paced round the haunts o f my childho od,Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse ,Seeking to find the old familiar faces .Friend o fmy bo som , thoumo re than a bro ther,W hy wert n o t thou bo rn in my father

’s dwe lling 7So might we talk o f the o ld familiar faces

How some they have died, an d some they have left me ,

An d some ar e taken from me all are departedAll

, all are gone , the o ld familiar faces . 5 7

Pro ximity to ve rse like this pro voke s dangerous com

parisons fo r an y o n e . Ce rtainly Jame s Montgomery—who se

UNCLASSED 375

Wo rld Be fo re .the Flo o d , Gre enland , an d Pe lican Island ,I read in boyho o d , I confe ss , with admiration— cann o t o ftenstand it . Y e t Lamb himse lf would n o t have scorn ed theme lancho ly grace o f a Falling Le af

We re I a tremblin g leafOn yonder state ly tre e ,Afte r a season gay and brie f,Co nd emn

’

d to fade an dfle eI should be lo th to fallBeside the common way ,We lte rin g in mire , an d spurn

’

d by all,

Till trodden down to clay.

No r would I like to spreadMy thin and withered faceIn ho r tus siccus, pale and dead ,A mummy of my race .

No— o n the wings of airMight I be left to fly,I know n o t and I heed n o t where ,A waif o f earth an d sky

W ho that hath eve r been,Could bear to be n o mo re 7Y e t who would tread again the sceneHe trod through life befo re 7

On , with intense desire ,Man’ s spirit will move o n

I t seems to d ie , y e t , like heaven’s fire ,

I t is n o t quenched , but gone .

58

Stil l le ss would Elia have disdaine d companionship withan English

,if a humbler

,Burns . I am almo st afraid to

praise ju stly the Dorse tshi re po e t ’s The Wife a-lo st,le st

it sho uld be the broad swe e t Do ric which has ro cked thecritical faculty asle ep


Since I n o o mwo re d o ze e you r feace ,Upsteairs, o r down be low,

I’

ll zit me in the lwon esome pleace ,

Whereflat-b ough’d beech d o grow

Be low the bee che s’ bough, my love ,Where y ou d id never come ,An’ I don’ t lo ok to me e t y e n ow,

As I d o lo ok at hwome .

Since y ou n o o mwo re be at my zide ,In walks in summer he t ,

I’

ll go o alwon e where mist d o ride ,D rough tree s a-d r ippen we tBe low the rain owe t bough, my love ,Whe re y ou did never come ,An’ I don’ t grieve to miss y e n ow,

As I d o grieve at hwome .

Since I d o miss your va‘

r’

ce an’

feace

In praye r at eventide ,I’

ll praj’

r in wo on e sad vaie e vo r greace ,

To go o where y ou d o bideAbove the tre e an ’ bough, my love ,Where y ou be gone avo re ,An’ be a-waiten vo r me n ow,

To come . vo r eve rmwo r e .

59

I have he sitated whethe r to leave among the UnclassedThomas Lo ve ll Beddo e s . Happily for the credit o f lite raturethe thinke r of Death’s Jest -Bo ok has always been appre

ciated ,though the re is irony in the admiration

,confined as

it is to a minute circle o f students . Reade rs in gene ral stillar e n o t like ly to try to so lve a se rie s o f problems there set ,an d commonly much kno ttie r even than that grand an d

pro found Dirge

To -day is a thought, a fear is to -mo rrow,

And yeste rday is our sin an d our so rrow



Ravelston ,Ravelston ,

The stile beneath the tre e ,The maid that kept he r mo the r’s kin e

,

The song that san g she 1

She san g her song , she kept he r kine ,She sat beneath the tho rnWhen Andrew Ke ith of Ravelston

Rode thro ’the Monday morn,

H is henchmen sing , his hawk-be lls rin g,H is be lted j ewe ls shine

Oh, Ke ith of Ravelston ,

The so rrows of thy line

Year afte r year, where Andrew came ,Comes evening down the glade ,And still there Sits a mo onshine gho stWhere sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint an d fair,She keeps the shadowy kine

Oh,Ke ith o f Ravelston ,

The sorrows o f thy line

I lay my hand upon the stile ,The stile is lone an d co ld,

The burnie that go e s babbling bySays nought that can be to ld .

Y e t , strange r here , from year to year,She ke eps he r shadowy kin e

Oh, Ke ith o f Ravelston ,

The so rrows o f thy line

Step ou t three steps , where Andrew sto odW hy blanch thy cheeks fo r fear 7

The ancient stile is n o t alon e ,’

Tis n o t the burn I hear

UNCLASSED 379

She makes he r immemo rial moan ,

She keeps he r shadowy kin eOh, Ke ith o f Ravelston ,

The so rrows of thy line “2

By thi s time , almo st unconsciously , I have advanced farinto the nineteenth century . But I have passed o ve r manyd istingui shed name s some in the ir d ay even famous , an da few still . The ro ll would b e lengthy we re it confin e dstrictly to the century an d it has to comprise half a do zeno r mo re bo rn in the previous on e . I no te Charle s D ibd in ,

autho r o f Tom Bowling, an d much of marine renown b esides ; Reginald Hebe r , o f Pale stine , an d o n e immo rtalhymn Joanna Baillie , o f dramas once illustrio us KirkeWhite

,fo r his fame , happy in an early death ; John

Wilson , of the Isle o f Palms , an d arbite r o f lite ratu reas Chr istopher No rth Robe rt Po llok , with the seve rean d se riou s Course o f Time ; John Clare , with Po ems o f

Rur al Life,an d Robe rt Blo omfie ld, of the Farme r

’s B oy ,twin Victims of a po etic germ neve r matu re d ; BryanWaller Pro cter Barry Co rnwall — be st remembe re d fo rbreezy songs ; Alari c Watts , with Lyrics of the Heart ;John Mou ltrie , o f My Bro the r ’s Grave an d Go diva ; SirThomas No on Talfourd

, o f I on ; Charle s We lls , who sedrama, Jo seph an d his Brethr en , was discove re d thr e eyears be fo re his death by Swinbur ne ; W . L . Bowle s ,who se Sonnets Co le ridge

,in his scho o ldays , as he

co uld n o t affo rd to buy ,copied o ut ; Allan Cunningham ,

singe r o f

A we t she e t an d a flowing sea

haple ss L . E . the admired o f drawing-ro oms fo r TheImprovisatrice Mrs . Barbauld , who se Life it was thoughtmust ever b e remembe red


Life we ’ve been long together,Through pleasant an d through cloudy weathe r

’

Tis hard to part when friends are dearPe rhaps ’ twill cost a sigh, a tearThen steal away

,give little warning,

Cho o se thine own t ime ,Say n o t Goo d-night but in some brighter clime

B id me Go od-mo rning “3

Fe licia Hemans , who se Home s o f England an d Grave s o fa Househo ld , no twithstanding all the ir honeyed swee tne ss ,will n o t b e fo rgo tten Henry Stebbing , with po etry , as inJe sus an d A Long Railway Journey, characte rized , if a so n

may te stify, by me lo dy an d high thought “4 Ar chbishopTrench , o f a rich fancy, as displayed in ve rse like JustinMartyr an d the ballad o f Harmo san

- Emily Bronte— on e

o f an extrao rdinary trio of sisters— ou who se ve rse inspiration se ems— as in The Visionary— always to b e waiting tode scend ; Aytoun , chr o ni cling with picture sque so lemnitythe Burial March ofDunde e an d the Execution ofMontro seLo rd Lytton ,

though dramatist rathe r than po et , an d hi s

so n, Earl of Lytton , autho r of Fable s in Song an d King

Poppy Mrs . No rton , scarce ly le ss brilliant with her penas in The Lady of La Garaye— than so cially the two

d e Ve re s , Sir Aubrey an d Aubrey Thomas , bo th romanticspirits , content to have been bo rn to o late , o r to o early ;Ho rne , flinging his Orion at an unregarding public Ro be rtBuchanan ,

who se London Po ems an d Balde r the Beautifu lShow po e tic insight ; Philip Jame s Bailey, with Fe stu s ,a powe rfu l conception suffo cate d by stillbo rn accretions ;Alexande r Smith

,with popularity o f the Jonab -gourd

kind the bro the rs , Fre de rick Tennyson , o f Days an d

Hours, an d Charle s Tennyson Turne r , o f the Sonne ts , each

re co gnized,but n o t as ye t justly appre ciated William

Allingham , po sse sse d o f a de licate touch fo r a ballad o r sto ry,



Treasury of Songs, an d Sir Arthu r Qu ille r-Couch’s Oxfo rd

Bo ok of English Ve rse— each admirable . Sometime s thevo lume s have brought o n e o r ano the r lyric fo r the fir st timeto my no tice . Often they have re calle d exce llence to myre co lle ction , an d refle ction .

A ll students , bo th past an d pre sent , of po etry will agreethat the right to the title o f po e t an d po e try dependson the po sse ssion by the candidate s of inspiration . Only

,

the standard fo r that 7 Naturally it is a prope rty whicheasily evade s o rdinary analysis fo r gene ral use . In the

first place , it is wonde rful how go o d may be ve rse without be in g inspire d how since re ly o n e gene ration may , an d

ano the r fail to , re cognize its pre sence . A write r may himse lf conscientiously be lieve in its de scent upon his soul ,y e t be unable to in fuse it into his line s . Among the

various circumstance s , o r accidents , may be found an

explanation o f a common lite rary phenomenon . It is thefrequent heading o f chapte rs with line s n o t in the leastpo etry, and the ir impo rtation in to the text of inte lligentpro se . Beyond doubt it is o n e o f the reasons why truepo ets make bad judge s o f the me rits o f the ir own wo rk .

Also , from this, on the o the r hand? an d from analogouscau ses, a denial o f inspiration to particu lar pie ce s is openalmo st to as much que stioning . A late r gene ration maypo ssibly rehabilitate as po e ts n o t a few dead nine te enthcentury ce lebritie s . Meanwhile , I re jo ice to think , po emsat all events, in fair numbe rs have su rvived the last century,an d su rvive still .Thu s, though the pe rmanent place o f Christina Ro ssetti

—Dante Gabrie l ’s siste r— is n o t y et de cided, listen to Echoan d we may be sur e it will be honourable

Come to me in the silence o f the nightCome in the speaking silence o f a dream

UNCLASSED

Come with so ft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sun light o n a streamCome back in tears ,

0 memo ry, hope , love of fin ished years.“7

Ponde r the co ld , calm bitter-swe e t o f

When I am dead , my dearest,Sing n o sad songs fo r me

Plant thou n o ro ses at my head ,No r shady cypress tre e .

B e the gre en grass above me

With Showers and dewdro ps we tAnd if tho u wilt , remembe r,And if tho u wilt, fo rge t.

I shall n o t see the shadows ,I Shall n o t fe e l the rain

I shall n o t hear the nightingaleSing o n ,

as if in painAnd dreamin g through the twilightThat do th n o t rise n o r se t ,

Haply I may remember,And haply may fo rge t.“8

Read fu rther ; an d an inclination to fix fo rthwithwrite r ’s rank will have grown

Do es the road wind uphill all the way 7Y e s , to the very end .

Will the day’s journey take the who le long day 7From mo rn to night, my friend .

B ut is there fo r the n ight a resting-place 7A ro o f fo r when the slow,

dark ho urs begin.

May n o t the darkness hide it from my face 7Y ou canno t miss that in n .

Shall I mee t o ther wayfarers at night 7Tho se who have gone be fo re .

Then must I kno ck, o r call when just in sight 7They will no t keep y ou standing at that do o r.

383


Shall I fin d comfo rt, trave l-so re an d weak 7Of labour y ou Shall find the sum .

Will there b e beds fo r me an d all who se ek 7Y ea, beds fo r all who come .

“9

Patho s pe rhaps an d patho s is insidious . Y e t the re ispatho s whi ch is just the blo om upon strength— a patho so the r than Letitia Barbauld ’

s , though she wro te Life thanFe licia Heman s

’

s, though she wro te Grave s o f a Househo ld ,a patho s akin to Wo rdswo rth ’s , when he sang o f LucyI S thi s Christina Ro sse tti ’s ?Some time s , when the inspiration is far from the rule , we

wonde r why it waite d o n this o r that particular pie ce how ,

from the pile o f W hittie r’

s we ll-intentione d , tune ful , starle ss ve rse leaps fo rth John Bright ’s favourite , Skippe rIr e son

’

s awaking to remo rse fo r the de se rtion o f hisbro the r fishe rmen in a tempe st !

Hear me , ne ighbours at last he cried,What to me is this no isy ride 7What is the shame that clo the s the skinTo the name less ho rro r that live s within 7Waking o r sleepin g, I see a wre ck ,And hear a cry from a ree lin g deckHate me an d curse me

,— I only dread

The hand of God an d the face o f the dead

Said Flud Oirson , fu r his ho rrd ho rrt ,

To r r’

d an’

fu ther r’

d an’

co r r’

d in a co r rt

By the women 0’

Mo rble’

ead 7°

The od e , again , to a Wate rfowl—was it bo rn in Bryant ’scapable so u l , o r did it flo at to his pen from the air aroun d ,as, far o n high, the bird to hi s sight 7

Whither , ’midst falling d ewWhile glow the heaven s with the last steps of day ,Far through the ir ro sy depths do st thou pursueThy

!so litary way 7



Y e t why should he who shrieking go e sWithmillions , from a wo rld o f wo es,Reunion seek with it o r those 7

Alone with God , where n o wi n d blows,An d Death,

his shadow— d o om’

d , he go e sThat Go d is there the shadow shows .

Oh, Sho re less De ep, where n o wind blows

An d thou , oh, Land which n o on e knowsThat God is All , H is Shadow shows.

72

Eve ry reade r o f The Lays o f Ancient Rome must fe e lthat Macau lay longed to be a po e t . Y e t tho se rushingchronicle s o f his

,while they po sse ss a ho st of o the r me rits ,

have n o t the o n e he cove te d mo st . It is the mo re graciouso f the Muse to have once pitied an d rewarde d the wo rship,learning , an d yearning with a change o f wate r into wine ,

o f sono rou s rhe to ric into haun ting po e try . That characte rcanno t be denie d to the picture o f

‘ false Sextus at the

Battle o f Lake Regillus :

Men said he saw stran ge visio n sWhich none beside might se e ,

An d that strange sounds were in his ears,Which no n e might hear bu t he .

A woman fair an d state ly,B u t pale as ar e the dead ,

Oft through the watche s o f the n ight’Sate spin n in g by his b ed .

An d as she plied the distaff,In a swe e t vo ice an d low ,

She san g o f great old house s ,An d fights fought lo n g ago .

So spun she , an d so san g she ,Un til the east was gray,Then po in ted to her ble eding breastAn d shrieked, :an dfled away.73

UNCLASSED 387

English lite rary histo ry contai ns a few case s in whicha conside rable mind has become inspired , an d been contentwi th the sin gle e ffo rt . So it was with Spanish Blanco Whitein the addre ss to Night , a thin g o f true , pensive dignity,though o ve rpraised by n o le ss than , in his maturity, Co leridge as the fine st an d mo st grandly conce ive d sonne t ino ur language

Mysterious Night when o ur first parent knewThee from repo rt divin e , and heard thy name ,D id he n o t tremble fo r this love ly frame ,This glo rious canopy o f light an d blue 7Ye t

’neath a curtain of translucent dew,

Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame ,Hesperus with the ho st of Heaven cameAnd 10 Creation widened in man’s ViewW ho could have thought such darkn e ss lay concealed

_Within thy beams , 0 Sun o r who co uld find ,Whilst fly

, and leaf, an d in sect sto od r ev eal’

d ,

That to such countle ss Orbs thou mad st us blind 7W hy d o we , then, shun Death with an xious strife 7

If Light can thus de ce ive , whe re fo re n o t Life 7 74

A mo re o rdinary expe rience is fo r a subje ct of in spirationto re lax the spiritual tension which pro duce d it than tostop ve rsifying . Praed

’

s fancy conce ive d in the Red

Fishe rman much mo re than a happy jeu d’

e sprit . It isa fin e strain, in which Satan is de scribe d as angling withbait o f State intrigue s fo r a saintly Chu rchman . The

brilliant write r o f ve rs d e so ciété might have deve lopedin to a true po e t had the next twe lve years o f hissho rt life n o t be en waste d upon Parliament . Tho ughhe ve rsified still , he carrie d the ho ok of po litics to hisgrave

The re was turning o f keys,an d creaking o f lo cks.

As he stalked away with his iron bo x.

B b z


Oho Oho

The co ck do th crowI t is time fo r the Fisher to rise an d go .

Fair luck to the Abbo t , fair luck to the shrineH e hath gnawed in twain my cho icest lin eLe t him swim to the no rth,

let him swim to the southThe Abbo t will carry my ho ok in his mouth 75

Hartley Co le ridge , with a true po etic instinct , had also ,

as it we re ,a mo rtgaged inhe ritance to re de em . But fo r

lack o f will , he had ear an d imagination to be come whatme taphysical the o logy had induced his marvellous fathe rto cease to b e . As it is , it may be hoped that he will beremembered fo r mo re than on e o r two charming songs

She is n o t fair to ou tward viewAS

,many maidens b e .

Her love lin ess I never knewUntil she smil’d on me

Oh then I saw her ey e was bright,A we ll of love , a spring o f light.

But n ow he r lo oks ar e coy an d co ld,

To mine they ne ’ er reply,

An d y e t I cease n o t to beho ldThe love -light in he r ey e

He r very frowns are faire r far,

Than smiles o f o the r maidens ar e .

75

I Should grieve to think that no thing e lse is le ft fromthe

_wo rk o f the gene rou s sou l o f Monckton-Milne s ; buta shadow must remain

They seemed to those who saw them mee tThe wo rldly friends of every day

He r smile was undisturbed an d swee t,His courtesy was fre e an d gay .

But y e t if on e the o ther’s nameIn some unguarded moment heard,

The heart y ou thought so calm an d tame ,Would struggle like a captive bird



From your clovers lift the headCome uppe Jetty, fo llow,

fo llow,

Jetty, to the milkin g shed .

” 7“

Po e try is n o t always se rious . It can play . During thenine te enth century, as earlie r , it was u se d fo r po litical satireand pastime— frequently by write rs o f distin ction in o the rfie lds . Early e xample s are Classic Canning’s Friend o f

Humanity, which once an y scho o lboy wou ld have be enashamed to be unable to repeat

Ne edy kn ife -grinder whither are y ou go ing 7

the Re je cted Addre sse s , the n o le ss famous Ingo ldsbyLegends , Ho o d

’s ve rse , as humo rist , an d , late r , a wr eatho f ballads

,from the he ro ic o n e on Little Bille e to the

de scription o f a Me dite rranean gale— April laughte r , n o twithout a tear he re an d the re— by Thacke ray

An d when, its fo rce expended ,The harmless sto rm was ended ,And, as the sunrise splendidCame blushing o ’

e r the sea

I thought, as day was breaking ,My little girls we re waking,An d smiling , an d makin gA prayer at home fo r me .

Othe rs ar e by Shi rley Bro oks , Punch’s po et-laureate o f

Wit an d Humou r ; by Charle s Stuart Calve rley, the brilliant flashe s o f a subtle wit which he styled Ve rses an dTranslations an d by Lewis Carro ll ’ in the fantasia,

‘

The

Hunting o f the Snark .

’ About midway in the numbe ro f write rs

,bo th in birth an d death, come s Dean Manse l

with that pro digy o f bitin g satir e ,'

scholarly viru lence , an dme lody to o ,

Phrontiste rion . He re is its Hymn t o the

Infinite by the fu ll Cho rus o f Cloudy Pro fe sso rs

UNCLASSED 39 1

The vo ice Of yo re ,Which the bre e ze s bo reWailin g aloud from Paxo ’

s sho re ,I s changed to a gladder an d live lie r strain,Fo r great God Pan is alive again ,

He lives , an d he re ign s once mo re .

With deep in tuition an d mystic riteW e wo rship the Abso lu te -Infin ite ,

The Universe— Ego , the Plenary—Vo id ,The subj ect-Object identified ,The great No thi ng-Some thin g, the Being-Tho ught,That mould eth the mass of Chao tic Nought,Who se beginn ing un ended an d en d unbegunI s the On e that is All an d the All that is One .

Hail Light with Darkness j o ined 1Thou Po tent Impo tenceThou Quan titative Po intOf all Indifference

Great No n -E xistence , passin g into Be in g ,Thou two -fo ld Po le o f the E lectric On e ,Thou Lawless Law, thou Seer all Unse eing ,Thou Pro cess, eve r do ing , never done

Thou Po sitive NegationNegative Affi rmationThou great To tality of‘ every thingThat n ever is, bu t ever do th be come ,

The e d o we singThe Pan the ists’ Kin g,

With cease le ss bug, bug, bug, an d endless hum,

hum , hum ? “

A wonde rfu l tour d e fo rce by a thinke r, n o t an habitual

ve rse -wr ite r o ve rpowe ring and tomahawking . Le t me

tempe r it with a de lightfu lflow o f fancy by on e who ,like

a contempo rary, ano the r great maste r in romance , might,had he so e le cte d , have be en renow ned chi efly as a po e t

When at home alone I sitAnd am very tired o f it ,


I have just to shu t my eyesTo go sailing through the skiesTo go sailin g far awayTo the pleasant Land of Play,To the fairylan d afarWhere the Little Pe ople are ;Where the clove r-to ps are tre es,An d the rain-po o ls are the seas,An d the leaves like little shipsSail abou t on tiny tripsAn d above the daisy tre eThrough the grasse s ,High o

’

e rhead the Bumble B e eHums an d passes .Through that fo re st I can passTill

,as in a lo oking-glass;

Humming fly an d daisy tre eAn d my tiny se lf I se e ,Painted very clear an d neatOn the rain-po o l at my fe e t.Should a leafle t come to lan dDrifting near to where I stand

,

Straight I ’ll board that tiny boatRound the rain-po o l sea to float.Little thoughtful creatures sitOn the grassy coasts o f itLittle things with love ly eye sSee me sailing with surprise .

Some are clad in armou r gre enThe se have sure to battle beenSome ar e pied with ev ’ry hue

,

Black an d crimson, go ld an d blueSome have win gs an d swift are gon eBut they all lo ok kindly on .

When my eyes I on ce againOpen an d see all things plainHigh bare walls, great bare flo o rGreat big kn obs o n drawer and do o r ;



W ho fears to speak of Nine ty-e ight 7W ho blushe s at the name 7When cowards mo ck the patrio t’ s fate ,W ho hangs his head fo r shame 7

He’

s all a knave , o r half a slave ,W ho Slights his country thu s

B ut a True man,like y ou ,

man ,

Will fill your glass with us

At least as o ften in the pau se s o f fir e an d ire is heard a no tesome time s o f patho s , as fro m

The be lls o f ShandonThat sound So grand o n

The pleasant wate rs of the rive r Le e

some time s o f gay casuist’

ry by a lo ve r arguing that’Twould save us so much bo ther when we ’d bo th b e on e ano therSo listen n ow to reason, Mo lly Brierley.

0 I’

m n o t myse lf at all

o r a rapturous de scription o f the Grove s of Blarney, whe re

There ’

s statue s gracin g this noble place inAll heathen gods an d nymphs so fair ;Bo ld Neptune , Plutarch, an d Nicodemus ,All standin g naked in the o pen air 5 2

It has be en a me lancho ly duty, if inevitable , to pass inreview wo rk by a company o f Singe rs , when the ir turnsarrive only afte r death . At least the re is some satisfac

tion in the lapse o f a sufficient inte rval to be entitled toconclude that some part o f the to tal outlive s a grave .

Of write rs who have departed in the few years o f the

pre sent century n o mo re can with r ight be stated thanthe e ffe ct the ir succe ssive vo lume s produced as theyappeare d . All that Henley’s an d Lang’s ve rse eve r se eme d

UNCLASSED 395

to require was the creation o f a sufficient public e ducate dto read be twe en the line s . The publication of Lang’sXXII Ballade s in Blue China was , I remembe r , an e ventfo r academical circle s . They ar e n o t fo rgo tten n ow .

Henley’s po ems had a similar succe ss ; an d n o t a few o f

them also— fo r instance , England ! My England ! an d

Margar itas So ro ri— ar e remembe re d . The ir de fe ct was ininability to pene trate an d ho ld ave rage inte lligence s ,as, in gene ral , an d fo r pe rmanence o f impre ssion , po etrymust . Ye t Edwin Arno ld—wi th The Light of Asia—an d

Lewis Mo rris— with Songs of Two Wo rlds afid The Epico f Hade s— if failure can be named in connexion withmyriads o f admire rs— misse d the mo re refine d an d se le ctappre ciation each cove te d mo st . Gilbe rt won bo th classe swith his Bab Ballads , an d his eve rgre en dramas . Alas fo rthe spark o f genius in Davidson , with his Fle et Stree tEclogue s , an d Ballads an d Songs , which might have beenfanned into a flame had it n o t be en almo st lite rally starved .

As fo r Alfre d Lyall , the splendid administrato r , the sagacions counse llo r , the eminent biographe r , no thing might bethought to be wanting to his care e r but fo r a confe ssionby himse lf . Read a pie ce which is inspire d an d it seemsto sugge st an inte lle ctual regre t To o Late — pe rhaps ,fo r songs unsung— e ven deepe r than at seque stration inthe Far East fo r the be st part of a life time from Englishso cie ty, air , ambitions , an d care s

What far-reaching Nemesis stirred himFrom his home by the co o l of the sea 7When he left the fair coun try that reared him,

When he le ft he r,his mo ther, fo r the e ,

That restless, discon so late wo rkerW ho strain s n ow in vain at thy ne ts ,

O sombre and sultry Nove rca0 Land o f Regrets


Has he learnt how thy honours are rated 7Has he cast his accounts in thy scho o l 7With the swee ts of autho rity sated,Would he give up his throne to be co o l ?Do th he curse o riental romancin g ,An d wish he had to iled all his day ,At the Bar , o r the Banks, o r financin g ,An d go t damned in a commonplace way 7 83

B ut le t me hasten to clo se the ne cro logy o f the Unclasse d— already ove rcrowded— with a name illu strious , as manyin my survey, in ano the r department of le tte rs . Geo rgeMe re dith fo r“ the wo rld at large , when it di scovered himafte r two -thi rds o f an ene rge tic. care e r , as teache r an d

preache r , was a no ve list , n o t unde rsto o d , but prized .

Be fo re he d ie d it had be en bare ly aware that he wro teve rse . It treate d the little it read as an e ccentric dive rsion of hi s le isure . Even n ow to mo st o f hi s public it isa su rprise that he has le ft behind him a co lle ction o f

po ems . Y e t an y student o f hi s pro se writin gs , thoughwithout knowledge o f his biography, must fe e l he con

sid e r ed it his sou l’s vo cation to be a po e t’s . He is n o t

to b e judged by pie ces like that outbu rst,

‘ Jump'

to

Glo ry, Jane They we re accidents o f sudden impu lse .

Really he is a po e t-thinke r o f Nature , at once he r student,prie st , an d prophe t . He was eve r watching lovingly hermovements , an d tho se o f he r wild childr en, with ke ene r eye seven than tho se he bent on Man fo r the purpo se s o f fiction .

It might be the lark at dawn , beginning to round , anddropping

The Silve r chain of sound ,Of many lin ks without a break,In chirrup

,whistle , slur an d shake 54

o r , afte r sunse tthe curve s of the white owl swe eping

Wavy in the dusk lit by o n e large star 85



po ssible to bo rrow as vehicle s fo r m e re counte rfe its o f po eticsensibility an d insight . Te sts by which such trappin gs may

be distin gu ishe d from real fle sh an d blo od , an d sou l , oughtto be we lcome . Two , I be lieve , few pre tende rs can passsucce ssfu lly ; an d the application o f the pair is n o t so d ifl'icultas might be suppo sed . The first is that the wo rk itse lfbe required to answe r whe the r it have insiste d on be ingwritten . This may appear to be an attempt to exto rtevidence o f guilt by to rtu re . It might be if ve rse re semble dspe e ch in o the r co llo cations . Really it is as hard to compe lwo rds to simu late inspiration as to have it . The se condrequ isition Sho u ld be simple eno ugh , though , to judge byo rdinary criticism , the impediments to compliance wi th itare eno rmous . Fo r pro o f o fpo e ticalme rit regard the highe stan d be st in a write r ’s achievement . W e advance n o t o n e

step towards knowledge whe the r a man have po e try withinhim by dwe lling on hi s failur e s

,fo llie s , o r dullne sse s . His

ave rage pe rfo rmance itse lf demonstrate s little o r no thing .

Only the extreme reach Of his thought , ideas , an d fir e te llsus aught . Find Ve rse to have pro duce d on compe tentreade rs a fe e lin g that tho ught an d emo tion have en fo rce dventilation o f themse lve s in wo rds that they ar e re so lvedto breathe , to be sung also

,that

,among an y amount of

infe rio r matte r , the re is an inspir e d particle — and dare tod eny that in the autho r the re is the making o f a po e t

1 Ralegh, The Lie , st . 2 . W orks, Oxford , 1820. (Po ems) vol. viii.7 Id .

,An Epitaph upon Sir Philip Sidn ey, st . 1 1 . I bid .

3 Id . , The Pilgrimage . Ibid .

4 W o tton , T o His Mistress, the Que en o f Bohemia. Stan zas l , 3 , 4 .

Re liquiae W o tton ian ae , 1 685 .

5 N icho las Breton (A Swe et Lullabie ), stan zas 2, 4, Arbor o fAmoro usDevice s . W o rks, e d . A. B . Gr osar t, 1879 .

5 Baco n ,The B ubble . Reliquiae W o tton ianae .

UNCLASSED 399

7 T . Dekker, H. Chettle , an d W . Haughto n , The Pleasan t Comedy o fPatien t Gr issil. Shakespeare Society, 1841 .

7 The Duchess o fMalfy , B osola’

s Song, Act iv, Sc . 2 . W orks o f JohnW ebster, ed . Alex . Dyce .

7 Cupid an d Death, Masque . Od e , 165 3 . James Shir ley, DramaticW orks an d Po ems, ed . W . Gifford an d A. Dyer.

1 ° The Con ten tion o f Ajax an d Ulysses. Dramatic En tertainmen t,Song. James Shir ley, ibid .

1 1 Alexan d er an d Campaspe . John Lyly, Dramatic W o rks, ed . F. W .

Fairho lt .

1 7 R osalyn d e , E uphues Go ld en Legacie . Thomas Lodge .

Disdain Return ed , st . 1 . The Po ems o f Thomas Carew, ed . Arthuri ncen t. (The Muses

’

Library. )1 4 The Broken Heart. Son g, Beyo n d the reach o f Art. John Ford ,

lVo rks, ed . W . Giffo rd an d A . Dyer.1 5 Thomas Campion ,

st . 1 . Fourth Bo ok of Airs, 161 7 . RichardAlison , o r Allison . An Howre ’

s Recreation in Musik e , 1606. (An on . ,

The Go ld en Treasury, F. T . Palgrave , No .

1 5(7 Comedy by T . B . ) st . 3 , An o n .

Sir W illiam Daven an t, Aubad e .

G . W ither, st . 5 , Se lect Lyric Po ems .

1 9 An Exce llen t NewBallad— to the tun e of I ’ll n ever love thee mo reby James Marquis ofMon tro se . Memo irs o fMon trose , by Mark Napier.

7 “ Syr Cau lin e , Se r . I , Bo ok i, 4 . Re liques of Ancien t Engl ish Po etry,by Bishop (Thomas) Percy.

2 1 The An cien t Ballad of Chevy Chase . Ibid . , Se r . I , Bo ok i, 1 .

W illiam Drummon d o f Hawthorn d e n . So ng II . Po ems. E d .

W . C . W ard . (The Muses’

Library . )The Battle o f Otterbourn e (The Scottish Version ) , st . 19 . W alte r

Scott ’s Minstrelsy o f the Sco ttish Bo rd er.2 ‘ Sir Patrick Spen s . Ibid .

2 5 W illie ’

s Drown ed in Yarr ow, stan zas 1 , 2, 3 , 8, 10, 1 1 , pp. 25 —7 .

Scottish Son g, ed . Mary Carlyle Aitken .

7 “ The Dowie Houms of Yarrow. Scott’s Bo rd er Minstre lsy,stan zas

7 7 Fair He len . Ibid stanzas 6, 8, 10.

Lady An n e , st . 8. Ibid .

7 9 Earl Richard . Ibid .

3 ° The Daemon Lover. Ibid .

J e llon Grame . Ibid .

3 7 Young Be njie . Ibid .

3 1 The Crue l Sister (B inn o rie , O B in n o rie I bid .


The Queen ’

s Marie . Scott’s Bord e r Min strelsy, st . 18.

3 5 Edward , Edward . A Sco ttish Ballad . From a MS . copy tran smitted from Scotland .

’

Ser . I , Bo ok i , 5 , Percy’s Reliqu es . (I havesomewhat anglicized the Spe llin g in Pe rcy’s copy. )

3 “ An on . Sco ttish Rivers, Sir Thomas Dick Laud er.3 7 The Twa Co rbies . (Scott’s Bord er Min stre lsy . ) W . Mothe rwell

’

s

version , Min stre lsy, An cien t an d Mod ern , varies .

3 8 The Lo chmaben Harpe r. (Sco tt’

s Bord er Min stre lsy. )Joseph Addison . (Johnson ’

s Po ets, vol. xxx . )1 ° Dr. Thomas Parn e ll, Son g. (John son ’

s Po ets, vo l. xxv n. )A Crad le Hymn , Dr. I saac W atts . Mo ral Son gs . (John son ’

s

Po ets, vol. lvi, stan zas l , 3 , 6, 7 , 8, 10, 1 1 ,47 W ritten at an Inn at Hen ley, st . 5 . Shenston e , Levities (John son ’

s

Po ets) .4“ The Van ity of Human Wishe s.

On the Death o fMr . Robe rt Levet, a Practiser in Physic, st . 2 .

Ambrose Philips— T o Miss Charlotte Pulten ey, in he r Mother’ sArms, May 1 , 1724 . (John son ’

s Poe ts . )4 “ Sally in our Alley, stan zas 1 an d 4 . He n ry Carey, Po ems.

‘ 7 Christopher Smart . A Son g t o David , st . 5 . W o rks an d Life , 1 79 1 .

R . Brown ing . Parley ings with Certain Pe ople . (ChristopherSmart), 3 , vi.

4 9 John Logan . Od e to the Cucko o , stan zas 1 , 6. Sco ttishSo ng, ed .

Mary Carlyle Aitken .

5 “ The Flowe rs o f the Fo rest. Jan e E lli o t (Scott ’s Bo rderMin str elsy) .Auld Ro bin Gray. Lady An n e Barn ard (Lin d say), Lives o f the

Lin d says, vo l. ii.“2 Caller Herrin ’

. Lady Nairn e . Po ems, with Memo ir , ed . CharlesRoge rs, 1869 .

5 “ The Lan d o’

the Leal . Ibid .

5 4 Can ad ian Boat So n g (see letter fr om G . M . Frase r, Times LiterarySupplemen t, D e c . 23 , 1904, where it is men tion ed that the son g has be enattributed vari ously to Pr o fesso r W ils on , Lo ckhart , John Galt, an d Lo rdEglin ton ) .

5 5 On an In fan t Dyin g as So on as Born . Char les Lamb . Po et .W o rks . Bohn , 184 1 .

5 “ Hester. Ibid . The Old Familiar Faces . Ibid .

5 8 The Fallin g Leaf. The Po etical W orks o f James Mon tgomery.The W ife a-lo st , stan zas 1 , 2 , 4 . Po ems o fRuralLife— in the Do rset

Dialect— by W illiam Barn e s. Second co llection .

6“ A Dirge . Thomas Love ll Bedd o es . Po etical W o rks.

7

Ed . EdmundGo sse . 1890.


CONCLUS IONS 7

FROM my fir st to my late st wo rds on Ve rse which ispo e try, though, it may be , without a po e t , I have had in mymind two que stions . Consciou sly o r unconsciou sly I havebe en asking myse lf : ‘What , then ,

is Po e try ? ’

an d Whatmake s a Po e t ? I am unable to answe r them y e t to myown entire Sat isfaction .

I can enume rate the qualitie s which , single o r seve ral ,neve r all toge the r , unle ss pe rhaps in o n e supe rhuman case ,I myse lf find in English ve rse . Fancy an d Imagin ation ,Fo rm— o r Style State line ss , Passion , Charm , Myste ry,Patho s

,Atmo sphe re , an d Spontane ity share among them

whateve r po e try is , in my judgement , entitle d to be calle dgreat . Imagin ation an d Fancy stand fo remo st Imagination, conducting the pro ce sse s o f re constructin g , an ticipating , prophesying ; se tting Fancy inmo tion ; Fancy, whe the rindependently, o r , afte r Imagination has done its wo rk , an dsometime s be fo re , se e ing things unde r a change d aspe ct , theo ld as if they we re n ew .

The absence o f Fo rm 1 s mo re readily no ted than itspre sence . When the distinguishing characte ristic , as o f

B en Jonson as po e t , o f He rrick , Walle r , Suckling, an d

Lo ve lace , it is almo st identical with Style . It implies Se lfre straint , and Re se rve . Frequently it has the happine sst o be asso ciated with to o mu ch o f grandeur fo r it to besingled o ut as the wr ite r ’s badge . Y e t a po e t may be

illustrious witho u t it fo r Wo rdswo rth is .

State line ss an d Passion , ne ce ssitie s sometime s , ar e o ftenout o f place . W e want n o fine r example of the fo rme rthan Paradise Lo st , an d n o wo rse than N ight Thoughts .

CONCLUSIONS 7 403

Fo r Passion take She lley, Swinburne . At the ir be st theyexemplify to pe rfe ction the self-abandonment , the e cstasy ,whi ch is the triumph of po e tic ar t .

Charm in po e try eve ry on e fe e ls , none can explain . Italte rs its hue s to each reade r ’s eye s . An alyse it , and thehand grasps air . It come s at nobo dy’s be ck an d call n o t

even Milton ’s o r She lley ’s . Commonly, by n o means always ,it turns its back upon Wo rdswo rth . It wi ll n o t be parte dfrom He rrick an d Keats .

Myste ry is a rare Visitant , an d we lcome only when rare .

It is among the distinctions of Christabe l . It is the glo ryof Webster ’s we ir d exe cution-dirge o f Sco ttish Edward,Edward o f Sydney D obe ll’s Ke ith o f Rave lston , It isEdgar Allan Po e ’s prime engine , an d his Evil Genius .

None can speak of Patho s as an y longe r Shy an d re tiring .

Of o ld it was little used . No t unknown among the

Elizabe thans , it was with them far from habitual . In late rdays it is its absence whi ch wou ld be remarkable . Bo thwrite r an d critic ar e apt to fin d it a dange rou s snare .

They ar e liable to be bribed by it to accept the ir own

heart-beats fo r music o f the sphe re s . I hope I havealready sufficiently warned my reade rs that they ar e fre eto discount my praise s o f ve rse wheneve r they themse lve sare incline d to shed a tear o ve r it . In a po e t to aim at

patho s , scheme fo r it , is criminal . When it come s itshould come as an incident, n o t as the mo tive , o r calcu latedre su lt . In great po e try, as Wo rdswo rth ’s

,it steals fo rth

almo st , as it we re , against the po e t’s wi ll .

I have le ft to the e n d a couple o f qualitie s which ar e n o t

so much separate prope rtie s o f po e try as condi tions o r

state s o f it . Each I regard as exce edingly pre ciou s . Whenwe ar e n o t sure that we have learnt from a po em all whichis to be learnt, that we have fe lt all which is to be fe lt,

C c 2


when we suspe ct that it ho lds in re se rve fo r us de lightfulpo ssibilitie s, that it has ente red into us , .and that we are

in spiritual uni son with it— then an d the re I re cogn izeAtmo sphe re . It is n o t a beginning o r basis , but a re sult .

When the feast is o ve r a box of spikenard is broken and

a fragrant vapour enve lops all. Blake ’s ve rse floats inAtmo sphe re . So do e s Keats ’s Eve o f St . Agne s . So

Christabe l . The re is Atmo sphe re in Hogg ’s Kilmen y .

I fin d none in Campbe ll, and little in Sco tt’s own ve rse ,

tho ugh abundance in hi s Bo rde r Minstre lsy .

Akin to it, I suppo se , though the state is as hard tode scribe as Atmo sphe re , is eve ry supreme po e t ’s an d

po em ’s strange powe r sudde nly to Open fre sh so ur ce s inbrain an d heart . Fo rthwith issues a flo od o f fe e ling as

magically swe e t to reade r as to write r . A me re ve rsifie r

may go up an d down , sinking we lls eve rywhe re . He to r

tu res the depths o f the so il . The entire region remains fo rhim a de se rt, a Sahara . The po e t come s with hi s willowbough an d springs gush from the so lid ro ck to me et thedivining r od as it bends . It is a real gift , like the spe ll ,the touch on human eye s , which used to reveal the cc

e xistence with thi s earthy wo rld o f o urs o f actual Fairyland . I have name d the condi tion fo r want o f a be tte rwo rd , Spontane ity fo r its effe cts have n o man ife st cause .

Really spontane o us gene ration is as un known in po etry as

in physics . Fancy sows the ge rms , an d fo rge ts whe re .

They, when sprung-up ,remembe r, an d

,afte r wande ring

away, re turn, as bir ds t o their nesting-place s . Nobodycan te ll the pre cise natur e o f the agent, whethe r it bea thing , o r a powe r , a mo de o f action , an aspe ct Of something e lse . It ro ams about the realm o f po etry, lendingitse lf out to this o r that separate quality . Pomp at itstouch be come s majesty . Charm rise s everywhere , like



bo rn o f that t ime . The taste an d fashion of the pe rio dmay have changed an d be en fo rgo tten . The spirit

, if eve rit we re re al an d since re , will , though tinge d with the co lou rso f its age , contin ue to live in lite ratu re . It may even burstanew into flame . If the pe rio d as a who le , o r any di stin ctstratum in it , accepte d as its vo ice a po e t it had fo rme d ,he will remain a vo ice , though e cho ing from a wilde rne ss .

In an y e vent he an d the public which once listene d to hismusic wi ll have had to a large extent a communi ty of soul .Bacon has be en argumentative ly fabled to be the actual

Shake speare . The fancy wou ld have be en mo re plausible ,if he had be en de scribe d as a co llabo rato r . Then the rewo u ld be truth i n it , bu t only a fraction o f the truth . He

mu st Share the fe llowship with Ralegh an d Drake,Essex ,

the Ce cils , the wits o f the Me rmaid , Sidney, Spense r , thebuccane e r-marine rs o f Devon— with the entire awakenednation . All we re toge the r j o int autho rs with Shake speareo f the Plays , an d o f many a famou s po em fo r a half-centu rybe side s . Eve ry autho r mo re o r le ss , a po e t mo st o f all

,

repre sents his environi ngs . The characte r o f po e try alwaysdepends large ly upon the pe rsonal e lement , o n the nature so f the reade rs , as we ll as on that o f the po e t . Warmed bythe same sunshine , an d bu ffe te d by the same sto rms as

they, he give s back to them the ir own in song . W hen weadmi re the antique withou t be ing able to give a reason fo ro ur admiration , it Often is that insensibly we have live dback into ano the r age by virtue o f communion with on e o f

its creature s an d creato rs . The blo o d o f \ a distant era isstirring in us .

It is n o t always dire ct sympathy with a pe rio d whichse ts nature s po e tically endowed singing to the ir gene ration . Some time s it is an analogou s emo tion in a contraste dguise— a tempe r o f revo lt , the attraction o f antipathy .

CONCLUSIONS 7 407

A mino rity has pe rsuade d itse lf that the scene ought to beshifte d . He rbe rt an d Vaughan we re inspir e d to pro te stagainst the manne rs o f the ir time on behalf of Heaven .

Late r on,from the same di sgust at the pre sent

,Cowley

augur e d triumphs fo r science still unbo rn , but in the air .

Samue l Butle r mo cke d de spo tic Puritan Majo r -Gene rals .

Dryden championed reaction , po litical an d the o logical .Swift was jaundice d against a wo rld as pe tty as Lilliput

,

and as coarse as Brobdingnag . Pope ’s spitfir e ,cyn ical

indiffe rentism inspir e d itse lf with the so cial miasma itaffe cte d to loathe . B urn s

’

s Muse wave re d be twe en jo y inAr cadian simplicity an d an uneasy

,a remo rse ful

,rebe lli ous

ne ss against Kirk Se ssions— pe rhaps , against family Saturday N ights themse lve s . Byron ’s defiance of his fe llow men

,

Browning ’s disqu isitions to so cie ty o n the meaning ithad fo rgo tten o f its own vagarie s , an d Tennyson

’s e ffo rts totempt it into be coming the ideal of its disto rted , distracte dse lf , ar e all alike ste eped in the time ’s circumstance s .

The ir public re cognize d itse lf— denounced ,compassionate d ,

mo ralized , . e the realize d— as the ir theme . Each popu

lar sin ge r in turn has be lieve d himse lf a leade r an d a

prophe t . So he has be en ; bu t a leade r , be cause mo sto bedi ently repre sentative o fhis fo llowe rs , a prophe t , be causebe st translating the in clinations of hi s di sciple s by hi s own .

Elizabethan grandeur an d spaciousne ss refle ct themse lve sin the giants o f contempo rary po etical lite rature . It isthe same with the e arthine ss , the inte lle ctual an d spiritualpove rty , o f thre e -fo urths o f the e ighte enth century . Eve rype rio d crave s to have itse lf po e tically inte rpre te d , thoughthe lyr e rasps and creaks . When it is witho ut

'

J o n so n s

an d He rbe rts , and canno t co mmi ssion enough Grays an d

Go ldsmiths , it must pe rfo rce pu t up with Youngs an d

Aken side s . In an y case it longs to fe e l akin to the


min stre lsy . A po e t bows to the same instinct . His song,

whe the r in defiance , o r re sponse , was nur se d in ,and would

return to , the heart s to which he Sings .

Great po e try has characte ristics , its ve ry own . N o le ssit indicate s the spe cial circumstance s o f its o rigin . The

autho rs disguise themse lve s as little . Some ve rse exe rtsa di stinctive powe r— amounting to compulsion— Of re fe rring itse lf back to the write r’s pe rsonality . W e canno tread Clough without curio sity as to the mo tive , the lightwhich a pie ce throws upon the mental stage the po e t hadreached , the nearne ss t o the go al . Evidently he wro te tote ll himse lf . He re I am n o t alluding to such de libe rateintro spe ct ion . I am thin king o f the sun -po rtraits in spiration take s how it brings a who le be ing , wi th its re spe ctivetendencie s an d ene rgie s o fall so rts , to mirro r itse lf . Stronglymarked an d vigo rou s in the main featur e s , usually withfailin gs as se lf-evident , that be ing is bound to be . The

Muse do e s n o t ano int he r kings at random . In the

e le ct we have a right to expe ct the sense o f a naturaltitle to the crowns placed o n the ir heads . The assuranceis supe rio r to Silence ,

to negle ct . Though po ste rity mayhave fo rgo tten , the ir royalty is inde feasible . The sub

stance , material an d Spiritual , adopted by the po etic sparkfo r its lodging , o r home , ought to be se lf-sufli cing. Itshould be

,

able to ente rtain the gue st , an d survive withdignity its departu re . Survey the dynasty o f sove re ignBritish po e ts to whom succe ssive gene rations have paidhomage . Beyond dispute nine -tenths will be admitted tohave be en n o t le ss remarkable as men than as po etsto remain remarkable when they have ceased to sin g .

Genial Chauce r rise s at my invo cation , so ldie r , ambassad o r , an d courtie r , cheerfufly care le ss o f pre late ’s o r ' fr iar

’

s

scowls . I se e Spense r with the key to Fairyland , a state s



neve r , to all seeming o r gue ssing,susceptible of a jealo u s

suspicionNatu re wou ld have be en crue l had she n o t equipped withmanifo ld stu rdine ss tho se se le cte d to hand the to rch o f

inspiration fro m on e gene ration to ano the r . The po e ticspirit is we ll advise d in pre fe rr ing to hou se in a big nature .

The vo cation o f po e t is among the mo st unce rtain,the

tho rnie st . With some ve rse , it is true , we fin d it di fficu ltto asso ciate the thought o f to il . The write r might have

lispe d in n umbers , an d the n umbers came .

W e d o n o t know how Lamb ’

s spirit , whi ch love d toflow ,

like the Mo le , unde rgro und , distille d his few an d love lystrain s . In gene ral , howeve r , the ardu ous characte r o f

the pursu it is indi sputable . Neve r cou ld fancy apparentlyhave be en mo re spontane ous than Go ldsmi th ’s an d he

wo rked o n a po em fo r years . The start fo r an y write rmay have be en easy

,a supply o f imagin ation an d fancy

be ing pre suppo se d . Ve ry so on basking in the sun has toturn in to de lving an d digging . The raw mate rials withwhi ch the po e t d eals , o ften ar e waiting in readine ss fo rhim ; bu t he has to manufacture them . The thoughtsan d fe e lings he has to expre ss ar e common to humannatur e ; they ar e inarticulate until he has educatedlanguage

,without exte rn al evidence o f compu lsion

, to

discove r unknown capacitie s in itse lf fo r constituting itthe ir vo ice . Dur in g the pro ce ss , an d as a condition o f itssucce ss

,all his ene rgie s ar e in a state of e ffe rve scence .

Meanwhile , he has to lo ok fo r the Spirit to de scend , andcall a sou l into be ing . Fo r long probably the re is n o re su lt .

At length , n o t apparently out of the steam an d bubbling,

a shape be come s visible . A pe cu liarity of an y po e trywo rthy o f the name do ubtle ss is that the wo rk , as the

CONCLUSIONS 7 4 1 1

read e r , pe rhaps as the wo rke r,se e s it , shall be ar upon

its face n o evidence o f the pains it has co st . No t the

le ss is it the fruit of a pro tracte d an d vehement cou rse o f

spiritual gymn astics frequently o f agony .

Co urage , curio sity, patience , o bstin acy, ego tism , se lfre liance , pe rhaps a spice to o o f se lf-conce it , all ar e wante dfo r the struggle against adve rsarie s at home an d abro ad .

The po e t must have a will . He must insist o n be in g blindan d deaf to the claims o f rival facu ltie s o f his own , wheninspiration is on him . They must e ven le t themse lve s beharne ssed to its chario t . Lack o f doggedn e ss in breakingin counte r in te lle ctual an d spiritual impulse s , in obligin gthem to se rve , has o ften smo the re d the po e t unde r thephi lo sophe r o r critic . A trial y e t mo re afflicting is the du tyo f be ing maste r in his own house , to the se lf-to rturin gextent o f se ttin g boun ds to the flights o f his Que en— hisGenius , his Inspiration itse lf o f impo sing silence , o f

seating reason above e cstasy . All the time the wo rldoutside may act as though re sentful o f his me re existence .

Having suffe re d hi s Mu se , Medea-like , to to ss him into thebo iling cau ldron , he issue s fo rth , be lievin g himse lf ado rable .

He sallie s out in the co ld , rain , sto rm , an d darkn e ss to wo othe public with gui tar an d se renade , as if it we re a lovingmistre ss . He fin ds himse lf a butt fo r inso lent ridicule ,when , abso rbe d in his ideas , carrie d away by a prOphetic

rapture , he dance s , like David , be fo re the Ark . He mustste e l himse lf to bear pe rse cution be cau se he is hone st

,chill

surprise when he is sublime , contempt when he ann ounce sto his age no ve ltie s whi ch will be tru isms fo r the nextIn the long an d i llustrious lin e scarce ly a Single membe r

has n o t had to grope his way to renown thr ough stiflingfogs o f pre judice . Nature se ldom mode ls an y fo r po etswitho u t adding extreme sensitivene ss to o u tside opinion .


They have to pre tend n o t to care . Some stumble outrighto n the cou rse . The re have been

mighty Po ets in the ir misery dead.

The imme diate prize s at be st ar e few, with hundreds tocompete . Many ar e the early failure s o f ultimate winne rs .Almo stmo re disheartenin g ar e the half-succe sse s like the fallo f the frin ge Of a rain-cloud in a drought . Mo ore may havefe lt the ache when he found that his Me lo die s we re n o t the

fo re runne rs of a great po em . Abso lute triumphs themse lve s have the ir drawbacks in misapprehensions by popu larenthusiasm o f the real po int an d mo tive . Ve rily, as I takea bird ’s -ey e view o f the po e tical hie rarchy, with its pe rilsan d temptations , I am n o t surprised at the gene ral co in cidence of toughne ss , physical an d mental , with inspirationin the few o f its m embe rs who , in an y age ,

stay o ut the

race to the en d .

A gene ral ’ , n o t unive rsal, co incidence , I repeat— an d

the same qualification mu st be introduce d wheneve r an

attempt is made to imprison po e try an d po e ts inside an

abso lute defini tion . I have trie d the experiment with an

enume ration o f e ssential prope rtie s, as they might se em ,

be longing to whateve r po e try is genu ine . It has alwaysfailed , even down to the spe cification o f metre itse lf as

indispensable . None will d eny that Ruskin constantlySings in pro se , an d D e Quincey frequently . She lley couldbe as musical in an e ssay as with his Skylark . I knowo f a sentence whi ch is po e try in Hallam ,

an autho r as

habitually unpicture sque as' his own Wimpo le Stre et .

I have my d oubts abou t a pie ce o f Plantagene t po rtraitur ein tough Bishop Stubbs . Though I clin g to the be lie f thatimagination an d fancy ar e , o n e o r bo th , ne ce ssary to truepo e try, I sho u ld n o t care to do gmatize on it . Charm ,

I am



penalty than negle ct . Po e ts , unle ss they b e crown e d , ar eneve r safe from the pillo ry . They ente r the lists at the

pe ril of the doom thr eatene d to law re fo rme rs in the o ld

Gre ek State . In equ ity they we ll might plead that the ircritics ought equally to abide the risk . Fo r myse lf I amfu lly consciou s how fair the claim wou ld be , an d since re lytrust that I have behaved as if I we re . Throughout I canasse rt that , in ventu ring to assume the critical characte r ,I have had a constant sense o f a co rd round my own ne ckinstead of the po e t ’s . I have even fe lt a live ly

'

apprehensionthat the no o se mi ght be tightene d by the thick finge rs o fsome Geo rgian po e t ’s gho st . Fo r the ir own sake s , n o le ssthan fo r that o f the public , membe rs o f the obnoxious pr ofe ssio n , in whi ch fo r my pre sent purpo se I have enro lledmyse lf , ar e bo und , I be li eve , to be always o n the watchthat they d o n o t bar entrance within the temple o f the

Muse s to ange ls unaware s . Continually they shou ld bereminding themse lve s that aspirants vainly se eking ad

mittan ce in the de spised gui se of Mino r Po e ts have be endiscove red e r e this to be me ditating po e try which isGreat .

INDEX OF F IRST WORDS

A beam of fun o utbrokeAbou B en Adhem— may his tribe in creaseA casement high and triple -arch’d the re wasA castle , pre cipice -e n cu rledA cherub who had lo st his wayA creature Beautiful to see

A daughte r of the gods, divine ly tallA dead time ’s exploded dreamA dreamy soundA d rowzy frowzy po em , call

’

d the Excursio nA greate r name The list of Glo ry boasts n o tAh how the streamle t laughs an d singsA ho st, o f go lden daffodi lsAh what avails the sceptred raceAirly Beacon, Airly BeaconA language deadAlas fo r the wo eful thingA light that is mo re than the sunlight, an air that is brighte rthan mo rning’s breath

All are needed by each o n e

All impulse s of soul an d senseAll Mo thers wo rship little fee tAll the bliss that life endearsAll the bre e ze o f Fancy blowsA mighty bandA music rain ed through the ro omAn aged man n ow en te r

’

d

An d crown him martyr ; and his name will ringAnd Harald re ign ed and went hiswayAn d if I laugh at any mo rtal thing

416 INDEX OF FIRST WORDS

An d if o n e o r two quick tearsAn d I think of tho se long mo rnin gsAnd lay , like his , my han ds toge therAnd o ’

er the hills, an d far away

An d o’

e r the plain, where the dead age .

And such I knew, a fo rest se e rAn d they je e red him o n e and all Po o r Hoseyn is crazedpast hope

An d thou , dread statue ! y e t existent inAnd we ll it is fo r us our Go d shou ld fe e lAnd when I am taen and hangit , mithe r, a brittlin g O’ mydeer

And when, its fo rce expendedAnd y e t as youn g An d warm with lifeAnd y e t n o earthquake came to swallow me

An en d of Ismail— hapless townAn English home— gray twilight pour

’

d

An Idyll with Bo ccaccio ’s spirit warmA Queen wi th swarthy cheeks and bo ld black eyesA quick an d sudden cryArt thou po o r , y e t hast thou go lden slumbers 7As I was walking all alaneAsk if I love thee 7 Oh, smile s canno t te llA so lemn music o f the windA song,— nay , a shriek that ren t the skyA song whereflute -breath silvers trumpet-clang 7A star to o sovereign, too superbA stern round towe r of o ther daysAs the even ing shade s descendedAt first to the earA thing of beauty is a joy fo r everAt large among the deadAt nightfall , at lastA vo ice by the cedar tre eA wet she et an d a flowing seaAwful coveys of terrible things


4 1 8 INDEX OF FIRST W ORDS

Daughter, daughte r, remember y ouDear Harp of my Country in darkness I found the eDeath rides upon the sulphury Siro cDeath, which take sme from hi s sideDo e s the road wind uphi ll all the way 7

Do omed to go in company with PainDoun in y ou garden swee t an d gay

Earth has n o t anything to Show mo re fairE r e I plunged amid the avenging flameE te rn al passion !E the real minstre l . pilgrimof the Sky .

Even at its brighte st playEvery mo rning , far withdrawnEvery mountain n ow hath found a tongue

Faintly as to lls the evenin g chimeFair was she to beho ld, that maiden of seventeen summersFar an d near, In wood an d thicke tFar to the fair south-westward lightensFather an d friendFather, mo ther, and ‘ care ful childFear death 7— to fe e l the fogm my throatFlake by flakeFluids , impacts , essencesFo r crue l ’tis, ’ said sheFo r me , I am n o t wo rthyFo r I maun gae , tho

’

I ne ’er returnFo r men must wo rk, an d women must we epFo r thou wert bo rn of woman thou didst comeFresh odour, sentFriends, dear friends, when it shall beFrom the blazing chario t of the sunFrom the fo rests an d highlands

Gliding and springin g

INDEX OF . FIRST WORDS 4 19

Glo om pro foundGo ld , still go ld . hard , ye llow, arid co ldGo— lead the Hebrew fo rth, array’dGone into the WestGreat , o r go od , o r kind , o r fairGreat So crates 7— And thou , Divine r stillGreen bounte ous E ar thGreen little vaulte r in the sunny grassGuest o fmillio n painted fo rms

Had she come all the way fo r thisHad ’st thou but liv ’

d , though stripp’

d of powerHail, beauteous stranger of the groveHark, n ow everything is stillHark through the alley resoundsHeard y e the arrow hurtle in the Sky 7Hear me , neighbours at last he criedHe eded , tho ’ sinking as if into deathHe en te r

’

d , but he en ter’

d full of wrathHe has cut his threat at last H e W ho 7

He igh ho , would she were mineHe knew what pains must pierce a Sister’s heartHere , ever since you went abroadHe re , when Art was still religion, with a simple , reverent

heartHe serveth the servantHe that loves a ro sy che ekHe who hath bent him o

’

er the deadHis jante Up thr ou the milky e wayeHistorian, bard, philosopher, combinedHome they brought he r warrio r deadHome To the glo ry that was GreeceHow bo ldly do th it front us how majesticallyHow came it you resume the vo id and nullHow light the touches are that kissHow light we go , how so ft we skim

D d 2


How swee t it were , hearing the downward streamHow swe e t it

,

were , if withou t fe eble frightHow swee tly that be ll warbled o ’

e r the wate rH ow swee t the air is How fair the scen eHungry an d wild, to claim the ir prope rtyHun t God’s cattle upon God’s ain hillsHush, my bonny babe —hush, and be stillHush my dear, lie still an d slumber

I am the nearest nightingaleI arise from dreams o f the eI ask

’

d my fair on e happy dayI charm thy lifeI cou ld have laughed myse lf to Sco rn to fin dI crawled to y ouI fe lt n o t , who se fateIf fate Love ’s dear ambition mar

If I had thought thou cou ldst have di edIf I were dead , ’ you ’d some times say , Po o r Child .

7 ’

If the veriest cur would lick my handIf thou would’st view fair Me lro se arightI have been here befo reI have dr eamed a dreary dreamI have had playmate s, I have had companionsI kn ow a little garden-clo seI lean my che ek to the co ld grey pillowI loved him n o t an d y et n ow he is goneI loved y ou , Eve lyn, all the whi leI love the e— I love the eI love the e n o t , I dare n o t love the e go

I met a trave ller from an antique landI’

m wearin g awa’ , JeanIn he came with eyes of flameInsect love r of the sunIn the long sunny afterno onIn the r ed -rose land n o t amile


422 INDEX OF FIRST W ORDS

Le t us begin an d carry up this co rpseLeve t to the grave descendLife we ’ve been long togetherLifts me to the go lden do o rsLike a dream through sle ep she glidedLike a fo rgo tten lute , play

’

d on aloneLike Alexan der I will re ignLike a sick child that knowe th n o t his mo the r whileble sse s

Like the leave s o f the fo rest when Summe r is gre enLisped in numbers , and the numbe rs cameListen to me , as when y ou heard ou r fathe rLittle fe e t acro ss the lawnLittle go ssip, blithe an d haleLo , an English mansion foundedLo a third man ro se o ’

e r the waveLone o n the fir -branch, his rattle -no te unvariedLong I fo llowed happy guidesLong pro ce ssion Still passing to an d fr oLoved , when my love from all bu t the e had flownLove in my bo som like a be eLove lie st , meekest , blithest , kindestLove strikes but on e hour— Love Tho se never lovedLove thy mo the r , little on e

Mary mine that ar tMary’s roseMen granted that his spe e ch was wise .

Men have be en brave , but women have been braverMen said he saw stran ge vision sMe thought I saw the grave where Laura layMighty po e ts in the ir misery deadMiserere , DomineMo ther I canno t mind my whe e lMo ther s prattle , mo ther’s kissMuch have I travell’d in the realms of go ldMusic by the night-wind sen t

INDEX OF FIRST W ORDS

Music , when so ft vo ices d ieMy days among the Dead are pastMy heart aches , and a drowsy numbness painsMy lady se ems o f ivo ryMy little Son , who lo ok

’

d from tho ughtful eyesMy Lo rd has ne ed o f theseflowe re ts gayMy parents bow, an d lead them fo rthMyse lf when yo ung did eagerly frequentMy sprightly neighbour gone be fo reMyste rious Night when o ur first parent kn ewMy you th was happy but this ho ur be like is be st

Nay , y e ar e mine while I ho ld my lifeNe edy knife -grinder whither are y ou go ing ?Never sto ops the soaring vultureNightingales warbled withoutNight in the lonesome Octobe rNo Cain Injures— un injuredNo mo re of dreamingNo r could his lips a de ep-drawn sigh restrainNo swo rd Of wrath her right arm whirl’dNo t a breath crept through the ro sy airNo t a drum was heard, n o t a funeral no teNo t a flower to be prest of the fo o t that falls n o tNo t a whisper stirs the glo omNo t from the grand old mastersNow he is dead Far hence he liesNow sleeps the land of houses

0 Albion Omy mo ther I sleO fo o l , will y e marry the wo rm fo r a wife 7O Go d , fo rgive me ,

’he exclaim

’

d

O God le t me breathe , and lo ok up at the skyO hark, O hear how thin an d clear0 He len fair, beyond compare0Mary

, go and call the cattle home

423


O Nightingale thou sure ly ar t0 Sheik, I canno t leave thee so0 te ll me , friends, while y e t y e hearO the French are in the bay0 Thou ,

in that mysterious shrine0 what a loud and fearfu l shriek was the reObscure ly spo tted to the do o r, an d thenceO

’

e r Ro slin all that dreary nightOf a life lived somewhere , I know n o t

Of all the girls that ar e so smartOft in the stilly nightOf two that di ed last nightOh breathe n o t hisname , let it sleep in the shadeOh but to breathe the breathOh could I fee l as I have fe ltOh, God to think Man everOh, had I lived in that great dayOh, the little mo re , an d how much it isOh, what a heart-subduing me lodyOh, wo rld oh, life oh, timeOnce in a go lden hourOnce mo re in mo re than bridal beauty standsOnce upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak an d

wearyOn e have I marked , the happiest guestOn e ither hand WithMilton and withKeatsOn E lysian lawn sOn e mo rning , all aloneOn E ttrick’s mountain greenOn e wo rd is to o o ften pro fanedOn this sweet bank your head thrice swe e t an d dearOn your lives she shr iek

’

d and cri ed , he is but newlydead

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt an dflutte r

Our signal fo r fight that from monarchs we drew



Slow sinks mo re love ly e re his race be runSmall hope , my girl , fo r a he lm to hideSo ft touch invisibleSo le Po sitive o f NightSo le sovran of the ValeSome times on lone ly mountain-mere sSome timeswondering sou lSo on o r late sardonic FateSo rrow,

’ said Mahmoud , ‘is a reverend thing

So sleep, fo r ever sleep, 0 marble pairSouls of po e ts dead an d goneSoul was like a star , an d dwe lt apartSound the loud timbre l o ’

e r E gypt’s dark seaSpeak n o t thy spe ech my boughs amongSplendid , a star 7SpreadingMay’ s leafless blo oms in a damp n o okStar is n o t equal to star, n o r blo ssom the same as blo ssomStay, stayStill in he r web de lightsStran ge is it n o t 7 that o f the myr iads whoSuch a so ft floating witchery o f soundSwee t my child , I live fo r the eSwee t nurslin gs o f the vernal skie sSweet stranger, whom I called my wife

Take me away, an d in the lowest de epTears , idle tears, ’ I know n o t what they meanTender be ings ange licalThank Heaven the crisisThat first ln beau ty shou ld be firSt mmight .

That Lo rd Arunde lThat very night , while gentle sle epThe b e e hums on aroun d the blo ssomed vineThe bees that soar fo r blo omThe be lls ar e ringin g . As is meetThe be lls of Shandon

INDEX OF FIRST WORDS 427

The billows whiten an d the de ep seas heaveThe brightness of the wo rld, 0 thou once fre eThe clearest eyes in all the wo rldThe curves of the white owl sweepingThe fairest flowe r The braes o ’

E ttrick ever sawThe fierce July when fle ets were scattered as foamThe floatin g clouds the ir state Shall lendThe flowers o f the sun that is sunkenThe fo rms o f the departedThe four boards o f the co ffin lidThe fruit-like pe rfume o f the go lden furzeThe glo rie s of our blo od an d stateThe green, green grass, the glittering groveThe hand that rounded Pe te r’ s domeThe harp that once through Tara’ s hallsThe Isles o f Greece , the Isles o f GreeceThe ke en sanctityThe kingly bardThe Kin g’s daughte r 0’

No roway

The landscape , allmade sharp an d clearThe lark n ow leaves his wat’ry nestThe leave s are fallin g so am I

The little hands that never soughtThe Lo rd from out H is cloudThe lo st days ofmy life until to -day

The milde st man n er’

d man

The month ofMarch wo re on apaceThe multitudinous BillowsThe murmur o f the mourning gho stThe night is goneThe no on of autumn’ s glowThen ro se from sea to sky the wild farewe llThen think I o f deep shadows on the grassThe odo rous purple of a n ew-bo rn ro seThe Old year’s dead hands are full o f the ir dead flowersThe pageant o f his bleed ing heart


The people— ah, the peopleThe Rainbow comes an d go esThe Raven, never flitting , still is sitting , still is sittingThere are sweet flowers that only blow by nightThere is a garden in he r faceThe re is a stream , Springin g far o ffThere is n o music in the lifeThere is n o ste rner mo ralist than PleasureThe re is o n e Mind, o n e omnipre sen tMindThere ’

s a great text in GalatiansThere sat a Lady all on the groundThere ’s statues gracing this noble place inThere thou sittest n ow an d then thou moan e stThere was a lady lived in a hallThere was never myste ryThere was turning o f keys, an d creaking of lo cksThe Roman, when his burnin g heartThe secre ts of the win d it sin gsThe se lf-to rturin g sophist, wild RousseauThe sharp sto rm cuts he r fo rehead bareThe silver chain of soundThe skies have sunk, and hid the upper snowThe so ft gre en willow springingThe sounding cataractThe spacious firmamen t on highThe star of the unconquered willThe starry Galileo , with his wo esThe vision of scarce a momentThe vo ice of friends around the b edThe vo ice of yoreThe warm ,

gre en-muffled Cumno r hillsThe water comes down at Lodo reThe WeddingMarch ofMende lssohnThe winds ar e high on He lle ’s waveThe wo rld is to o much with us late an d so onThe Wo rld ’

s a bubble , an d the Life o fMan


430 INDEX OF FIRST W ORDS

To mix withKings in the low lust o f swayTo play at loveTo te ll, Of the wonde rfu l days a-comingTrusting to his noblest fo esTully was n o t so e lo quent as thou’Twas n o t tho se souls thatfled in pain’Twas when the spousal time ofMay

Twe ed said to TillTwenty years hence my eyes may grow’Twou ld save us so much bo ther whenwe ’d bo th be ano ther

Under the may she sto op’

d to the ,crown

Ungrate ful Flo rence Dante sleeps afarUnless y ou pardon, what shall I d o , Lo rdUp an d spake the Swan-neck highUpon the go ld clouds me tropo litan

Vale in Ida, love lie rVery true , the linn e ts singVicto rious men o f earth, n o mo re

Wanderin g be tween two wo rlds, on e deadWatching the pulse o f the car s die down, as own

wi th themW e have all of us o n e human heartWe lcome , bud beside the ro seWe

’ll hear n ae mair lilting at our ewe -milkingWere I a tremblin g leafW e watch

’

d her breathin g thro ’

the nightWha’ ll buy my caller herrin

’

7

What am I 7What a scream Of agonyWhat bird so sin gs , y et so do es wail 7Whate ’e r our househo ld gods pro tect of dearWhat E lysium have we knownWhatever in her sight I ’d seem

INDEX OF FIRST WORDS 43 1

What far reachin g Nemesis stirred himWhat hath he lost that such great grace hathwon 7

What ills the scho lar’s life assailWhat leaf-frin ged legend haunts abou t thy ShapeWhat man hasmade ofmanWhat means y on blaze on high 7

What ’s the so ft South-Weste r 7When at home alone I sitWhen half-gods goWhen I am dead , my dearestWhen I lov ’

d y ou , I can’ t but allowWhen Nature Shrouds herse lf , entrancedWhen Nero per ish

’

d by the justest do omWhen o ur wo rld-d eafen ’

d ear

When She came to the Ne therbow portWhen summer’s hourly-me llowing changeWhen the bre e ze of a j oyful dawn blew freeWhen the God’s will sallies freeWhen the lamp is shatteredWhen the little wee bit heartWhen the n ew-made Mo ther smiledWhen thy beauty appearsWhere Baly he ld of o ld his awful reignWhere ’e rwe tread ’

tis haunted, ho ly groundWhere is the grave o f Sir Arthur O’

Kellyn 7

Where is thy favour’d haunt, e te rn al Vo ice 7

Where rests the sap within the leafWhere wate rs gushed an d fru it-trees grewWhether at Naishapur o r BabylonWhithe r, ’midst fallin g d ewW ho e

’

e r has travel’

d life ’s dull roundW ho ever saw the earliest ro seW ho fears to speak of Nine ty-e ight 7W ho is he that cometh, like an hon our ’d guest 7W ho o n earth have made us heirsW ho

’

s striving Parnassus to climb


W ea the mream efme mfiwW hi d betuved uf earthmd sky anfi m beycind aiiwmdn that

5 t

mmeme hmuk ahmluw at tfi fse t

W ith the brew u 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 13, in the musicalwho rlsm m em m urmmend m

W heth whiuh mny wnh the defltW t ww m mm w m mfi m w m

b

Tam w fimam wrmmra m

Ye ama ne: W eft M argi t

Ym am‘fim m fi k —m khge


INDEX OF POETS

W ITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH

ADDI SON , J OSEPH (1672

AKENSID E , MARK, M D . (172 1

ALLINGHAM , WILLIAM (1824ARNOLD, EDW IN , Sir (1832

ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822AYTOUN , WILLIAM E DMONSTOUNE , Pro fesso r (1813

BACON , FRAN CI S, Viscount St. Albans (1 561BAILEY, PHI LIP JAM E S (1816BAI LLI E , JOANNA (1762BARBAULD (AIKIN ), ANNA LETIT IA, Mr s. (1743

BARHAM , RICHARD HARRI S, Rev . (1788

BARNARD (LINDSAY), ANNE , Lady (1750BARNE S, WILLIAM , Rev . (1801

BEATTI E , JAME S, LL.D . (1735

BEAUMONT , FRAN CI S (15 84—1616)BEDDOE S, THOMAS LOVELL (1803BLAKE , WI LLIAM (175 7BLOOMFI ELD, ROBERT (1 766BOW LE S, WILLIAM LI SLE , Rev . (1 762

BRETON , NICHOLAS (1 545 —1626

BRONTE, EMI LY JAN E (1818BROOKS, CHARLE S WI LLIAM SHI RLEY (1816BROW N , THOMAS EDW ARD, Rev . (1830

BROW N E , WILLIAM (1 591 , o r 1 590—1643, o r 1645BROW NING, ELIZABETH BARRETT , Mrs . (1806

BROW NING, ROBERT (1812BRYANT , WILLIAM CULLEN (1794—187BUCHANAN , ROBERT (1841BURN S, ROBERT (1 759BUTLER, SAMUEL (1612, o r 1600BYRON , GEORGE GORDON NOEL, Lo rd (1788

436 INDEX OF POETS

CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART (1831CAMPBELL, THOMAS (1 777CAMPION , THOMAS (1567 -1619, o r

CANNING, GEORGE , Right Ho n . (1770

CARE W , THOMAS (1 5 95 1 5 98 —l639

CAREY, HENRY (1696CHATTERTON ,

THOMAS (1752CHAUCER, GEOFFREY (1340

‘

2

CHURCHI LL, CHARLE S, Rev . (1731

CLAR E , JOHN (1793CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (1796COLERIDGE , SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772COLLIN S, WI LLIAM (172 1COW LEY, ABRAH AM (1618COW PER, WILLIAM (173 1CRABBE , GEORGE , Rev . (1754

CRASHAW , RICHARD, .Canon Of Lo re tto (1613 —1649,

CUNNINGHAM ,ALLAN (1784

DAVENANT (o r D’AVENANT ), WILLIAM , Sir (1606

DAVIDSON ,JOHN (185 7

DEKKER, THOMAS (1 5 70DENHAM ,

JOHN, Sir (1615

DIRDIN , CHARLE S (1745DOBELL , SYDNEY THOMPSON (1824DODGSON ,

CHARLE S LUTW ID GE , Rev . LEW IS CARROLL(1832—1898)

DONN E,JOHN , Dr. , Dean Of St. Paul ’s (15 73—1631 )

DRUMM OND , WILLIAM , Of Hawtho rnden (1 585DRYDEN , JOHN (163 1

ELLIOTT , EBEN EZER THE CORN -LAW RHYMER (1781

E LLIOTT , JANE (JEAN ) (1 727EMERSON ,

RAL PH WALDO (1803

FITZGERALD , EDW ARD (1809


438 INDEX OF POETS

LOVELACE , RICHARD, Co lone l (1618LOVER , SAMUEL (1797LOW ELL, JAM E S RUSSELL (1819LYALL, ALFRED, Sir (1835LYLY (LILLY, LYLIE ) , JOHN (1 554LYTTON , EDW ARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON-BULW ER (Lord LYTTON )

(1803—1873 )LYTTON , EDW ARD ROBERT BULW ER (Earl LYTTON ) (1831

MACAULAY , THOMAS BABINGTON , Lo rd (1800MACKAY, CHARLE S (1814MAHONY, FRAN CI S SYLVE STER FATHER PROUT (1804

MAN SEL, HENRY LONGUEVILLE , D .D . , DeanMARVELL , ANDREW (1621MASSEY, GERALD (1828MEREDI TH, GEORGE (1828MICKLE , WILLIAM JUL IUS (1735MI LLIKEN , o r MI LLIKIN ,

RICHARD ALFRED (1767MILMAN , HENRY HART , D .D Dean o f St. Paul ’s (179 1MILNE S, RICHARD MON CKTON ,

Lo rd Houghton (1809MILTON , JOHN (1608MONTGOM ERY, JAM E S (177 1MONTROSE , JAM E S GRAHAM ,

Marquis Of (1612MOORE , THOMAS (1 779MORRI S, LE W I S, Sir (1833MORRI S, WILLIAM (1834MOULTRI E , JOHN , Rev . (1799

NEW MAN ,JOHN HENRY, D .D . , Cardinal (1801

NORTON , CAROLIN E ELIZABETH SARAH , Hon . (1808

PARNELL, THOMAS, D .D . , Archdeacon (1679PATMORE , COVENTRY KEB SEY DIGHTON (1823PERCY, THOMAS, Bishop (1 729, o r 1728PHILIPS, AMBROSE (167 1 , o r 1675POE

, EDGAR ALLAN (181 1POPE , ALEXANDER (1688

INDEX OF POETS

PBAE D , WINTHROP MACKW ORTH (1802PRIOR, MATTHE W (1664PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER BARRY CORNW ALL (1787

ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763ROSSETTI , CHRISTINA GEORGINA (1830ROSSETTI , DANTE GABRI EL (1828

SCOTT , WALTER, Sir (177 1SHAKE SPEARE , WILLIAM (1 564SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792SHEN STONE , WILLIAM (1 7 14

SHI RLEY, JAM E S (15 96SIDNEY, PHI LIP, Sir (15 54SMART , CHRI STOPHER (1722—1SMI TH, ALEXANDER (1830SMITH, HORATIO (HORACE ) (1779SMITH, JAM E S (1775SOUTHEY, ROBERT, D .C.L. (1774

SPEN SER, EDMUND (15 52, o r 15 5 1STE BBIN G, HENRY, Rev . , D .D . (1799

STEVENSON , ROBERT LOUI S (1850SUCKLING, JOHN , Sir (1609

SW IFT , JONATHAN , Dean Of St. Patrick’s (1667SW INBURNE , ALGERNON CHARLES (1837

TALFOUB D , THOMAS NOON , Sir (1795

TENNYSON , ALFRED , Lo rd (1809TENNYSON , FREDERICK (1807THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (181 1THOMSON , JAME S (1700TRENCH, RICHARD CHEN EVIK, D .D . , Archbishop (1807TURNER , CHARLE S TENNYSON (1808

VAUGHAN , HENRY (1622VERE , AUBREY D E , Sir (1788VERE , AUBREY THOMAS D E (1814

.439

440 INDEX OF POET S

WALLER, EDMUND (1606WARTON , THOMAS (1728WATT S, ALARIC ALEXANDER (1797WATTS, ISAAC, D .D . (1674

WEBSTER, JOHN (1 580 —1625

WELLS , CHARLE S JEREMI AH (1799WHITE , HENRY KIRKE (1785WHI TE , JOSEPH BLAN CO (1775WILSON ,

JOHN , Pro fesso r CHRI STOPHER NORTH ’

(1785

WITHER (o r WITHERS), GEORGE (1588WOLFE , CHAR LE S, Rev . (1 791

WORDSW ORTH, WILLIAM (1770WORSLEY, PHILI P STANHOPE (1835WOTTON , HENRY, Sir (1 568

YOUNG, EDW ARD , Rev . , D .C.L. (1683,o r 1681

END OF VOL. I I

Oxfo rd : Ho race Hart,Prin ter to the Un iversity


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