Nos. xvii.-xxi, WILFRED SCAWEN BLUNT. These sonnets are excerpted from the third edition of that remarkable volume, The Love Sonnets of Proteus. They have more of the Shakespearian ring than perhaps any sonnets of our time. That Proteus' can at times touch a very high note indeed, will be understood by any one who reads the sonorous and majestic sonnet on The Sublime' (xxi.). Structurally they cannot be considered satisfactory. No. xxii. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES (1762-1850). The sonnets of the Rev. W. L. Bowles are now more interesting relatively than intrinsically. Graceful, with an air of plaintive melancholy, as they are, they would be practically entirely forgotten, were it not for the influence they undoubtedly exercised over Coleridge. It must, of course, be borne in mind that they appeared at a time when a new and natural note was as welcome as the humblest bird-strain in a delayed Spring. Nor was Coleridge alone in admiring Bowles' sonnets, for they were undoubtedly widely read and appreciated. The fount of his poetic genius, however, soon ran dry, and he is now read more by the student or the critic than by the general poetry-loving public. Among the best of his sonnets are the two not very impressive pieces on Parted Love, beginning How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill, and There is strange music in the stirring wind. No. xxiii. OLIVER MADOX BROWN (1855-1874). No sonnetanthology would be complete without this sombre example; not only because of its manifest intrinsic merit, but also on account of the author's unique position among creative minds. The son of Mr. Ford Madox Brown, the eminent artist (whose mural paintings in the New Town Hall at Manchester, now nearing completion, will one day be the goal of many art-lovers), Oliver seemed to have been destined by nature to fill ably the positions of a poet, a novelist, and an artist. One can almost imagine any greatness for the manhood of that writer who, as a boy, achieved such marvellous success. Dying at the pathetically early age of nineteen, he was an even more 'marvellous boy' than Chatterton, in so much that he was essentially a less morbid development. He had of course innumerable advantages which his more unfornate predecessor had not: among them, his father's housecomfortable circumstances, and the friendship of men hola like Rossetti. The Black Swan, with all its demerits, remains a story of tragic power and beauty, to be read and valued in the future as we now read and value Wuthering Heights. It is from the MS. of this romance that the sonnet I have quoted is taken, that is, indirectly, for it occurs in print in the Memoir and Literary Remains of O.M.B., edited by William M. Rossetti and F. Hueffer. Those who only know (if, indeed, they can thus be said to know) this brilliant and precocious genius by Gabriel Denver, as The Black Swan was called in its mutilated published form, should not fail to peruse the two fascinating volumes edited by Mr. W. M. Rossetti and Dr. Hueffer. Here, in addition to the original of The Black Swan, are The Dwale Bluth, Hebditch's Legacy, and other deeply interesting matter. Considerable personal information will also be found in Mr. John H. Ingram's interesting monograph, published in 1883, by Elliot Stock. There exist two other sonnets by Brown. One was written for a picture by Miss Spartali (Mrs. Stillman); but although it has one noticeably fine line-the third-its chief interest lies in the fact that it was written in the author's fourteenth year, and was one of several of contemporaneous compositions destroyed by Brown in a moment of irritation or dissatisfaction. It survived the fate of its brethren owing to its having been inscribed on the frame of Miss Spartali's picture. The first three lines run 'Leaning against the window, rapt in thought, Of what sweet past do thy soft brown eyes dream, His third remaining sonnet, more recently come to light, was first printed in Mr. Ingram's 'Biographical Sketch' and has not, so far as I know, appeared elsewhere. It has no title, but I fancy that 'The Past World' would be an applicable one : THE PAST WORLD, Made indistinguishable 'mid the boughs, The weird Chameleon of the Past World lies,- His wasted frame, and memory never dies Withered with his last comrade's last carouse. Methinks great Dante knew thee not of old,- Compelled within some cage for food to wait Concerning this sonnet Mr. Ingram, after referring to its 'virility of thought' and 'picturesque originality,' subsequently to printing it, adds:-There is something truly grandiose and weird in the idea enunciated by the first eight lines of this sonnet. The likening of a surviving member of the past world's inhabitants to an old reveller who has outlived all his joys, his comrades, and his sympathies, is not only very striking, but is very unlike what would have been looked for in the work of a boy.' For myself, I must say that the sonnet seems to me eminently unsatisfactory in so far that there is a confusion of metaphor and simile in the octave, each demanding full realisation on the part of the reader, and each essentially distinct, irrelative. The first three lines present us with a striking and imaginative metaphor, but immediately we have to change our mental focus and see in this chameleon' an old debauchee, brooding over past orgies with boon companions as evil as himself. Then again in the striking last lines of the sestet there is a return to thechameleon' metaphor. Otherwise the poem is certainly an imaginative one, and doubly impressive as being the work of one so young. In connection with Oliver Madox Brown I may quote a couple of fine sonnets by two among the many who expressed in verse their grief or regret: with several others they are to be found in Mr. Ingram's memoir. The first is by Oliver's father, Mr. Ford Madox Brown-one who is not only a great artist but a cultivated student of English literature, and one who has on several occasions proved his ability to use the pen as well as the brush. O. M. B. (Died November 1874.) As one who strives from some fast steamer's side And keep in view some separate wreath therefrom, First saw you riven-a memory thence to roam, O broken promises that showed so fair! O brows made smooth as with the Muse's chrism! Must soon o'ertake-but not in vain-not where The other sonnet is by Mr. Theodore Watts. Mr. Watts and Rossetti had spent the night previous to Oliver Brown's funeral in talk upon the sad mystery of his early death, and on the drive back from 'the place of sleep' the following sonnet was composed, while Rossetti thought out the one on Brown which is to be found in his Ballads and Sonnets. IN A GRAVEYARD. (12th November 1874.) Farewell to thee and to our dreams farewell- Though Death strikes free, careless of Heaven and Hell- Last night we mourned thee, cursing eyeless Death, Must needs slay thee, with all the world to slay ;- Nos. xxiv.-xxviii. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809-1861). The poetic work of Mrs. Browning is too widely familiar for any comment to be called for. Only those who have made a study of contemporary poetry, especially that written by women, realise how strong her influence has been. These beautiful "Portuguese Sonnets" are the finest of their kind in the language, revealing as they do the loving heart of a S true woman as well as the creative emotion of a true poet. The sonnets of Shakespeare, those of Mrs. Browning, and those of Rossetti must always have an especial interest because of their intense personality. The sonnets of these three great writers are like flowers that intoxicate as with some rare and subtle fragrance as well as delight by their visible beauty. Nos. xxix., xxx. ROBERT BROWNING. Mr. Browning has written few poems in this form; probably he could count on the fingers of one hand all he would ever care to see in any anthology. No. xxix. is to be found in the Browning Society's Papers, Part v.; also in the Pall Mall Gazette, where, I think, it first appeared. No. xxx. is among a collection of statements in prose and verse, setting forth the separate writers' reasons for the faith that is in them, collected by Mr. Andrew Reid under the title, Why I am a Liberal, and published some months ago by Messrs. Cassells & Co. It is well known that not only did Landor never write a sonnet, but that he expressed his determination never to do so. But he came very near to inconsistency when he addressed to Robert Browning this beautiful fourteen-line poem in blank verse. TO ROBERT BROWNING. There is delight in singing, tho' none hear The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. W. S. LANDOR in Works (1876), vol. viii. p. 152. Nos. xxxi., xxxii. ROBERT BUCHANAN. These sonnets are from the section of The Book of Orm entitled "Coruisken Sonnets." Of all Mr. Buchanan's poetic works The Book of Orm is certainly the most individual and is in some ways |