Her forehead, over-shadow'd much By bows of hair, has a wave such Not greatly long my lady's hair, Beneath her brows the lids fall slow, I wonder if the lashes long Are those that do her bright eyes wrong, Lurking below the underlid, Darkening the place where they lie hid— Her full lips being made to kiss, Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell? Her lips are parted longingly, So passionate and swift to move, That I grow faint to stand and see. Yea! there beneath them is her chin, To feel no weaker when I see God's dealings; for with so much care And troublous, faint lines wrought in there, He finishes her face for me. All men that see her any time, I charge you straightly in this rhyme, What, and wherever you may be, To kneel before her; as for me, I choke and grow quite faint to see Beata mea Domina!' 8 But Morris's distinctive strength is that of a storyteller. In a succession of massive volumes-the Life and Death of Jason, and The Earthly Paradise-he revealed even to scholars the wealth of romance embedded in Greek myths and traditions. With a success as surprising he assimilated the Scandinavian spirit for the purpose of dealing with Scandinavian lore. The Defence of Guenevere, and, yet more, King Arthur's Tomb, need not shun comparison with Tennyson's treatment of the Arthurian legend. In isolated ballads on the borderland of history he stands in the first rank among his contemporaries. As a minstrel he has two manners of relating a tale, and is a master in each. Of set purpose he spins a web for the entanglement of wits in the story of Rapunzel. After the same method the stir and rush of the Haystack in the Floods leave as much to be guessed as is told. Was this to be the end of the dreary flight, from the Chatelet, of Jehane the brown, the beautiful, the reputed witch, attended by her knightly lover; with her other lover, accuser, and witch-catcher, in hot pursuit ?— Had she come all the way for this, Or, following his larger way, he will, now, in hundreds of pages tell the tale of the Golden Fleece, or, now, in half a dozen, concerning the King of Denmark's Sons, recount how it all came about: And Harald reigned and went his way, 'So grey is the sea when day is done.' 10 Histories, legends, songs, philosophies, moralities—they constitute together a vast total, with an astonishing evenness of merit. The several components are, one and all, interesting, and, not seldom, fascinating. Where then is their place in English poetry? My object throughout my rapid review of our Poets has been to determine which of them are among the Immortals-have left us heirs of possessions we cannot do without. Poems of such sort are at once necessaries and treasures; and I have coveted the multiplication of them. When I began my sketch of William Morris, I intimated a fear that his work was not of the kind; and this continues to be my impression. Much in it charms me whenever it places itself under my eyes. I do not long to return to it. A divine spark is wanting. It is not that a star has been hidden in a cellar, as an old and great poet imagined. Such as it is, it has been visible enough. Its orbit has been half a century of energetic modern life. Somehow, I suppose, Morris had to choose between the exercise of a single power, and divers; and he preferred many to much. The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems, by William Morris. Ellis & White, 1858. Reprint: Longmans, 1896. The Story of Sigurd the Volsung, and the Fall of the Niblungs, by William Morris. Ellis & White, 1877. Poems by the Way, by William Morris. Reeves & Turner, 1891. 1 King Arthur's Tomb (Defence of Guenevere, &c.), stanzas 41-6. 2 The Day is Coming (Poems by the Way), st. 1. 3 Two Red Roses across the Moon (Defence of Guenevere), stanzas 1, 2, 3, 4, 9. 5 A Garden by the Sea (Poems by the Way). 6 Gunnar's Howe above the House at Lithend (ibid.). 7 Mother and Son (ibid.). • Praise of My Lady (Defence of Guenevere). 9 The Haystack in the Floods (ibid.), stanzas 1-5. 10 The King of Denmark's Sons (Poems by the Way). ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 1837-1909 IN 1897, when this book first appeared, Swinburne was living. By the plan of the work I had debarred myself, therefore, from including him. On the issue of the present edition I could not have passed him over. But it was impossible to pretend to depose Alfred Tennyson from his place as crowning the succession of British poets. I have compromised by disregarding the accidents of birth and death, and seating the newcomer beside William Morris, and Rossetti, his companion, and in some sort his master. Poets of the first rank never are duplicates. It is impossible to bracket Swinburne with any among his nineteenth-century contemporaries or predecessors. He reminds of Rossetti in sensuousness; he had a far hotter faith in a poet's duty to concern himself with the world and society. With Shelley he may compare in bitter discontent with Earth as it is, with Heaven as it is commonly understood to be e; but both for good and ill he was for Shelley too realistic and material. For himself he was entirely devoid of literary jealousy of coevals or seniors. Landor he revered as Father and friend. He extolled and bewailed Robert Browning, owner of Victor Hugo he hymned both in English and French as a king of men as well as bards. All singers, native and foreign, ancient and modern, were equally of his fellowship. He had the courage to render his homage to Catullus in |