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nature does for him what his 〃lutin〃 did for Corneille； 〃takes the pen from
his hand and writes for him。〃 But he has none of the creeping prose
which； to my poor mind； invades even 〃Tintern Abbey。〃 He is； as Mr。
Swinburne says； 〃the surest…footed〃 of our poets。 He can give a natural
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and lovely life even to the wildest of ancient imaginings； as to 〃these
bright and ancient snakes； that once were Cadmus and Harmonia。〃
Bacon speaks of the legends of the earlier and ruder world coming to
us 〃breathed softly through the flutes of the Grecians。〃 But even the
Grecian flute； as in the lay of the strife of Apollo and Marsyas； comes
more tunably in the echo of Mr。 Arnold's song； that beautiful song in
〃Empedocles on Etna；〃 which has the perfection of sculpture and the
charm of the purest colour。 It is full of the silver light of dawn among the
hills； of the music of the loch's dark； slow waves among the reeds； of the
scent of the heather； and the wet tresses of the birch。
Surely； then； we have had great poets living among us； but the
fountains of their song are silent； or flow but rarely over a clogged and
stony channel。 And who is there to succeed the two who are gone； or
who shall be our poet； if the Master be silent？ That is a melancholy
question； which I shall try to answer （with doubt and dread enough） in my
next letter。 ｛1｝
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OF MODERN ENGLISH
POETRY
My dear Wincott；I hear that a book has lately been published by an
American lady； in which all the modern poets are represented。 The
singers have been induced to make their own selections； and put forward；
as Mr。 Browning says； their best foot； anapaest or trochee； or whatever it
may be。 My information goes further； and declares that there are but
eighteen poets of England to sixty inspired Americans。
This Western collection of modern minstrelsy shows how very
dangerous it is to write even on the English poetry of the day。 Eighteen is
long odds against a single critic； and Major Bellenden； in 〃Old Mortality；〃
tells us that three to one are odds as long as ever any warrior met
victoriously； and that warrior was old Corporal Raddlebanes。
I decline the task； I am not going to try to estimate either the eighteen
of England or the sixty of the States。 It is enough to speak about three
living poets； in addition to those masters treated of in my last letter。 Two
of the three you will have guessed at Mr。 Swinburne and Mr。 William
Morris。 The third； I dare say； you do not know even by name。 I think
he is not one of the English eighteenMr。 Robert Bridges。 His muse has
followed the epicurean maxim； and chosen the shadowy path； fallentis
semita vitae； where the dew lies longest on the grass； and the red rowan
berries droop in autumn above the yellow St。 John's wort。 But you will
find her all the fresher for her country ways。
My knowledge of Mr。 William Morris's poetry begins in years so far
away that they seem like reminiscences of another existence。 I remember
sitting beneath Cardinal Beaton's ruined castle at St。 Andrews； looking
across the bay to the sunset； while some one repeated 〃Two Red Roses
across the Moon。〃 And I remember thinking that the poem was nonsense。
With Mr。 Morris's other early verses； 〃The Defence of Guinevere；〃 this
song of the moon and the roses was published in 1858。 Probably the
little book won no attention； it is not popular even now。 Yet the lyrics
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remain in memories which forget all but a general impression of the vast
〃Earthly Paradise；〃 that huge decorative poem； in which slim maidens and
green…clad men； and waters wan； and flowering apple trees； and rich
palaces are all mingled as on some long ancient tapestry； shaken a little by
the wind of death。 They are not living and breathing people； these
persons of the fables； they are but shadows； beautiful and faint； and their
poem is fit reading for sleepy summer afternoons。 But the characters in
the lyrics in 〃The Defence of Guinevere〃 are people of flesh and blood；
under their chain armour and their velvet； and the trappings of their
tabards。
There is no book in the world quite like this of Mr。 Morris's old
Oxford days when the spirit of the Middle Ages entered into him； with all
its contradictions of faith and doubt； and its earnest desire to enjoy this life
to the full in war and love； or to make certain of a future in which war is
not； and all love is pure heavenly。 If one were to choose favourites from
〃The Defence of Guinevere；〃 they would be the ballads of 〃Shameful
Death；〃 and of 〃The Sailing of the Sword；〃 and 〃The Wind；〃 which has the
wind's wail in its voice； and all the mad regret of 〃Porphyria's Lover〃 in its
burden。
The use of 〃colour…words；〃 in all these pieces； is very curious and
happy。 The red ruby； the brown falcon； the white maids； 〃the scarlet
roofs of the good town；〃 in 〃The Sailing of the Sword；〃 make the poem a
vivid picture。 Then look at the mad； remorseful sea… rover； the slayer of
his lady； in 〃The Wind〃：
〃For my chair is heavy and carved； and with sweeping green behind
It is hung； and the dragons thereon grin out in the gusts of the wind； On its
folds an orange lies with a deep gash cut in the rind； If I move my chair it
will scream； and the orange will roll out far； And the faint yellow juice
ooze out like blood from a wizard's jar； And the dogs will howl for those
who went last month the war。〃
〃The Blue Closet；〃 which is said to have been written for some
drawings of Mr。 Rossetti； is also a masterpiece in this romantic manner。
Our brief English age of romanticism； our 1830； was 1856… 60； when Mr。
Morris； Mr。 Burne Jones； and Mr。 Swinburne were undergraduates。
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Perhaps it wants a peculiar turn of taste to admire these strange things；
though 〃The Haystack in the Floods；〃 with its tragedy； must surely appeal
to all who read poetry。
For the rest； as time goes on； I more and more feel as if Mr。 Morris's
long later poems； 〃The Earthly Paradise〃 especially； were less art than 〃art
manufacture。〃 This may be an ungrateful and erroneous sentiment。
〃The Earthly Paradise；〃 and still more certainly 〃Jason；〃 are full of such
pleasure as only poetry can give。 As some one said of a contemporary
politician； they are 〃good； but copious。〃 Even from narrative poetry Mr。