The sense of his
originality comes to one as but an after-thought; and certainly one
sign of his vocation is that he has made no conscious effort to be
original. In his beautiful opening poem of the "White-throat,"
giving his book its key-note, he seems, indeed, to accept that
position, reasons on and justifies it. Yet there is a clear note of
originality (so it seems to us) in the peculiar charm of his strictly
personal compositions; and, generally, in such touches as he gives us
of the soul, the life, of the [114] nineteenth century. Far greater,
we think, than the charm of poems strictly classic in interest, such
as the "Praise of Dionysus," exquisite as that is, is the charm of
those pieces in which, so to speak, he transforms, by a kind of
colour-change, classic forms and associations into those--say! of
Thames-side--pieces which, though in manner or subject promising a
classic entertainment, almost unaware bring you home.--No! after all,
it is not imagined Greece, dreamy, antique Sicily, but the present
world about us, though mistakable for a moment, delightfully, for the
land, the age, of Sappho, of Theocritus:--
There is no amaranth, no pomegranate here,
But can your heart forget the Christmas rose,
The crocuses and snowdrops once so dear?
Quite congruously with the placid, erudite, quality of his culture,
although, like other poets, he sings much of youth, he is often most
successful in the forecast, the expression, of the humours, the
considerations, that in truth are more proper to old age:--
When age comes by and lays his frosty hands
So lightly on mine eyes, that, scarce aware
[115]
Of what an endless weight of gloom they bear,
I pause, unstirred, and wait for his commands.
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