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VOL. II

Her forehead, over-shadow'd much
By bows of hair, has a wave such
As God was good to make for me.

Not greatly long my lady's hair,
Nor yet with yellow colour fair,
But thick and crisped wonderfully.

Beneath her brows the lids fall slow,
The lashes a clear shadow throw
Where I would wish my lips to be.

I wonder if the lashes long

Are those that do her bright eyes wrong
For always half tears seem to be

Lurking below the underlid,

Darkening the place where they lie hid-
If they should rise and flow for me!

Her full lips being made to kiss,
Curl'd up and pensive each one is ;
This makes me faint to stand and see.

Nay, hold thy peace! for who can tell?
But this at least I know full well,
Her lips are parted longingly,

So passionate and swift to move,
To pluck at any flying love,
That I grow faint to stand and see.

Yea! there beneath them is her chin,
So fine and round, it were a sin

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.

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To kneel before her; as for me,
I choke and grow quite faint to see
My lady moving graciously,

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 imbedded 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,
To part at last without a kiss ?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods ??

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:

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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-which of them 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 the old 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 from Edition, 1858: Longmans, 1896. The Story of Sigurd the Volsung, and the Fall of the Niblungs, by William Morris. Ellis & White, 1877. New edition, Longmans, 1896. Poems by the Way, And-Love is Enough, by William Morris. New Impression. Longmans, 1902.

1 King Arthur's Tomb (Defence of Guenevere, &c.), pp. 29-30.

2 The Day is coming (Poems by the Way), p. 124.

3 Two Red Roses across the Moon (Defence of Guenevere), pp. 223-5. • Sigurd the Volsung, Book I, pp. 52-3.

' A Garden by the Sea (Poems by the Way), pp. 79–80.

• Gunnar's Howe above the House at Lithend (ibid.), pp. 122-3. 7 Mother and Son (ibid.), pp. 81-3.

* Praise of My Lady (Defence of Guenevere), pp. 241–5.

• The Haystack in the Floods (ibid.), pp. 215–22.

10 The King of Denmark's Sons (Poems by the Way), pp. 66–7.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

1819-1861

POETS in general love to preach, and to a congregation. When they soliloquize they choose a market place. For a very few the primary, if not the final, forum is themselves. Afterwards they may be persuaded to admit the public to their confidence. At the moment of singing they had been honestly unaware of its existence. They resorted to poetry simply because they knew of no better instrument with which to hammer out thoughts vital to their own souls. If the resulting ideas fail to touch other hearts or ears they do not mind. Their disregard of sympathy, the occasional crudity of form, have no common origin with the roughness of a writer who, having studied his art as a violinist studies his, challenges criticism to disentangle the beauty from the excrescences concealing it. These solitaries do not concern themselves with the artistic requirements of the medium of expression they have adopted. They harbour no intention, unless to mould and develop a conception or an aspiration.

To that limited class of poets who are thinkers first, Arthur Hugh Clough belongs. Nature, however, endowed him with poetical gifts more or less independent of his other specific characteristics. Thus, a peculiarly delicate sense of tone is apparent, intermittently, at various periods of his career. A River Pool, written when he was twenty

one, has

a dreamy sound

Of ripples lightly flung.1

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