I think there is in this book nothing that is not good poetry, and little that is not very fine poetry indeed. Passing onward to the succeeding period, from the age which, with some latitude as to chronology, we broadly characterise as Elizabethan, I cannot but confess that to me there is something in the accent and air of the royalist or cavalier school of poets (and, saving Milton, Marvell, and Wither, all Parnassus was with the king) which, at its best, exceeds in sheer delectableness anything to be found elsewhere. Being neither in the decorative-pastoral spirit and florid Renaissance manner of the age that had closed, nor in the wholly mundane mood of the age that was to come, it caught something of the one by reminiscence, something of the other by foretaste, the result being an exquisite blend that will probably never be repeated. Whatever we may think of the lost cause in which Charles suffered, the sentiment of romantic personal loyalty which it evoked was certainly auspicious for the Muse. This picturesque and lofty figure, ennobled with the sombre grace of august calamity, aroused an emotion of service, and kindled a passion of allegiance, such as a pure Mary Stuart or a beautiful Elizabeth Tudor, hallowed with like misfortune, might have inspired; and the effect upon the poetry of the time may be felt in a certain high Quixotic fantasy, and a kind of fine unreasonableness, which have yet a propriety and decorum of their own. With the passing of these poets the note of chivalric love ceased to sound, and during the whole of the long interval between Dryden's accession to the throne of literature and the romantic revival at the close of the last century, what is there in English love poetry to record? There is, of course, Pope's elaborate study of a somewhat perilous theme, and a wonderful piece of art it is, but too remote from the sphere of ordinary sympathies; and there are verses of Swift,-whom, of all writers, we associate least with ideas of tenderness-verses addressed to Stella, which are true poetry, and more than half belie their writer's disclaimer of any feeling warmer than friendship and esteem. The glow and nameless light are, however, lacking to them, and the same may be said of his really graceful verses "To Love" In all I wish, how happy should I be, Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee! These are not despisable verses, but much of what is professedly dramatic writing is more really lyrical. With regard to modern love poetry there is little that needs to be said here. On the whole, one must admit that "the freshness of the early world" has departed from it; but, on the other hand, the fantastic insincerities of our elder literature have departed too. The artificial woe of the ancient amorist, whose days were a perpetual honeyed despair and his nights one long lachrymose vigil, is an extinct literary tradition; but a new, a different, and, alas! a more real sadness has taken its place the modern world - sadness, the Weltschmerz, which infects all we do and are, not excepting our love-making Ev'n in the very temple of Delight Veiled Melancholy hath her sovran shrine. One suspects that the poet who wrote the unapproachable Hear, ye ladies, that despise, or he who chronicled the card-playing of Cupid and Campaspe for kisses, would have been somewhat perplexed, to say the least, with the "Sonnets from the Portuguese," "The Unknown Eros," "The House of Life," "Monna Innominata," "The Love Sonnets of Proteus," and "Modern Love." Whether the rhythmic speech of the latter-day lover has gained in depth what it has lost in limpidness, who shall say? Concerning which question the ensuing pages may perhaps afford some material upon which to base a judgment. I must not conclude these remarks without acknowledging, with gratitude, the eminent courtesy which I have received from the various living authors, who have generously allowed me to enrich this volume with selections from their writings. |