n
truth, we have had instances of workmen, who, through long, large,
[108] devoted study of the handiwork of the past, have done the thing
better, with a more fully enlightened consciousness, with full
intelligence of what those early workmen only guessed at. And
something like this is true of some of our best secondary poetry. It
is the least that is true--the least that can fairly be said in praise
of the poetic work of Mr. Edmund Gosse.

Of course there can be no exact parallel between arts so different as
architecture and poetic composition: But certainly in the poetry of our
day also, though it has been in some instances powerfully initiative
and original, there is great scholarship, a large comparative
acquaintance with the poetic methods of earlier workmen, and a very
subtle intelligence of their charm. Of that fine scholarship in this
matter there is no truer example than Mr. Gosse. It is manifested
especially in the even finish of his varied work, in the equality of
his level--a high level--in species of composition so varied as the
three specimens which follow.

Far away, in late spring, "by the sea in the south," the swallows are
still lingering around "white Algiers." In Mr. Gosse's "Return of
[109] the Swallows," the northern birds--lark and thrush--have long
been calling to them:--

And something awoke in the slumbering heart
Of the alien birds in their African air,
And they paused, and alighted, and twittered apart,
And met in the broad white dreamy square,
And the sad slave woman, who lifted up
From the fountain her broad-lipped earthen cup,
Said to herself, with a weary sigh,
"To-morrow the swallows will northward fly."

Compare the following stanzas, from a kind of palinode, "1870-1871,"
years of the Franco-German war and the Parisian Commune:--

The men who sang that pain was sweet
Shuddered to see the mask of death
Storm by with myriad thundering feet;
The sudden truth caught up our breath
Our throats like pulses beat.

The songs of pale emaciate hours,
The fungus-growth of years of peace,
Withered before us like mown flowers;
We found no pleasure more in these
When bullets fell in showers.

For men whose robes are dashed with blood,
What joy to dream of gorgeous stairs,
Stained with the torturing interlude
That soothed a Sultan's midday prayers,
In old days harsh and rude?

[110]

For men whose lips are blanched and white,
Wi