dramatist or of the epic writer. He is a lyrist and a sonneteer. He is
also a critic, and might very conceivably be a satirist. But, whatever
he is in writing, he is mainly and before all things an intellectual
rather than an emotional poet; he is an artist rather than a seer. His
poems are constructions of taste and intellectual judgment. Let me take,
as an example, his poem upon the _Father of the Forest_. A yew tree,
which may be fifteen centuries old, is addressed by him; and, musing on
the historical scenes it must have lived through, he gives us a series
of verses which touch musically upon salient epochs and characteristic
figures in the history of England. To this the yew practically replies
that the so-called historical events amount to nothing, and that "wars
and tears" will repeat themselves, until men are some day civilized into
pursuing but one object, which shall be Beauty. The piece itself reveals
nothing profound, awakes no particular emotion. Given the first idea of
the plot, so to speak--an idea which is not far to seek for any
reflective man--the rest of the material follows as a matter of course.
But where is the man besides Mr. Watson who will give us such lines as--

The South shall bless, the East shall blight,
The red rose of the Dawn shall blow;
The million-lilied stream of night,
Wide in ethereal meadows flow.

I do not say that the poet is without his measure of feeling; but it is
rather the pensive feeling of a Jaques, the dainty interest of a Matthew
Arnold, than any surge of emotion. The poet seems to me to encourage his
brain to feel--to give it that passing luxury with a certain amount of
deliberation.

The _Hymn to the Sea_ is the only real poem written in the English
language in hexameters and pentameters. There have been many attempts at
these metres, but they have been failures, one and all. And nothing
shows Mr. Watson's skill, nay genius, more than the fact that his
attempt is a great and conspicuous success. The sea, confined within its
shores, never resting, yet never able to pass its bounds, at war with
the winds, and serving the moon with its tides, is compared to man, with
his unrest, his limitations, his aspirations. As before, when the clue
is once given, the thread is easily followed to the end. The result is
simply an intellectual operation done into verbal music. Yet who but
William Watson, having to speak of the moon as mistress of the sea,
could express hi