there is more than the accidental resemblance that comes from two
men making the same sort of joke.

But Brooke was, in his own desire and in the estimation of others, first
a poet: and Mr. Belloc has written his verses, as it would seem, at
intervals. The common level of them is that of excellent workmanship,
the very best are simply glorious accidents.

Now the common level, if we put away the books for children which will
be more conveniently dealt with in another chapter, is represented by
such poems as _The Birds_, _The Night_, _A Bivouac_, and a Song of which
we may quote one verse, as follows:

"You wear the morning like your dress
And are with mastery crowned;
When as you walk your loveliness
Goes shining all around.
Upon your secret, smiling way
Such new contents were found,
The Dancing Loves made holiday
On that delightful ground."

That is to say, these poems are of a certain grace and charm, neither
false nor exalted, pleasant indeed to say over, but without that
intensity of feeling which even in a small and light verse transfigures
the written words. The carols and Catholic poems are of this delightful
character, curiously one in feeling with such old folk-carols as are
still preserved. One of these compositions rises to a much higher plane
by a truly extraordinary felicity of phrase, one of those inspired
quaintnesses which move the reader so powerfully as the nakedest pathos
or the most ornate grandeur. We mean the poem _Courtesy_, where the poet
finds this grace in three pictures:

"The third it was our Little Lord,
Whom all the Kings in arms adored;
He was so small you could not see
His large intent of Courtesy."

These verses are certainly, as we have said, charming. They are really
mediaeval, for Mr. Belloc admires the spirit of that age from within,
which makes truth, not from without, which makes affectation.

There is another class of poem which is jolly--it is the best term--to
read and better to sing. The _West Sussex Drinking Song_, a rather
obvious reminiscence of Still's famous song, is perhaps the best known
but by no means the best. (It is, however, an excellent guide to the
beers of West Sussex.) We would give this distinction to a song in _The
Four Men_, which begins:

"On Sussex hills where I was bred,
When lanes in autumn rains are red,
When Arun tumbles in his bed
And busy great gusts go by;
When bran