be marshalled into their places by artistic ingenuity.

We may so far agree with Mr. Davidson that most of the sublime
passages in English poetry are in blank verse, though it may be
noticed that the four lines which he quotes from _Macbeth_,[36] as
containing the 'topmost note in the stupendous agony of the drama,'
are rhymed. The management of rhyme is a difficult and very delicate
art; it is an instrument that requires a first-class performer, like
Mr. Swinburne, to bring out its potency; to this art the English
lyric, the ode and the song, owe their musical perfection. Mr.
Swinburne, in an essay upon Matthew Arnold's _New Poems_ (1867), has
said, truly, that 'rhyme is the native condition of lyric verse in
England'; and that 'to throw away the natural grace of rhyme from a
modern song is a wilful abdication of half the charm and half the
power of verse.' To this general rule he might possibly admit one
exception--Tennyson's short poem beginning with 'Tears, idle tears,'
which is so delicately modulated that the absence of rhyme is not
missed. At any rate it is certain that all popular verse needs this
terminal note; for a ballad in blank verse is inconceivable. On the
other hand, the proper use of rhyme demands a fine ear, which is a
rare gift; for our language has no formal rules of prosody, so that in
maladroit hands rhyme becomes an intolerable jingle. At the present
day, however, there is a tendency to run into excessive elaboration,
largely due to superficial imitation of such masters of the poetic art
as Tennyson, and especially Swinburne, so that we have a copious
outpouring of feeble melodies.

Mr. Swinburne, on the contrary, is never feeble; he combines technical
excellence with the power of vehement, often much too violent,
expression. His character may be defined by the French word 'entier';
he is uncompromising in praise or blame. He insists (to quote his own
words) that 'the worship of beauty, though beauty be itself
transformed and incarnate in shapes diverse without end, must be
simple and absolute'; nor will he tolerate reserve or veiled
intimations of a poet's inmost thought.

'Nothing,' he has written, 'in verse or out of verse is more
wearisome than the delivery of reluctant doubt, of half-hearted
hope and half-incredulous faith. A man who suffers from the strong
desire either to believe or disbelieve something he cannot, may be
worthy of sympathy, is certainly worthy