th lives when hope lies dead:
If death as life dissembles,
And all that night assembles
Of stars at dawn lie dead,
Faint hope that smiles and trembles
May tell not well for dread:
But faith has heard it said."

"Very beautiful," says the Briton; "but why call this a 'Jacobite
Song'?" Some thorough-going admirer of Mr. Swinburne will ask, no
doubt, if I prefer gush about Bonny Prince Charlie. Most decidedly I
do not. I am merely pointing out that the poet cares so little for the
common human prejudice in favor of concreteness of speech as to give
us a Jacobite song which, for all its indebtedness to the historical
facts of the Jacobite Risings, might just as well have been put in the
mouth of Judas Maccabaeus.

Somebody--I forget for the moment who it was--compared Poetry with
Antaeus, who was strong when his feet touched Earth, his mother;
weaker when held aloft in air. The justice of this criticism I have
no space here to discuss; but the difference is patent enough between
poetry such as this of Herrick--

"When as in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes."

Or this, of Burns--

"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
The boat rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my bonny Mary."

Or this, of Shakespeare--

"When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight."

Or this, of Milton--

"the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb,
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views
At evening from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno...."

And such lines as these by Mr. Swinburne--

"The dark dumb godhead innate in the fair world's life
Imbues the rapture of dawn and of noon with dread,
Infects the peace of the star-shod night with strife,
Informs with terror the sorrow that guards the dead.
No service of bended knee or of humbled head
May soothe or subdue the God who has change to wife:
And life with death is as morning with evening wed."

Take Burns's song, "It was a' for our right-fu' King," and set it
beside the Jacobite song quoted above, and it is clear at once that
with Mr. Swinburne we pass from the particular and concre