PART V

"The artistic beauty of the cover resides in the delicate tracing, arabesques, and massing of many coral-red lines on a ground of white ivory, the colour effect culminating in certain high gilt notes, and being made still pleasurable by the overlapping band of moss-green cloth that holds the book together."

"The Fisherman and his Soul," recalls many stories and is very weird in its conception. We think of Undine and of Peter Schmeidel and his shadow; and again there is a reminiscence of "The Arabian Nights." Yet once more it is the old burden of the song "Love is better than wisdom, and more precious than riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of men. The fires cannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it." But in the story there is seen distinctly the strong attraction which the Ritual of The Catholic Church had for Oscar Wilde. Those who have read that fine poem, "Rome Unvisited," which even the saintly recluse of the Oratory at Edgbaston could praise, will understand how in the story of the "Fisherman and his Soul" it is written.

"The Priest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people the wounds of theLord, and speak to them about the wrath of God. And when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and bowed himself upon the altar, he saw that the altar was covered with strange flowers that never had been seen before, and after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the monstrance that was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people, and hid it again behind the veils, he began to speak to the people."

And now I come to "The Star-Child—inscribed to Miss Margot Tennant."

"He was white and delicate like swan ivory, and his curls were like the rings of the daffodil. His lips, also, were like the petals of a red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water, and his body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not." But his heart was hard and his soul was selfish, and his evil ways wrought mischief all around; so bitter sorrow fell upon him and his comeliness departed, and in pain and grief he was purged from his sin.

This last is indeed a beautiful story, and not once is there sounded the mocking note of cynical disdain of men. If one had taken up this tale and known not whose pen had traced it, he would not hesitate to place it in his children's hands.

Is it not good to think that tenderness andhumility and patience are seen herein to be more beautiful than all the precious things which are loved so ardently by the artistic mind? I have shown, I hope, that in both of these exquisite volumes, it may be seen that Oscar Wilde had visions sometimes of the celestial city where the angels of the little children do always behold the face of the Father. And if, as other chapters of this volume may seem to show, the vision splendid died away and faded all too soon, purgatorial pain came to the author, as to the star-child in his story, and he who could build for his soul a lordly pleasure house, and was driven forth from it, may enter it again when he has purged his sin.

THE POET

If a keynote were wanted to Oscar Wilde's verse it might be found in a couple of stanzas by the poet whose work perhaps had the greatest share in moulding his ideas and fashioning his style. Charles Baudelaire, with all his love of the terrible and the morbid, was an incomparable stylist, and in these lines has almost formulated a creed of art.

"La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliersLaissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symbolesQui l'observent avec des regards familiers.Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondentDans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent."

"La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliersLaissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symbolesQui l'observent avec des regards familiers.

Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondentDans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent."

We can picture to ourselves the young Oxford student studying these lines over and over again till they had become part and parcel of himself.

Wilde himself has left it on record that he "cannot imagine anyone with the smallest pretensions to culture preferring a dexterously turned triolet to a fine imaginative ballad." In the majority of his poems, the beauties of nature, flowers, the song of birds and the music of running water are introduced either incidentally or as theleit motif. In fact, he was responsible forthe dictum that what English poetry has to fear is not the fascination of dainty metre or delicate form, but the predominance of the intellectual spirit over the spirit of beauty.

That the expression of the beautiful need not necessarily be simple was one of his earliest contentions. "Are simplicity and directness of utterance," he asks, "absolute essentials for poetry?" and proceeds to answer his own question. "I think not. They may be admirable for the drama, admirable for all those imitative forms of literature that claim to mirror life in its externals and its accidents, admirable for quiet narrative, admirable in their place; but their place is not everywhere. Poetry has many modes of music; she does not blow through one pipe alone. Directness of utterance is good, but so is the subtle recasting of thought into a new and delightful form. Simplicity is good, but complexity, mystery, strangeness, symbolism, obscurity even, these have their value. Indeed, properly speaking, there is no such thing as Style; there are merely styles, that is all."

There we have a clear, concise and catholic statement of his literary creed, and none other was to be expected from one to whom Baudelaire, Poe, Keats, and Rossetti were so many masters whose influence was to be carefully cultivated and whose methods were worthy of imitation and study. His views on the subjectof simplicity in verse should be read by all who desire to understand his method and do justice to his work.

"We are always apt to think," he wrote, "that the voices which sang at the dawn of poetry were simpler, fresher, and more natural than ours, and that the world which the early poets looked at, and through which they walked, had a kind of poetical quality of its own, and could pass, almost without changing, into song. The snow lies thick now upon Olympus, and its scarped sides are bleak and barren, but once, we fancy, the white feet of the Muses brushed the dew from the anemones in the morning, and at evening came Apollo to sing to the shepherds in the vale. But in this we are merely lending to other ages what we desire, or think we desire, for our own. Our historical sense is at fault. Every century that produces poetry is, so far, an artificial century, and the work that seems to us the most natural and simple product of its time is probably the result of the most deliberate and self-conscious effort. For nature is always behind the age. It takes a great artist to be thoroughly modern."

"Ravenna," the poem with which Oscar Wilde won the Newdigate Prize, we find to be far above the average of such effusions, though possessing most of the faults inherent in compositions of this kind. Grace and even force of expressionare not wanting, with here and there a pure strain of sentiment and thought, and a keen appreciation of the beauties of nature. Ever and anon we come across some sentence, sometournure de phrasewhich might belong to his later work, as for instance—

"The crocus bed (that seems a moon of fireRound-girdled with a purple marriage-ring)."

But for the most part the poem is rather reminiscent of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," and is chiefly interesting by reason of the promise it holds forth.

The poems published in 1881 are preceded by some dedicatory verses addressed to his wife which are characterised by great daintiness and simplicity, instinct with tender affection and chivalrous homage.

"Helas," which forms a sort of preface to the collection, is chiefly interesting on account of the prophetic pathos of the lines:

"Surely there was a time I might have trodThe sunlit heights, and from life's dissonanceStruck one clear chord to reach the ears of God."

"Ave Imperatrix" will come as a surprise to those unacquainted with Wilde's works. Most people would have thought the author of "Dorian Gray" the last man in the world to write a stirring patriotic poem which would not be out of place in a collection of Mr Kipling's works. Acopy ofThe Worldcontaining this poem found its way to an officer in Lord Robert's force marching on Candahar, and evoked the enthusiasm and admiration of the whole mess. As a proof of the author's originality and care in the choice of similes he purposely discards the modern heraldic device of the British lion for the more correct and ancient leopards, as:

"The yellow leopards, strained and lean,The treacherous Russian knows so wellWith gaping blackened jaws are seenLeap through the hail of screaming shell."

There is a fine swing about the metre of this verse, and the description of the leopards as "strained and lean" is a piece of word painting, a felicity of expression that it would be difficult to improve on. The whole poem is tense with patriotic fervour, nor is it wanting in exquisitely pathetic touches, as for instance—

"Pale women who have lost their lordWill kiss the relics of the slain—Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain."

"In vain the laughing girl will yearnTo greet her love with love-lit eyes:Down in some treacherous ravine,Clutching the flag, the dead boy lies."

That he should have written such a poem is proof conclusive of the author's extraordinary versatility, and though a comparatively early production is worthy to rank with the finestwar poems in the language.

Current events at that time attracted his pen for we find a set of verses on the death of the ill-fated Prince Imperial, a sonnet on the Bulgarian Christians, and others of a more or less patriotic character. Few of these productions, however, invite a very serious criticism. They were of the moment and for the moment, and have lost the appeal of freshness and actuality.

In "The Garden of Eros" we get a good insight into Wilde's passionate fondness for flowers, to whom they were human things with souls. Probably no other verses of the poet so well define and express this master passion of his life.

"... Mark how the yellow iris wearilyLeans back its throat, as though it would be kissedBy its false chamberer, the dragon-fly."

"And I will tell thee why the jacynth wearsSuch dread embroidery of dolorous moan."

or again

"Close to a shadowy nook where half afraidOf their own loneliness some violets lieThat will not look the gold sun in the face."

I remember a lady telling me once that she was in a London shop one day when Wilde came in and asked as a favour that a lily be taken out of the window because it looked so tired. This looking on flowers as real livesentient things was no mere pose with him. He was thoroughly imbued with the conviction that they were possessed of feeling, and throughout his poetical work we shall find endless applications of this idea.

Of particular interest in this poem are the verses descriptive of the various poets, his contemporaries. Swinburne he alludes to most happily, as far as the neatness of phrase is concerned nothing could be better in this regard than

"And he hath kissed the lips of ProserpineAnd sung the Galilean's requiem."

William Morris, "our sweet and simple Chaucer's child," appeals to him strangely. Many a summer's day he informs us he has "lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves." His appreciation of Morris's verse is keen and enthusiastic.

"The little laugh of water falling downIs not so musical, the clammy goldClose hoarded in the tiny waxen townHas less of sweetness in it."

What a delicate metaphor that is, what an exquisite poet's fancy. Not Keats himself could have surpassed the "clammy gold close hoarded in the tiny waxen town"—it is worthy to rank with some of the daintiest flights in the "Queen Mab speech," that modern Mercutios murderso abominably.

Like every verse writer of his time Oscar Wilde had felt the wondrous influence of Rossetti, and no finer tribute to the painter could be written than the lines—

"All the World for himA gorgeous coloured vestiture must wear,And Sorrow take a purple diadem,Or else be no more Sorrow, and DespairGild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, beEven in Anguish beautiful; such is the empery which Painters held."

There is a stately splendour about the flow of "a gorgeous coloured vestiture," and one pauses to admire the choice of the last word, and can picture the poet's delight when, like an artist in mosaic who has hit upon the stone to fill up the remaining interstice, he lighted on the word. It is essentiallyle mot juste, no other could have filled its place. So also is there a peculiar happiness in the use of "empery." There is a volume of sound and meaning in the word that could with difficulty be surpassed.

In fact, in his choice of words Wilde always and for ever deserves the glowing words of praise that Baudelaire addressed to Theodore de Bonville—

"Vous avez prélassé votre orgueil d'architecteDans des constructions dont l'audace correcteFait voir quelle sera votre maturité."

And when we come to a line like—

"Against the pallid shieldOf the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam"

we realise how thoroughly the praise would be deserved, and linger lovingly on the lilting music of the words and the curious Japanese setting of the picture evolved. The poem ends on a note like the drawing in of a deep breath of country air after a prolonged sojourn in towns.

"Why soonThe woodman will be here; how we have lived this night of June."

In "Requiescat" quite a different note is reached. The poem was written after the death of a beloved sister; the sentiment rings true and the very simplicity of the language conveys an atmosphere of real grief that would have been entirely marred by the intrusion of any decorative or highly-coloured phrase. The choice of Saxon words alone could produce the desired effect, and the author has realised this and made use almost exclusively of that material. Nor was he ill-advised to let himself be influenced so far as the metre is concerned by Hood's incomparable "Bridge of Sighs," and it was not in the metre alone that he availed himself of that priceless gem of English verse—

"All her bright golden hairTarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust."

is obviously inspired by

"Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashioned so slenderly,Young, and so fair!"

But, on the other hand, Hood himself might well have envied the exquisite sentiment contained in—

"Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow."

The lines were written at Avignon, surely the place of all others, with its memories and its mediæval atmosphere, to inspire a poem, the dignity and beauty of which are largely due to the simplicity of its wording.

During this period of travel we are struck by two things. Firstly, how deeply impressed the young poet was by the mysteries of the Catholic Faith and how his indignation flamed up at the new Italianrégime; secondly, how apparent the influence of Rossetti is in the sonnets he then wrote.

His sympathies were all with the occupant of St Peter's chair.

"But when I knew that far away at RomeIn evil bonds a second Peter lay,I wept to see the land so very fair."

and again

"Look southward where Rome's desecrated townLies mourning for her God-anointed King!Look heavenward! Shall God allow this thingNot but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain."

In "San Miniato" the influence of Rome upon the young man's mind finds expression in words which might have been written by a son of the Latin Church.

"O crowned by God with thorns and pain!Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!My heart is weary of this lifeAnd over sad to sing again,"

he writes, and ends with the invocation—

"O crowned by God with love and flame!O crowned by Christ the Holy One!O listen ere the scorching sunShow to the world my sin and shame."

Nor can it be wondered at that the devotion to the Madonna which forms so essential a feature of the Catholic Faith should impress his young and ardent spirit as it does nearly every artist to whom the poetic beauty of this side of It naturally appeals.

The Pope's captivity moved him again and again to express his indignation in verse, and from his poem, "Easter Day" we can gather how deeply he was impressed both by the stately ceremonial at St Peter's and by the sight of the despoiled Pontiff. At this time also he seemsto have been more or less yearning after a more spiritual mode of life than he has been leading, at least so one gathers from poems like "E Tenebris" in which he tells us that—

"The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,My heart is as some famine-murdered landWhence all good things have perished utterlyAnd well I know my soul in Hell must be,If I this night before God's throne should stand."

That he had visions of a possible time when a complete change should be worked in his spiritual condition seems clear from the concluding lines of "Rome Unvisited."

"Before yon field of trembling goldIs garnered into dusty sheavesOr ere the autumn's scarlet leavesFlutter as birds adown the wold,I may have run the glorious race,And caught the torch while yet aflame,And called upon the Holy nameOf Him who now doth hide His face."

Apart from the light these poems throw upon his mental and spiritual attitude at that period, they are extremely interesting as revealing the literary influences governing him at the time. I have already referred to the resemblance between his sonnets and the more finished ones of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and this point cannot better be illustrated than by placing the work of the two men in juxtaposition.

If we take, for instance, Rossetti's "Lady of theRocks."

"Mother, is this the darkness of the end,The Shadow of Death? and is that outer seaInfinite imminent Eternity?And does the death-pang by man's seed sustainedIn Time's each instant cause thy face to bendIts silent prayer upon the Son, while HeBlesses the dead with His hand silentlyTo His long day which hours no more offend?Mother of grace, the pass is difficult,Keen as these rocks, and the bewildered soulsThrong it like echoes, blindly shuddering through.Thy name, O Lord, each spirit's voice extols,Whose peace abides in the dark avenueAmid the bitterness of things occult."

and compare it with "E Tenebris." We are at once struck with the same mode of expression, the same train of thought and the same deep note of pain in the two poems.

And again take Wilde's "Madonna Mia"—

"I stood by the unvintageable seaTill the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray,The long red fires of the dying dayBurned in the west; the wind piped drearily;And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee:'Alas!' I cried, 'my life is full of pain,And who can garner fruit or golden grain,From these waste fields which travail ceaselessly!'My nets gaped wide with many a break and flawNathless I threw them as my final castInto the sea, and waited for the end.When lo! a sudden glory! and I sawFrom the black waters of my tortured pastThe argent splendour of white limbs ascend!"

and compare it with Rossetti's "Venetian Pastoral"and "Mary's Girlhood," and we can almost imagine that the painter was holding up pictures to inspire the young poet.

"Red underlip drawn in for fear of loveAnd white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,"

might almost have been written by Rossetti himself.

More characteristically original are the lines—

"I sawFrom the black waters of my tortured pastThe argent splendour of white limbs ascend,"

from the "Vita Nuova," though one cannot fail to perceive a faint Baudelairian note.

"Where behind lattice window scarlet wrought and giltSome brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,"

at once reminds us of the Rossetti influence.

The poem itself shows considerable skill in construction and deftness in the moulding of the sentences, moreover, there is a freshness in the treatment of the theme that a less original writer would have found great difficulty in imparting. Here again we see the Catholic note as when he writes—

"Never mightest thou seeThe face of Her, before whose mouldering shrineTo-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;Who got from Love no joyous gladdening,But only Love's intolerable pain,Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,Only the bitterness of child-bearing."

There is one especially fine bit of imagery—

"The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of deathLie in thy hand—"

which bears the very truest imprint of poetry.

With the poet's return to England, a reaction took place, and the sight of English woodlands and English lanes caused a strong revulsion of feeling.

"This English Thames is holier far than RomeThose harebells like a sudden flush of seaBreaking across the woodland, with the foamOf meadow-sweet and white anemone,To fleck their blue waves,—God is likelier thereThan hidden in that crystal-hearted star the pale monks bear."

The green fields and the smell of the good brown earth come as a refreshing contrast to the incense laden atmosphere of foreign cathedrals. And yet his fancy delights in commingling the two. In the "violet-gleaming" butterflies he finds Roman Monsignore (he anglicises the word by the way and gives it a plural "s,"), a lazy pike is "some mitred old Bishopin partibis," and "The wind, the restless prisoner of the trees, does well for Palestrina."

He revels in the contrast that the refreshing simplicity of rural England presents to the pomp and splendour of Rome. The "lingering orange afterglow" is "more fair than all Rome's lordliest pageants." The "blue-green beanfields" "tremulous with the last shower" bring sweeter perfume at eventide than "the odorous flame-jewelledcensers the young deacons swing." Bird life suggests the conceit that—

"Poor Fra Giovanni bawling at the Mass,Were out of tune now for a small brown birdSings overhead."

His love of nature, his passion for flowers and the music of nature find continued and ecstatic expression.

"Sweet is the swallow twittering on the eaves."

Everything appeals to him, "the heavy lowing cattle stretching their huge and dripping mouths across the farmyard gate," the mower whetting his scythe, the milkmaid carolling blithely as she trips along.

"Sweet are the hips upon the Kentish leas,And sweet the wind that lifts the new-mown hay,And sweet the fretful swarms of grumbling beesThat round and round the linden blossoms play;And sweet the heifer breathing on the stallAnd the green bursting figs that hang upon the red-brick wall."

No matter that he mixes up the seasons somewhat and that having sung of bursting figs he refers, in the next line, to the cuckoo mocking the spring—"when the last violet loiters by the well"—the poem is still a pastoral breathing its fresh flower-filled atmosphere of the English countryside. Wilde is, however, saturated with classical lore and (though on some minds the fantasy may jar) he introduces Daphnus andLinus, Syrinx and Cytheræa. But he is faithful to his English land, he talks of roses which "all day long in vales Æolian a lad might seek for" and which "overgrows our hedges like a wanton courtesan, unthrifty of its beauty," a real Shakespearean touch. "Many an unsung elegy," he tells us, "Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames." He peoples the whole countryside with faun and nymph—

"Some Mænad girl with vine leaves on her breastWill filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans,So softly that the little nested thrushWill never wake, and then will shrilly laugh and leap will rushDown the green valley where the fallen dewLies thick beneath the elm and count her store,Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crewTrample the loosetrife down along the shore,And where their horned master sits in stateBring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate."

And yet the religious influence still makes itself felt.

"Why must I behold [he exclaims]The wan white face of that deserted ChristWhose bleeding hands my hands did once enfold?"

but it is only momentary, and once more he sports with the sylvan gods and goddesses till

"The heron passes homeward from the mere,The blue mist creeps among the shivering trees,Gold world by world the silent stars appearAnd like a blossom blows—before the breezeA white moon drifts across the shimmering sky."

and he hears "the curfew booming from thebell at Christ Church gate."

Wilde never wrote anything better in verse than this with the single exception of "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." The poem deserves to rank among the finest pastorals in the language. It is essentially musical, written with artistic restraint and with a discrimination of the use of words and their combination that marks the great artist. It is a true nature poem and it will appeal to all those who prefer musical verse to the artificial manufacture of rhymes, and simple sentences to the torturing of words into unheard-of combinations.

As a contrast to it comes the "Magdalen Walks" which, in construction and rhythm, is somewhat lacking in ease and freedom. It is a curious thing that Wilde's affections seemed to alternate between the unordered simplicity of English woods and meadows and the trim artificial parterres and bouquets of Versailles or Sans Souci. There is a constraint about the metre of this poem which does rather suggest a man walking along a trim avenue from which he can perceive flowers, meadows and riotous hedges—in the distance. There is also a suggestion of Tennyson's "Maud" about—

"And the plane to the pine tree is whispering some tale of loveTill it rustles with laughter and tosses its mantle of greenAnd the gloom of the wych elm's hollow is lit with the iris sheenOf the burnished rainbow throat and the silver breast of a dove."

"Impression du Matin" might be said to be a successful attempt to render a Whistler pastel into verse, but there is a human note about the last verse that elevates the poem far above such a meretour de force, and there is a fine sense of effect in the picture of the "pale woman all alone" standing in the glimmering light of the gas lamp as the rays of the sun just touch her hair.

"A Serenade" and "Endymion" possess all the qualities that a musical setting demands, but do not call for especial comment. It is, however, in "La Bella Donna della mia Mante" that the expression of the poet's genius finds vent.

"As a pomegranate, cut in twain,White-seeded, is her crimson mouth"

is as perfect a metaphor as one could well wish to find.

"Charmides" is a more ambitious effort than anything he had yet attempted. The word-painting is obviously inspired by Keats, for whose work he had an intense admiration. Such lines as "Came a great owl with yellow sulphurous eyes," and "Vermilion-finned with eyes of bossy gold" might have been taken straight out of "Lamia," so truly has he caughtthe spirit of his master. But if enamoured of Keats's gorgeous colouring Wilde revelled in the construction of jewelled phrase and crimson line, there is another source of inspiration noticeable in the poem. Had Shakespeare never written "Venus and Adonis," Wilde might have written "Charmides" but it would not have been the same poem. The difference between the true poet who has studied the great verse of bygone ages and the mere imitator is that one will produce a work of art enhanced by the suggestions derived from the contemplation of the highest conception of genius, whereas the other will outrun the constable and merely accentuate and burlesque the distinguishing characteristics of the work of others. In the case in point, whilst we note with pleasure and interest the points of resemblance between the poem and the models that its author has followed, we are conscious that what we are reading is a work of art in itself and that its intrinsic merits are enhanced by the points of resemblance and do not depend on them for their existence.

There is another poem—"Ballade de Marguerite"—which recalls memories of Keats, closely resembling as it does "La Belle Dame Sans Merci." Rarely has the old ballad form been more successfully treated. We catch the very spirit of mediævalism in the lines—

"Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys(On her soul may our Lady have grammercy!)Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelleI might swing the censer and ring the bell."

It is so easy to overdo the thing, to produce a bad counterfeit made up of Wardour Street English, that to retain the simplicity of language and the slightsoupçonof Chaucerian English requires all the skill of a master craftsman, and the intimate knowledge of the value and date of words that can only result from a close acquaintance with the works of the ballad writers.

In "The Dole of the King's Daughter" Wilde again essays the ballad form, but this time the treatment shows more traces of the Rossetti influence. The ballad spirit is maintained with unerring skill and the form perfectly adhered to throughout. To quote good old Izaak Walton—"old-fashioned poetry but choicely good."

As conveying the idea of impending tragedy nothing could be more effective than the simplicity of the lines

"There are two that ride from the south and eastAnd two from the north and west,For the black raven a goodly feastFor the king's daughter rest."

In this ballad as in the "Chanson" he uses the old device, so common in ancient ballads, of making the alternate lines parenthetical, as, for instance—

"There is one man who loves her true,(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,(One grave will do for four)."

A rather clever parody of this mode of construction is worth quoting here—

"SAGE GREEN"

(By a Fading-out Æsthete)

"My love is as fair as a lily flower.(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)Her face is as wan as the water white.(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)Alack! she heedeth it never at all.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)The China plate it is pure on the wall.(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)With languorous loving and purple pain.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)And woe is me that I never may win;(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)For the Bard's hard up, and she's got no tin.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)"

"My love is as fair as a lily flower.(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)Oh, bright are the blooms in her maiden bower.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)

Her face is as wan as the water white.(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)Alack! she heedeth it never at all.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)

The China plate it is pure on the wall.(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)With languorous loving and purple pain.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)

And woe is me that I never may win;(The Peacock blue has a sacred sheen!)For the Bard's hard up, and she's got no tin.(Sing Hey! Sing Ho! for the sweet Sage Green!)"

Among the sonnets written at this period the one on Keats's grave in which he does homage to him whom he reverenced as a master is especially felicitous in its ending—

"Thy name was writ in water—it shall standAnd tears like mine will keep thy memory greenAs Isabella did her Basil-tree."

Than the graceful introducing of Keats's poemno more delicate epitaph could be well imagined. Shelley's last resting-place likewise inspired his pen and there is an "Impression de Voyage" written at Katakolo at the period of his visit to Greece in company with Professor Mahaffy, the concluding line of which, "I stood upon the soil of Greece at last," conveys more by its reticence than could be expressed in volumes.

Of his five theatrical sonnets headed "Impressions de Theatre," one is addressed to the late Sir Henry Irving and the three others to Miss Ellen Terry. It is curious that of the three Shakespearean characters he mentioned as worthier of the actor's great talents than Fabiendei Franchi—viz. Lear, Romeo, and Richard III.,—the only one that Irving ever played was Romeo, and in that part he was a decided failure, which, considering his peculiar mannerisms and method, as well as his age at the time, was not to be wondered at. The fifth was probably intended for Madame Sarah Bernhardt, whose wonderful rendering of Phèdre could not fail to deeply impress so cultured a critic as the author of these poems.

In "Panthea" Oscar Wilde gives rein to his amorous fancy, and, inspired by the poets of Greece and Rome, peoples the world with gods and goddesses who mourn the old glad pagan days—

"Back to their lotus-haunts they turn againKissing each other's mouths, and mix more deepThe poppy-seeded draught which brings soft purple-lidded sleep."

How rich is the language here employed, how exquisite the lilt of "soft purple-lidded sleep." Not even Tennyson in "The Lotus Eaters" has done anything better than this. And how delicately expressed is the idea embodied in the lines—

"There in the green heart of some garden closeQueen Venus with the shepherd at her side,Her warm soft body like the briar roseWhich should be white yet blushes at its pride—"

or, how tender the fancy that inspired

"So when men bury us beneath the yewThy crimson-stained mouth a rose will be,And thy soft eyes lush bluebells dimmed with dew."

None but a poet could have written those lines; the stately wording of the second line is purposely chosen to enhance the perfect simplicity of the third.

The poems comprised within "The Fourth Movement" include the "Impression," "Le Reveillon," the first verse of which runs—

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