Address on Literature and Arts. 129 



never shaken by a wind of passion, nor his song perplexed 



with strange doubts and obstinate questionings — 



" Glad, but not flushed with gladness, 

 Since joys go by ; 

 Sad, but not bent with sadness, 

 Since sorrows die." 



His muse, with far-away eyes, and heart unheedful of the 

 life of to-day, seemed like a ftiiry godmother crooning bjr a 

 prince's cradle the songs of Eltiand, with effortless even flow 

 of murmuring melody — 



" Like of a hidden brook 

 In the leafy month of June 

 That to the sleeping woods at night 

 Singeth a quiet tune." 



But "that strain we heard was of a higher mood," when, 

 with a fresh keen wind from the Northland, with blast of 

 war-horns and clash of sword and shield, "The Story of 

 Sigurd " came as a revelation of strength and earnestness, of 

 vigour and fire, of which he had given but half-tokens 

 before. The swinging gallop of its sonorous lines, the 

 unbroken maintenance of the " grand style " throughout, 

 the heroic cast of thought, the wealth of incident, the energy 

 of its magnificent battle-scenes, marked it as the most 

 Homeric poem in the range of English literature. It was 

 its author's high-water mark ; he has since then been more 

 and more spreading his powers over many interests, and his 

 latest work of this year, " The House of the Wolfings," is 

 rather like an ancient saga than a poem. In stately 

 rhythmical prose, broken at intervals by speeches in the 

 "Sigurd" metre, it tells the tale of the gallant stand made 

 by our forefathers beyond the Rhine against the legions of 

 the empire. Morris may yet give us much beautiful work, 

 fascinating and perfect in its kind, but he has not taught us 

 to credit him with the manifold possibilities of Tennyson, 

 Browning, and Swinburne. 



A very noteworthy characteristic of the poetry of the 

 hour is profusion. The days are gone by when bards 

 climbed Parnassus with slow and cautious step, giving good 

 lieed to their foothold, when Goldsmith thought ten years 

 not too much for the production of the few poems 

 and dramas which the world cannot forget, when Gray 

 bought his eternity with the reading of one little hour. 

 Now they go up the Aonian Mount by leaps and bounds, 

 and reap the laurels with a bill-hook. There must be 

 natural richness in the soil which (to change a familiar 



K 



