1920] on Science and Poetry 213 



literary opinion of the day — the poet should begin by being the man 

 of science, and the man of science by being a poet. And in fact 

 that is what has occurred with many of the greatest men. 



I should have liked to analyse the great scientific poems one by 

 one (which has never yet been done), but I have been particularly 

 asked to give in this lecture some of my humble essays — perhaps 

 only to show how easily my theories break down in my own practice ! 

 After the names which I have cited, I scarcely dare even to mention 

 that I have ever made any efforts at all in this direction ! But I 

 must obey and do my best ; and will therefore try to indicate very 

 briefly the gradual development of my own thoughts both in science 

 and in poetry — that is, my ideals. 



I should like to begin in a light vein with one of my Fables, 

 written nearly forty years ago when I gave over my boyish pursuit 

 of the arts for the study of mathematics. It is called the " Poet's 

 Retirement." The poet (idealised) on descending the Hill of Youth, 

 meets those three maidens, the Arts, who persuade him to visit their 

 own beautiful domains ; but while he is trying to make up his mind 

 which of the Arts he prefers, the Muse of Science enters and carries 

 him off ! 



The Poet's Retirement. 



Down from that blithe Idalian Hill 

 Where Violets drink of dew their fill, 

 And wading thro' wet eastern flowers 

 With wash'd feet Eos and the Hours 

 Come laughing down, I laughing came. 



The Morn had now her threads of flame 

 Inlaid to Earth's green tapestries, 

 Gold-inwoven ; and to their knees 

 In chilly baths of thridding rills 

 At tremble stood luce Daffodils ; 

 When, lo ! I marked toward me move 

 Those Maidens Three whom poets love. 



" whither away, glad Youth," they cried, 

 " Sioging thro' daffodils dost thou stride? " 

 " Ladies, I wander for a while " — 

 And here I duck'd and doff'd in style — 

 " I wander by Bourn, I wander by Byre, 

 By Cape and Cote and Castle Spire, 

 Or sometimes stick in puddled Mire ; 

 Or climb the summits of Snow and Fire. 

 Or where the hoarse moon-madden'd Tides 

 Drench dripping jags on Mountain sides ; 

 Or twanging strings sound gay reprieve 

 To smoky Villages at eve, 

 What time the paddock'd Ass careers 

 Mirthful, with high-prickt tail and ears, 



