9 
The poem is rounded off with another verse, but these 
three are enough to shew its quality. The outlook is vast, 
and has none of the particularity of ‘‘ The Bad Squire.”’ 
That made the poetic task in one way easier, but it was the 
tight setting for the idea. Here all is transmuted into 
poetry. Sound and sense are indistinguishable. The whole 
of life illuminates the dark paths. The storm is not simply 
cruel ; it is grand. The temper of the poet is raised to a 
higher passion, in which there is no room for anything 
ephemeral. 
Both these poems belong to Kingsley’s ‘‘ Socialist *’ 
period. That was the beginning of his public life. From 
that time forward he was often before the eyes of men ; 
recognised as one of the leaders of a public cause ; applauded 
and denounced. Then and afterwards he considered 
Maurice as his master. ‘‘ I think this will explain a good 
deal of Maurice,’’ he wrote when he was publishing 
“ Yeast.”’ But he was never so much in public view as 
Maurice and the other leaders of the cause. His home was 
Eversley ; he was a country clergyman who came forward 
from time to time to do or say some particular thing. 
Eversley was always first with him. He once wrote in a 
letter, ‘‘ It is a comfort often to feel there is one little spot, 
the parish, to which thoughts and prayers are for ever 
turning.’? Even George Herbert has never said anything 
more excellently of parish life, and the words are 
characteristic of Kingsley in that they touch the feelings of 
ordinary men ; therein lay one of the secrets of his power. 
‘But they were especially true of himself. "Two ‘‘comforts’’ 
were a continual refreshment to him in his complex life of 
testless activity—Eversley and poetry. And the two were 
really one. In a country parish a man lives very close to 
nature, and to a poet like Kingsley the magic of the country 
is not in the scenery by itself ; men and beasts and trees 
and skies are curiously united in that intimate out-door life. 
He hints this in some lines to Miss Mitford, the writer of 
“ Our Village :”’ 
The single eye, the daughter of the light ; 
Well pleased to recognise in lowliest shade 
Some glimmer of its parent beam, and made 
By daily draughts of brightness, inly bright 
All these are yours. The same examples lure 
You in each woodland, me on breezy moor— 
With kindred aim the same sweet path along, 
To knit in loving knowledge rich and poor. 
It is only a hint. The verses are a little restrained and 
old-fashioned, as though in respectful sympathy with the 
