The English Lyric 49 



us. Sometimes we have had mad flyings at the throat of destiny, 

 — Byron's way. Sometimes Saxon fatalism : no Oriental non- 

 resistance, but the nerve-sundering struggle, the fight to the 

 finish of the predestined loser. But again there is a softer mood, 

 perhaps of all most truly characteristic. Contrasted with the 

 classical, in place of light it yields mystery, in place of joy wist- 

 fulness, in place of imaginative embodiment aspiration. So 

 Keats, — ■ 



She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 



And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 

 Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, 



Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : 

 Ay, in the very temple of Delight 



Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine. . . . 



Nature can never again appear pastoral and Arcadian. We 

 have been too well taught that her law is the Survival of the 

 Fittest, her life the Struggle for Existence. And beauty may 

 henceforth never lie in mere sunshine. We have seen afar a 

 more radiant glory transfiguring a loftier world. If we grieve 

 because we cannot reach that world, it is with no mean or selfish 

 grief. Rather it is ache of a fine regret that we cannot be better 

 than we are. 



391 



