THE POETRY OF SWINBURNE. 7 



The following stanza from ' A Forsaken Garden ' is an even better 

 example of what I mean : 



' All are at one now, roses and lovers, 



Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. 

 Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 



In the air now soft with a summer to be. 

 Not a breath shall there, sweeten the seasons hereafter 



Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, 

 When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter 



We shall sleep. 



Is there not something more than harmony and imagination in 

 these stanzas, and is not this the class of his poetry that has the best 

 chance of surviving? There is much of Swinburne's poetry that we 

 cannot afiford to lose. Hence his admirers should hasten the day 

 when it will be possible to get the best of his lyrics in such an edition 

 as one of the Golden Treasury Series. What his place in English 

 poetry will be, it is too early to decide. One need not be a prophet, 

 however, to predict that he will be a ' poet's poet,' perhaps even 

 more, a ' poetaster's poet,' a perfect treasure-house for the puzzled 

 rhymster of whom he will be at once the envy and the despair. 



J. F. Macdonald. 



FROM " LES FLEURS DU MAL." 



Once, only once, beloved and gentle lady, 



Upon my arm you leaned your arm of snow. 



And on my spirit's background, dim and shady, 

 That memory flashes now. 



The hour was late, and like a medal gleaming. 



The full moon showed her face. 

 And the niglit's splendour, over Paris streaming, 



Filled every silent place. 



Along the houses, in the doorways hiding, 



Cats passed with stealthy tread 

 And listening ear, or followed slowly gliding. 



Like ghosts of dear ones dead. 



