IReturn to IRature 



it is the work of genius to fill new combs 

 with old honey redistilled. Our nineteenth- 

 century poet sophisticated the Greek 

 thought with a Celtic sadness much to the 

 taste of our time, albeit his name is French. 



The wild flowers grow thickest and most 

 luxuriant on spots where many generations 

 of flowers have fallen down and decayed. 

 Out of the old Greek mold fresh life bursts 

 when the true poet stirs it. Go read 

 Swinburne's lyrics, and feel how original 

 they are, and yet how they connect them- 

 selves back with what was sung while yet 

 men and women heard Pan fluting beside 

 his cave. 



Men change, but true song does not 

 change. On the bough yonder the thrush 

 repeats what was a thrush's song ten thou- 

 sand years ago, and yet how thrillingly 

 sweet! The joy of it never comes amiss 

 to the ear of man or bird. The " moun- 

 tain-straying lilies" are to-day just like 

 those that Meleager saw; but how beau- 

 tiful! Our poets complain that nobody 

 reads their songs. Well, do our poets go 

 to nature for the key-note, as did the 

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