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sculpture and the charm of the purest colour。 It is full of the
silver light of dawn among the hills； of the music of the loch's
dark； slow waves among the reeds； of the scent of the heather； and
the wet tresses of the birch。
Surely； then； we have had great poets living among us； but the
fountains of their song are silent； or flow but rarely over a
clogged and stony channel。 And who is there to succeed the two who
are gone； or who shall be our poet； if the Master be silent？ That
is a melancholy question； which I shall try to answer （with doubt
and dread enough） in my next letter。 ｛1｝
OF MODERN ENGLISH POETRY
My dear Wincott；I hear that a book has lately been published by an
American lady； in which all the modern poets are represented。 The
singers have been induced to make their own selections； and put
forward； as Mr。 Browning says； their best foot； anapaest or trochee；
or whatever it may be。 My information goes further； and declares
that there are but eighteen poets of England to sixty inspired
Americans。
This Western collection of modern minstrelsy shows how very
dangerous it is to write even on the English poetry of the day。
Eighteen is long odds against a single critic； and Major Bellenden；
in 〃Old Mortality；〃 tells us that three to one are odds as long as
ever any warrior met victoriously； and that warrior was old Corporal
Raddlebanes。
I decline the task； I am not going to try to estimate either the
eighteen of England or the sixty of the States。 It is enough to
speak about three living poets； in addition to those masters treated
of in my last letter。 Two of the three you will have guessed at
Mr。 Swinburne and Mr。 William Morris。 The third； I dare say； you do
not know even by name。 I think he is not one of the English
eighteenMr。 Robert Bridges。 His muse has followed the epicurean
maxim； and chosen the shadowy path； fallentis semita vitae； where
the dew lies longest on the grass； and the red rowan berries droop
in autumn above the yellow St。 John's wort。 But you will find her
all the fresher for her country ways。
My knowledge of Mr。 William Morris's poetry begins in years so far
away that they seem like reminiscences of another existence。 I
remember sitting beneath Cardinal Beaton's ruined castle at St。
Andrews； looking across the bay to the sunset； while some one
repeated 〃Two Red Roses across the Moon。〃 And I remember thinking
that the poem was nonsense。 With Mr。 Morris's other early verses；
〃The Defence of Guinevere；〃 this song of the moon and the roses was
published in 1858。 Probably the little book won no attention； it is
not popular even now。 Yet the lyrics remain in memories which
forget all but a general impression of the vast 〃Earthly Paradise；〃
that huge decorative poem； in which slim maidens and green…clad men；
and waters wan； and flowering apple trees； and rich palaces are all
mingled as on some long ancient tapestry； shaken a little by the
wind of death。 They are not living and breathing people； these
persons of the fables； they are but shadows； beautiful and faint；
and their poem is fit reading for sleepy summer afternoons。 But the
characters in the lyrics in 〃The Defence of Guinevere〃 are people of
flesh and blood； under their chain armour and their velvet； and the
trappings of their tabards。
There is no book in the world quite like this of Mr。 Morris's old
Oxford days when the spirit of the Middle Ages entered into him；
with all its contradictions of faith and doubt； and its earnest
desire to enjoy this life to the full in war and love； or to make
certain of a future in which war is not； and all love is pure
heavenly。 If one were to choose favourites from 〃The Defence of
Guinevere；〃 they would be the ballads of 〃Shameful Death；〃 and of
〃The Sailing of the Sword；〃 and 〃The Wind；〃 which has the wind's
wail in its voice； and all the mad regret of 〃Porphyria's Lover〃 in
its burden。
The use of 〃colour…words；〃 in all these pieces； is very curious and
happy。 The red ruby； the brown falcon； the white maids； 〃the
scarlet roofs of the good town；〃 in 〃The Sailing of the Sword；〃 make
the poem a vivid picture。 Then look at the mad； remorseful sea…
rover； the slayer of his lady； in 〃The Wind〃：
〃For my chair is heavy and carved； and with sweeping green behind
It is hung； and the dragons thereon grin out in the gusts of the
wind；
On its folds an orange lies with a deep gash cut in the rind；
If I move my chair it will scream； and the orange will roll out far；
And the faint yellow juice ooze out like blood from a wizard's jar；
And the dogs will howl for those who went last month the war。〃
〃The Blue Closet；〃 which is said to have been written for some
drawings of Mr。 Rossetti； is also a masterpiece in this romantic
manner。 Our brief English age of romanticism； our 1830； was 1856…
60； when Mr。 Morris； Mr。 Burne Jones； and Mr。 Swinburne were
undergraduates。 Perhaps it wants a peculiar turn of taste to admire
these strange things； though 〃The Haystack in the Floods；〃 with its
tragedy； must surely appeal to all who read poetry。
For the rest； as time goes on； I more and more feel as if Mr。
Morris's long later poems； 〃The Earthly Paradise〃 especially； were
less art than 〃art manufacture。〃 This may be an ungrateful and
erroneous sentiment。 〃The Earthly Paradise；〃 and still more
certainly 〃Jason；〃 are full of such pleasure as only poetry can
give。 As some one said of a contemporary politician； they are
〃good； but copious。〃 Even from narrative poetry Mr。 Morris has long
abstained。 He； too； illustrates Mr。 Matthew Arnold's parable of
〃The Progress of Poetry。〃
〃The Mount is mute； the channel dry。〃
Euripides has been called 〃the meteoric poet；〃 and the same title
seems very appropriate to Mr。 Swinburne。 Probably few readers had
heard his nameI only knew it as that of the author of a strange
mediaeval tale in prosewhen he published 〃Atalanta in Calydon〃 in
1865。 I remember taking up the quarto in white cloth； at the Oxford
Union； and being instantly led captive by the beauty and originality
of the verse。
There was this novel 〃meteoric〃 character in the poem： the writer
seemed to rejoice in snow and fire； and stars； and storm； 〃the blue
cold fields and folds of air；〃 in all the primitive forces which
were alive before this earth was； the naked vast powers that circle
the planets and farthest constellations。 This quality； and his
varied and sonorous verse； and his pessimism； put into the mouth of
a Greek chorus； were the things that struck one most in Mr。
Swinburne。 He was； above all； 〃a mighty…mouthed inventer of
harmonies；〃 and one looked eagerly for his next poems。 They came
with disappointment and trouble。
The famous 〃Poems and Ballads〃 have become so well known that people
can hardly understand the noise they made。 I don't wonder at the
scandal； even now。 I don't see the fun of seve