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 • /u« tfti^ri ffo-
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
 
 UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUMi: : 
 
 J. M. SYNGK 
 
 By p. p. Howe 
 
 HKNRIK IBSEN 
 
 By R. Ei.i-is Roberts 
 
 THOMAS HARDY 
 
 By Lascem.ks Ahercbombie 
 
 GEORGE GISSIN'G 
 
 By Frank Swikwertov 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 By John Dhinkwater 
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 By A. Martik Fheemak
 
 t-n^^T^iy 
 
 u^^A/z^t/eJ ^''^c^io^u^'i 
 
 z//t^ 

 
 ALGERNON CHARLES 
 
 SWINBURNE 
 
 A CRITICAL STUDY 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD THOMAS 
 
 NEW YORK 
 MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
 
 MCMXII
 
 WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. 
 PRINTERS, PLYMOCTH
 
 To 
 WALTER DE LA MARE 
 
 'Questions, royal traveller, are eas'er than answers." 
 
 THE THREE MULLA-xMULGARS.
 
 PR 
 
 NOTE 
 
 I AM very much indebted to Mr. Theodore 
 
 Watts- Dunton for permission to quote from 
 
 Swinburne's prose and poetry in this book, 
 
 and to my friend, Mr. ChfFord Bax, for many 
 
 consultations. 
 
 E. T.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAOE 
 
 I. ATALANTA IN CALYDON 11 
 
 II. PREPARATIOxNS 24 
 
 III. THE APPROACH 69 
 
 IV. POEMS AND BALLADS 75 
 
 V. OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 100 
 
 VL SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE 127 
 
 VII. LATER POEMS : CHARACTERISTICS 150 
 
 Vm. LATER POEMS : RESULTS ]71 
 
 IX. TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 211 
 
 X. THE PLAYS 225
 
 I 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON 
 
 It was the age of Browning's Dramatis Personae, 
 William Morris's Defence of Guenevere, Landor's 
 Heroic Idylls, Tennyson's Idylls of the King, 
 Meredith's Modern Love, Robert Buchanan's 
 London Poems : Longfellow, Alexander Smith 
 and Owen Meredith were great men. 
 
 The year 1864 arrived. " The poetical atmo- 
 sphere was exhausted and heavy," says Professor 
 Mackail, " like that of a sultry afternoon darken- 
 ing to thunder. Out of that stagnation broke, 
 all in a moment, the blaze and crash oiAtalanta 
 in Calydon. It was something quite new, quite 
 unexampled. It revealed a new language in 
 English, a new world as it seemed in poetry." 
 Two years passed, and, as an Edinburgh reviewer 
 says, "into the midst of a well-regulated and 
 self-respecting society, much moved by Tenny- 
 son's Idylls, and altogether sympathetic with 
 the misfortunes of the blameless King — justly 
 appreciative of the domestic affection so tenderly 
 portrayed by Coventry Patmore's Angel in the 
 
 11
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 House" — appreciative also oi Atalanta in Calij- 
 don — " Mr. Swinburne charged impetuously with 
 his Poems and Ballads" Some of the Poems 
 and Ballads, including Fuustine, had appeared 
 four years earlier in the Spectator ; but the 
 poems accumulated made a fresh and astonish- 
 ing effect. 
 
 The Poems and Ballads were interesting 
 enough to offend many people. Atalanta can 
 hardly have been interesting, though it contains 
 an interesting story which is probably revealed 
 to the majority of readers by the argument 
 alone. Althaea, Queen of Calydon, gave birth 
 to Meleager after dreaming that she had brought 
 forth a burning brand. The Fates prophesied 
 that he should be strong and fortunate, but 
 should die as soon as the brand then in the fire 
 were consumed. Althaea plucked out the brand 
 and took care of it. ]Meleager sailed away with 
 Jason and became a great warrior. But in one 
 of his wars he gave offence to Artemis, who 
 therefore afflicted Calydon with a terrible wild 
 boar. Only after all the chiefs of Greece had 
 warred against it was the boar slain, and that 
 by the virgin Atalanta, because xVrtemis loved 
 her. Meleager, enamoured of Atalanta, gave 
 the spoil of the boar to her, thus arousing the 
 jealousy of his mother's two brethren. These 
 two Meleager slew because they attempted to 
 
 12
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON 
 
 take away the spoil from Atalanta, which so 
 moved Althaea to anger and sorrow that she 
 cast the brand at length back again into the fire, 
 and it was consumed and JNIeleager died ; " and 
 his mother also endured not long after for very 
 sorrow ; and this was his end, and the end of that 
 hunting." This story is obliterated by the form 
 of a Greek drama, by abundant lyrics put into 
 the mouth of a Greek chorus, by Greek idioms 
 and cast of speech, and by an exuberance and 
 individuality of language which could not always 
 transmit instantaneously a definite meaning. 
 But the obscurity is not one of incompetence, 
 the imperfectly intelligible speech is not an 
 imperfection : at least it persuades and insinuates 
 itself so into the mind that perhaps not many 
 pause at the end of the first sentence, part of the 
 Chief Huntsman's address to Artemis : — 
 
 Maiden, and mistress of the months and stars 
 
 Now folded in the flowerless fields of heaven^ 
 
 Goddess whom all gods love with threefold heart, 
 
 Being treble in thy divided deity, 
 
 A light for dead men and dark hours, afoot 
 
 Swift on the hills as morning, and a hand 
 
 To all things fierce and fleet that roar and range 
 
 Mortal, with gentler shafts than snow or sleep ; 
 
 Hear now and help and lift no violent hand 
 
 But favourable and fair as thine eyes beam 
 
 Hidden and shown in heaven ; for I all night 
 
 Amid the king's hounds and the hunting men 
 
 Have wrought and worshipped toward thee ; nor shall man 
 
 13
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 See goodlier hounds or deadlier edge of spears ; 
 But fur the end, that lies unreached at yet 
 Between the hands and on the knees of the Gods. 
 
 The effect must always be partly that of a 
 translation even to those who are familiar with 
 Greek religion ; the words have a shade of the 
 quality inseparable from a translation, whether 
 it is or is not creative, for it is to be found 
 in the Authorized Aversion of the Bible ; the 
 reader is a little confused and yet not unduly, 
 when he hears of Artemis as a light *' for dead 
 men and dark hours," of the fair-faced sun that 
 kills "the stars and dews and dreams and de- 
 solations of the night," for it is not English thus 
 to collect four things of four different classes, 
 each requiring a distinct change in the meaning 
 of the verb which governs them all. Perhaps 
 the reader at first accepts " hidden and shown," 
 and even the alternative pairs, " roar and range," 
 "snow or sleep," "favourable and fair," etc., as 
 part of the foreignness. It does not decrease. 
 It is not absent from : 
 
 When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, 
 
 The mother of months in meadow or plain 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
 , And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
 f Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, 
 I The tongueless vigil and all the pain. 
 
 \ 14
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON 
 
 Only, here it is apparent that "the shadows and 
 windy places " may be due to rhyme ; at least it 
 seems a false limiting or defining of the action of 
 the lisp of leaves and ripple of rain, as later on 
 " peril of shallow and firth " is a distinction with 
 insufficient definiteness of difference. But the 
 metre is powerful enough to overcome this 
 difficulty, or to keep it from rising ; it makes us 
 feel that we may go astray if we ask why the 
 nightingale is called " bright " as well as " brown." 
 Later on it may be suspected that " bright " 
 is due partly to Swinburne's need of alliteration, 
 partly to his love of the " i " sound and of bright- 
 ness. Anyone inclined to show and expect a 
 stiff exactingness will be shocked at finding 
 " summer " and not " spring," " autumn," or 
 " winter," — " remembrance," without " forget- 
 fulness " and so on — in the famous lyric : 
 
 Before the beginning of years 
 
 There came to the making of man 
 Time, with a gift of tears ; 
 
 Grief with a glass that ran ; 
 Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 
 
 Summer, with flowers that fell ; 
 Remembrance fallen from heaven, 
 
 And madness risen from hell. 
 
 This, however, has that appearance of precision 
 which Swinburne always affected, which is 
 nothing but an appearance. Nor would he have 
 
 15
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 claimed that it was anything more. He was 
 filling liis verse with solemn images acceptable 
 to that part of the human brain which is not 
 occupied with the music of the words and the 
 reverberation of earlier images. It may be that 
 Time received the " gift of tears " instead of the 
 " glass that ran " solely for the sake of allitera- 
 tion. It would doubtless be better if it were 
 not so, but nothing can be perfect from every 
 point of view, and this deceitful deference to the 
 pure intellect I speak of chiefly to show what 
 Swinburne's use of the sounds and implications 
 of words can overcome. Reverberation of sound 
 and meaning as in Milton's : 
 
 Chariot and charioteer lay overturned : 
 
 and Coleridge's icicles : 
 
 Quietly shining to the shining moon : 
 
 are a great part of Atalanta. Scores of times 
 words and sounds are repeated as in : 
 
 Saw with strange eyes and with strange lips rejoiced, 
 Seeing these mine own slain of mine own, and me 
 Made miserable above all miseries made : 
 
 " Breath " calls for the rhyme of " death," and 
 "light" for "night," with more transparent 
 purpose than in other writing ; " all " demands 
 to be repeated with a persistency that is not to 
 be denied. 
 
 Some of the repetitions may indicate simply 
 
 16
 
 A 
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON 
 
 the poet's infatuation with certain words, but 
 that infatuation would not be without signifi- 
 cance. The use of the verb and the substantive 
 " dream " six times in eighteen Hnes spoken by 
 Althsea, and the constant use of " divide " and 
 " division " (not to speak of " sever " and 
 " sunder "), and above all of " fire " and " light," 
 " bright " and " shine," — these are not accidents. 
 " Fire " and " light," " bright " and " shine," with 
 " desire " and " high " and " sky," and other 
 words which their vowel sound and Swinburne's 
 usage make cognate, were to become master words 
 in his poetry. It can almost be said that he never 
 writes one of those words without repeating it or 
 matching it with one of the others. Whether it 
 be through the influence of these words or some- 
 thing in the " i " sound that his nature found 
 expressive, I cannot say, but in many of the 
 poems in all his books it is predominant, so that 
 when he praises a thing he must call it bright : — 
 the wind is bright, the sea is bright : — and for 
 him the characteristic quality of the human face 
 is its light. 
 
 Pure repetition, also, is one of the deliberate 
 properties of his style, repetition of an idea as in: 
 
 O death, a little, a little while, sweet death, 
 
 or of a sound as in : 
 
 She bore the goodliest sword of all the world, 
 B 17
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 or of botli as in : 
 
 A little since, and I was glad, and now 
 I never shall be glad or sad again. 
 
 Already in Atalanta, and still more in later 
 work, this unconscious leaning and conscious 
 device, sometimes became a trick. 
 
 As Swinburne loved and used the qualities 
 of light and fire, so he did those of other bold 
 and splendid things. Atalcmta is full of swift, 
 fleet, violent, splendid, furious, thunderous, 
 fierce, ravenous, tumultuous, tempestuous, sharp 
 things, of foam and wind, and fire and hate, and 
 love, hounds and horses and warriors. JNIeleager 
 speaks to his mother of his father's "plough- 
 share " being; " drawn throucrh fatal seedland of a 
 female field" and " furrowing her body," to beget 
 him, so that he " sprang and cleft " her womb. 
 When the herald describes Atalanta he says : 
 
 . . . From her white braced shoulder the plumed shafts 
 Rang, and the bow shone from her side ; 
 
 and he compares Meleager to the sun that 
 " strikes " the branches into leaf and bloom ; he 
 is " a glory among men." Death for Meleager is 
 the " empty weary house " which lacks "beauty," 
 " swift eyes," and " might of hands and feet " : 
 he says that there is nothing " tcrribler " than a 
 mother's face. The Cliorus sings of Love : 
 
 18
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON 
 
 Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove. 
 Thy feet are as wings that divide the stream of the sea ; 
 Earth is thy covering to hide thee, tlie garment of thee. 
 Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire ; 
 Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire. . . . 
 
 The boar "cried no lesser cry" than "thunder 
 and the roar of wintering streams." So does the 
 poet love the extreme that he makes Meleager 
 strike the boar in "the hairiest hollow of his hide." 
 Where they flay the boar violets " blossom and 
 burn " and there is a fire and light of other 
 flowers. 
 
 Yet with all this fury and violence and fire, 
 the play is a delicate thing, full of a refined 
 extravagance at play with primitive and simple 
 experiences and passions. After a speech of 
 three pages about her murdered brothers 
 Althsea says : 
 
 These dead 
 I shall want always to the day I die. 
 
 Perhaps she need have said nothing more but 
 Ai, ai! 
 
 Along with the clear, visible, and tangible 
 things are equally noticeable the abstractions — 
 time, grief, sorrow, the " holy spirit of man " — 
 " home-keeping days and household reverences," 
 compassion and pity, gates " barred with groan- 
 ings manifold." Nothing that moves the eye 
 
 19
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 or the hejirt of men, but finds a place. And 
 yet all is made into music and ends in music. 
 The poet is the master, not his characters : thus 
 he will make Atalanta speak of the flash of her 
 own "swift white feet," and Althaea describe 
 herself and her brother as infants " flowerwise 
 feeding as the feeding bees " at their mother's 
 breast. This comparison, if at all permissible, 
 should have been made by the poet who might 
 be supposed to have witnessed it, not by the 
 woman who could not. So it will be objected. 
 But what would have been a flaw in another 
 drama is not one in Atalanta^ where what was 
 necessary was to do nothing inharmonious with 
 the loveliness of the title, Atalanta in Calydo7i. 
 There is nothing inharmonious. So, too, with 
 the style ; alliteration that could have made 
 another ludicrous is in this only a fit portion of 
 the echoing balance of the whole. Hardly before, 
 perhaps, except in lyrics, or in narratives like 
 The Eve of St. Agnes, had words been so self- 
 contained, so much an end in themselves, so 
 little fettered to what they could suggest but 
 \ not express. The words are everything : all 
 that life of heroes and passionate women, seas 
 and winds, has been subdued to the colour of 
 the words and the music of their cadence. 
 Where the words cannot be everything, where 
 two characters interchange brief speeches that 
 
 20
 
 ATALANTA IN CALYDON 
 
 allow no lyrical development, they deserve the 
 parody of Lowell : 
 
 Choeus : Foolish who bites off nose, his face to spite. 
 
 OuTis : Who fears his fate, him Fate shall one day 
 spurn. 
 
 Chorus : The Gods themselves are pliable to Fate. 
 
 OuTis : The strong self-ruler dreads no other sway. 
 
 Chorus : Sometimes the shortest way goes most about. 
 
 OuTis : A shepherd once, I know that stars may set. 
 
 Chorus : Why fetch a compass, having stars within ? 
 
 OuTis : That thou led'st sheep fits not for leading men. 
 
 Chorus : To sleep-sealed eyes the wolf-dog barks in 
 vain. 
 
 The play cannot be abridged or divided 
 without complete destruction. There are few 
 separable phrases or passages in it that are not 
 far more beautiful in their places, because the 
 key to them is only to be found in the play, 
 not in the human breast. The whole should 
 be read, or heard, at a sitting, for the first time 
 at least. Pause, to let in the light of every 
 day, and it may seem as it did to Browning, 
 " a fuzz of words." It is very nicely balanced 
 above folly. It is one-sided and makes but 
 a single appeal. It can suffer by the in- 
 trusion of the world, the sound of men talk- 
 ing or nightingales singing. For it does not 
 appeal to us as men knowing aught of men or 
 nightingales: experience can add nothing to it, 
 
 21
 
 A. C. SWl NBUHNE 
 
 or take away anything ; and to-day it cannot 
 be seriously hhiined tor a clioriis which, as 
 Tennyson said, abused the deity in the style of 
 the Hebrew prophets. The words in it have 
 no rich inheritance from old usage of speech or 
 poetry, even when they are poetic or archaic 
 or Biblical. They have little variety of tone, 
 being for the most part majestically mournful, 
 and never suddenly changing tone. Variety is 
 given chiefly by the metre, and the differences 
 of that are almost numberless. The blank 
 verse changes and does everything save speak. 
 As to the lyric verse it is of many forms, and 
 each is so clear cut and so masterful to words 
 without show of tyranny that a man might 
 suppose any words would do as well and 
 would maintain the same joy of metre. Hardly 
 do we notice in the sweetness of it an un- 
 English phrase like " imminence of wings " or 
 " the innumerable lily," after the opening : 
 
 O that I now, I too were 
 
 By deep wells and water-floods. . . . 
 
 Again and again it tempts us to recall the 
 opinion that the w^ords are everything, and say 
 that they are nothing ; certainly it matters 
 little what exactly is meant by "bodies of 
 things to be in the houses of death and of 
 birth." It is sufficient that the words never 
 ' 22
 
 AT AL ANT A IN CALYDON 
 
 impede the music, and often colour it with 
 
 something noble, or delicate, or pathetic, that 
 
 ^ the " rhythm," as Burne-Jones said, " goes on 
 
 ' with such a rush that it is enough to carry the 
 
 world away." Swinburne could make even a 
 
 ' line of monosyllables swift and leaping by using 
 
 in the unaccented places negligible words, 
 
 like " and," " of," and " the," which are almost 
 
 silent. Tennyson wrote to the poet telling him 
 
 that he envied him his wonderful rhythmical 
 
 invention. Tennyson's own had always been 
 
 carefully experimental and subordinate ; in 
 
 Atalanta rhythm was paramount, in rule sole 
 
 and undivided. 
 
 23
 
 II 
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 Swinburne was twenty-seven years old in 1864, 
 yet he had been before the pubhc already six- 
 teen years. The reader of Eraser's Magazine in 
 April, 1848 — the year after Tennyson's The 
 Princess — might have seen some verses entitled 
 " The Warning " put into the mouth of a 
 minstrel singing to the nobles and far-descended 
 gentlemen of England, to this purpose : 
 
 Then don't despise the working man, he's sti-ong and honest 
 
 too, 
 
 And he would rather governed be than seek to govern you ; | 
 
 But lack of proper guidance at last may make him mad, 
 And when the best don't govern him, he'll call upon the 
 
 bad ; 
 From whence will come confusion and terrible turmoil. 
 And all because the lawmakers, the owners of the soil. 
 Will hear no word of warning meant, will take no step in 
 
 time, 
 Before the groaning millions burst from sorrow into crime. 
 
 These verses, signed A. C. S., were dated 
 fi'om the Carlton Club. What the effect of the 
 
 24
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 warning was in 1848 it is now hard to say, but 
 certain it is there was still need, in January, 
 1851, of a further address, and in the same 
 magazine. "Ye landlords rich," cried the 
 poet: 
 
 Ye landlords rich ! lay it well to heart. 
 
 There is peril for all at handj 
 For the peasant has got too mean a part 
 
 Of wealth in his native land. 
 With a scornful eye and a heedless mien. 
 
 And a mantle of furs so thick, 
 How little ye dream of the fearful care 
 
 When the labourer's wife is sick. 
 
 How little ye dream, etc. . . . 
 
 This was from the same hand. An equally 
 solemn but less altruistic poem, in October, 
 1849, had informed the readers of Fraser's 
 Magazine that the poet had heard a spirit sing- 
 ing " as from a distant sphere," in the following 
 words : 
 
 " And oh ! my child, be heedful that you wander not in sin. 
 For your sorrow will be the greater, the more you venture 
 
 in; 
 And the sorrows of the essence, when it leaves its fleshly 
 
 cell, 
 Are deeper than the angels to mortality may tell." 
 At the silent hour of midnight thus my mother sang to me. 
 And I felt that she was near ; though her form I could not 
 
 see. 
 
 •25
 
 A. C. S\V INBUUNE 
 
 He had siin«if, too, of *' Fate that rules us here 
 with adamantine wand," and of how — 
 
 A peace that is based on duty, 
 The will and the power to think, 
 Can carry, unscathed in beauty, 
 The brave where the feeble sink. . . . 
 
 Little need was there to tell the world that 
 the poet had " learnt in suffering what he 
 taught in song " : 
 
 Hark ! how the poet sings 
 
 Whom grief is wearing ; 
 Like as the Hower springs 
 
 Into full bearing. 
 
 Where amid old decay 
 
 Fine skill has laid it ; 
 Even so the poet's lay — 
 
 His woes have made it. 
 
 This was said in April, 1849. But he had 
 consolations. He published a poem in the same 
 magazine side by side with Kingsley's Yeast, in 
 August, 1848, on Chopin's playing, and stanzas 
 addressed to a " wild floating symphony " in 
 March, 1849. A month before had appeared 
 this "' catch " : 
 
 Near the moon a pale star clinging 
 
 Harbingers another morn. 
 Feeble spark to mortals bringing 
 
 Hopes and cares with daylight born. 
 
 26
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 Fare thee well^ thou moon of sadness ! 
 
 Silent night, awhile farewell ! 
 Will the day give grief or gladness ? 
 
 Who of Adam's race can tell ? 
 
 Fare thee well, thou moon of beauty ! 
 
 Hail, thou glorious rising sun ! 
 Let the weak be strong in duty, 
 
 Till their course, like thine, be run. 
 
 He could write playfully of love as in " Under 
 the Rose," but his preference was rather for the 
 dignified reflection that marked his last contri- 
 bution, in June, 1851, " A Summer Thought " : 
 
 Upon that tree wave not two leaves alike, 
 
 Yet are they all oak leaves, and all derive 
 
 From the same source, by the same means, their food. 
 
 Each hath its voice, yet when the mighty wind 
 
 Sweeps o'er them as a lyre, one song is theirs. 
 
 One hymn of praise, to the Great Lord of All. 
 
 When shall we be like them — when understand 
 
 That if we grow upon the topmost bough 
 
 Of the great tree, — or be so lowly placed 
 
 That we must touch the daisy at its foot. 
 
 One origin is ours, one aim, one work. 
 
 One God to bless, one tie of love to bind. 
 
 This poem was sufficient to prove that the 
 author was not "lowly placed." The reader 
 might also have concluded that he was twenty- 
 three, that he had soon afterwards fallen in 
 love with a lady sharing his admiration for In 
 
 27
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Memoriam, and had married and rested content 
 and graceful 
 
 Upon the topmost bough 
 Of the great tree. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne, in fact, was 
 born on April 5th, 1837, in Chapel Street, Bel- 
 gravia, the only son of Admiral Charles Henry 
 Swinburne and his wife Lady Jane Henrietta, 
 daughter of the third earl of Ashburnham. 
 What he meant by telling the exiled Hugo 
 that he was " born of exiles " I do not know. 
 From his father he had the blood of a feudal 
 border ftimily, "which as long ago as Edward H 
 had produced a man of mark in Sir Adam de 
 Swinburne," says Mr. Edmund Gosse in the 
 Contemporary Review ; from his mother, the 
 blood of a loyal groom of the bedchamber to 
 Charles I. The child was not long in Bel- 
 gravia. His grandfather. Sir John Edward 
 Swinburne, baronet, had a house at Capheaton, 
 in Northumberland, where the family used to 
 spend half the year. His father bought East 
 Dene, in the Isle of Wight, between Ventnor 
 and Niton, and this house the grandfather 
 shared with him for the other half-year. Close 
 to East Dene, at The Orchard, lived other rela- 
 tions, whose kindness the poet was afterwards 
 to recall in dedicating The Sisters to his aunt, 
 
 28
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 the Lady JNlary Gordon. Here and in North- 
 umberland he had, as he always remembered 
 and repeated in his poetry, 
 
 The sun to sport in and the cliffs to scale. 
 The sea to clasp and wrestle with. . . . 
 
 Such joys, he said, "even now make child 
 and boy and man seem one." Tennyson did 
 not come to the Isle of Wight until 1853, but 
 Swinburne preferred to think, and certainly to 
 write, about Northumberland. That tale of 
 Balen and Balan, "two brethren of North- 
 umberland," gave him an excuse for recalling 
 his own pleasures in describing Balen's : 
 
 The joy that lives at heart and home. 
 The joy to rest, the joy to roam. 
 The joy of crags and scaurs he clomb. 
 The rapture of the encountering foam 
 
 Embraced and breasted of the boy, 
 The first good steed his knees bestrode. 
 The first wild sound of songs that flowed 
 Through ears that thrilled and heart that glowed. 
 
 Fulfilled his death with joy. 
 
 Swinburne thought of himself as "a northern 
 child of earth and sea." In Tristram of Lyonesse 
 he rejoiced to have Tristram and Iseult at Joyous 
 Gard, because that castle might be supposed 
 Northumbrian and he could mingle the hero with 
 himself and the castle with his own home — 
 
 29
 
 A. C. SWINBURNK 
 
 The great round girth of goodly wall that showed 
 Where for one clear sweet season's Kngth should be 
 Their place of strength to rest in, fain and free, 
 Hy the utmost margin of the loud lone sea. 
 
 'I'he poet shared his heroine, Mary Stuart's 
 lon<,nng, when slie cried : " O that I were now 
 in saddle ! " He shared with lier, too, her pre- 
 ference of the moors, where " the wind and sun 
 make madder mirth by midsummer," to the 
 smoother south. Reginald in The Siders makes 
 the same comparison, saying that even with- 
 out the streams the north would be sweeter, 
 that even with the northern streams the south 
 could not " match our borders." The youthful 
 Swinburne bound together the pleasures of 
 riding, the moor and the sea, in days which he 
 afterwards revived for the dedication of his 
 third series of Poems and Ballads : 
 
 Days when I rode by moors and streams. 
 Reining my rhymes into buoyant order. 
 
 He was a fearless rider, a fearless climber. 
 He chmbed Culver Cliff in the Isle of Wight at 
 a great risk, to prove his nerve, and his picture 
 in Tristram of the birds "on some straight 
 rocks' ledge," 
 
 Still as fair shapes fixed on some wondrous wall 
 Of minster aisle or cloister-close or hall . . . 
 
 might be a memory gained from such a climb. 
 
 30
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 Riding and climbing were good, and very 
 good, but swimming was best of all. The north 
 might be better than the south : the sea was 
 always the sea. In after years he wrote many 
 poems about the sea and hardly one without it. 
 ;The sea and not the earth, he said, was his 
 I mother. Sometimes he coupled with it the 
 wind, hailing them, as in The Garden of Cymo- 
 doce : 
 
 Sea, and bright wind^ and heaven of ardent air. 
 More dear than all things earth-born ; O to me 
 Mother more dear than love's own longing, sea, 
 More than love's eyes are, fair. . . . 
 
 Sometimes he worshipped the sun, " O sun 
 that we see to be God " ; but it was in the sea 
 that he did so. For a beautiful or a terrible 
 comparison he had usually to go to the sea, and 
 having gone there seemed to forget, certainly 
 made others forget, why he had gone : as when, 
 for example, he says that Blake's verse " pauses 
 and musters, and falls always as a wave does, 
 with the same patience of gathering form, and 
 rounded glory of springing curve, and sharp, 
 sweet flash of dishevelled and flickering foam as 
 it curls over, showing the sun through its soft 
 heaving side in veins of gold that inscribe and 
 jewels of green that inlay the quivering and 
 sundering skirt or veil of thinner water, throw- 
 
 31
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 ing upon the tremulous space of narrowing sea 
 in front, like a reflection of lifted and vibrating 
 hair, the windy shadow of its shaken spray." 
 
 A fimciful critic has put down the faulty 
 lengthiness of Swinburne's poems to a " sea- 
 obsession," saying that " his major forces and 
 his high creative impulse have, since Marij 
 Stuart, been mainly devoted to the splendidly 
 impossible feat of providing continual lyrical 
 change for the most monotonous theme in exist- 
 ence." His Tristram shared his delight, leaping 
 towards the sea's breast with a cry of love " as 
 toward a mother's where his head might rest " ; 
 his Marino Faliero at the last hour desired — 
 " perchance but a boy's wish " — to " set sail and 
 die at sea." As a boy the poet earned the name 
 of Seagull, which he seems to recall in the poem 
 To a Sea-vieiv — 
 
 When I had wings, my brother, 
 Such wings were mine as thine . . . 
 
 This was in 1886 ; yet he ended : 
 
 Ah, well were I for ever, 
 
 Would'st thou change lives with me. 
 
 When he was a sea-gull he was writing those 
 serious poems in Fraser's Magazine. Reading 
 became a pleasure to him not unworthy to be 
 ranked with swimming and riding. He had 
 
 32
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 Matthew Arnold's Strayed Reveller, Forsaken 
 Merman, and even the New Sirens by heart, 
 when he was "just ignorant of teens": Empe- 
 docles, and especially the songs of Callicles, he 
 knew as a schoolboy. His debts to Tennyson, 
 as he told the poet in acknowledging his praise 
 of Atalanta, had begun to accumulate in his 
 twelfth year. In his book on Shakespeare he 
 said that, from " well-nigh the first years " he 
 could remember, he had " made of the study of 
 Shakespeare the chief spiritual delight" of his 
 life. Probably he was one of those to whose 
 " innocent infantine perceptions the first obscure 
 electric revelation of what Blake calls the 
 'Eternal Female' was given through a blind 
 wondering thrill of childish rapture by a light- 
 ning on the baby dawn of their senses and their 
 soul from the sunrise of Shakespeare's Cleo- 
 patra." At home he was given the privilege of 
 reading at meals. What he very much Hked, 
 indoors or out of doors, he would read aloud or 
 recite : a cousin remembers him recitinsf " the 
 Victorian poets " and Lays of Ancient Rome. To 
 his heroes he could be a valet, and was doubtless 
 " thankful for having over our heads somewhere 
 in the world " heroes like " Victor Hugo or Miss 
 Cherbury the actress, Tennyson or a fellow who 
 rode in the Balaclava charge," as he says in Love's 
 Cross-Curi^ents. " The delight of feeling small 
 C 33
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 and ^nving in " at the sifi^lit of the hero was one 
 whicli lie never lost, but it may have been en- 
 courao;ed and defined by Carlyle's Heroes, 
 For Carlyle he did admire at first. Dickens 
 he admired from first to last, reading Bleak 
 House in its serial form while he was at Eton. 
 
 Except in cases of physical disobedience pro- 
 bably the only curb to his freedom was the 
 tradition of his class. But it is said that his 
 mother asked him not to read Byron till he was 
 twenty-one : if he literally obeyed her, as is said, 
 he gave a fresh proof that the like prohibitions 
 are powerless except as direct incentives to dis- 
 obey the spirit. The religion of his family was 
 presumably that of his class ; it either produced 
 or could not prevent an atheism like Shelley's, 
 but it encouraged a study of the Bible which 
 afterwards served him in helping Jowett to 
 make a selection for the reading of children, 
 and to draw :*rom his collaborator a cordial 
 compliment on his " thorough famiharity with 
 sundry parts of the sacred text." It left him, 
 as it helped to make him, such that one who 
 knew him all throufjh his life said : " I never 
 met with a character more thoroughly loyal, 
 chivalrous and — though some of his utterances 
 may seem to contradict it — reverent-minded. 
 His reverence for the aged and for parents, 
 women and little children was unlike any other 
 
 34
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 man's that I ever knew." " For such an one " 
 as Othello, he wrote afterwards, " even a boy 
 may well think how thankfully and joyfully he 
 would lay down his life " : such a boy it seems 
 was Swinburne himself. Until his life is written 
 we can know little more of his home days, 
 except that they left him free to enjoy Nature 
 and literature to the uttermost, and kept in him 
 to the last a happy and passionate memory of 
 his childhood and a fond if independent regard 
 for those who shared it, father and mother, aunt, 
 cousin and sisters. Admiral Swinburne being 
 a sailor, the poet could magnify him and at his 
 death speak of him — but ambiguously — as cross- 
 ing " the last of many an unsailed sea " : in 
 A Study of Victor Hugo he records with " filial 
 vanity or egotism " his father's friendship in 
 youth with Admiral Canaris, to whom Victor 
 Hugo addressed " two glorious poems." While 
 he was writing Charlotte Bronte, not long before 
 the death of his father, he could not but use as 
 an illustration the landscape by Crome hanging 
 in the house where he worked, which he had 
 known all through the years he could remember. 
 Five years at Eton would appear not to have 
 interrupted or much aided his development, 
 unless they helped to make him a scholar. 
 Since he had been until then a home-bred boy, 
 and was neither an athlete nor an ordinary 
 
 35
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 amiisin<i^ person, it is possible that he enjoyed 
 his schooldays chietiy in retrospect. W'lietlier 
 or not, he was hard pressed for matter when he 
 came, in 1801, to write ''Eton: An Ode fo?' the 
 Four Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the 
 Foundation of the College " ; he had to drag in 
 Shelley, to remark that the reaches of the river 
 still sliine, and to suggest that in another four 
 hundred and fifty years " haply here shall Eton's 
 record be what England finds it yet." But he 
 was a good enough Etonian to rejoice, after 
 copying out some mistaken Greek of Shelley's, 
 that " Shelley was clear of Eton when he com- 
 mitted this verse." Swinburne himself mastered 
 and obeyed Greek scholarship to admiration. 
 He delighted in language. Once at Eton he 
 offered for an exercise a set of verses in Galli- 
 ambics, the metre of Tennyson's Boadicea, with 
 tragic consequences, for they were rejected by 
 the master as " no metre at all." The young 
 versifier and lover of poetry was not to be dis- 
 couraged by a schoolmaster : he was more likely 
 to be impressed by his first meeting with a poet 
 in his early school days, for though the poet 
 was only Rogers he showed " gracious and 
 cordial kindness " to the " small Etonian." 
 
 But he had already met in the spirit "the 
 spiritual sovereign of the nineteenth century " — 
 "greater than all other poets of his time to- 
 
 36
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 gether " — " the greatest man since Shakespeare " 
 — Victor Hugo, his lord and master. He was 
 afterwards to speak of himself as one of those 
 who from childhood had fostered and fortified 
 whatever of good was born in them — "all 
 capacity of spiritual work, all seed of human 
 sympathy, all powers of hope and faith, all 
 passions and aspirations found loyal to the 
 service of duty and love " — with " the bread 
 of his deathless word and the wine " of Hugo's 
 immortal song. He was to recall how often 
 he had chanted or shouted or otherwise de- 
 claimed Hugo's Gastibelza on horseback or in 
 the sea in holiday time : 
 
 Gastibelza^ rhomme a la carabine 
 
 Chantait ainsi : 
 Quelqu'un a-t-il connu dona Sabine ? 
 
 Quelqu'un d'ici ? 
 Dansez, chantez^ villageois ! la nuit gagne 
 
 Le mont Falou. 
 Le vent qui vient a travers la montagne 
 
 Me rendra fou. 
 
 He recalled how its beauty had "reduced his 
 own ambition to a sort of rapturous and adoring 
 despair," and gave him a new delight in the 
 sense that " there is always Victor Hugo, living 
 or dead, to look up to and bow down to." He 
 had still further to recall the "paternal good- 
 ness " of Hugo in vouchsafing to take notice of 
 
 37
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 one of his early " crude and puerile " attempts 
 " to render some tribute of thanks for the gifts 
 of his genius." He was to use first of all as a 
 comparison for Hugo one of the sublimest 
 scenes of his life, a night scene in the Channel, 
 of forked and sheet lightning, of moonlight 
 and phosphoric fire on the waters together — 
 "Artemis watching with a serene splendour of 
 scorn the battle of Titans and the revel of 
 nymphs, from her stainless and Olympian sum- 
 mit of divdne indiflferent light." This was the 
 Channel Passage of 1855 which gave the title and 
 a subject to Swinburne's last book of poems. 
 The scene was used a third time in A Study of 
 Shakespeare^ because he could not forbear saying 
 that " the painter of the storm in Pericles must 
 have shared the adventure and relished the 
 rapture of such an hour." Except that he was 
 sailing from Ostend, I know nothing of the 
 travel which this crossing concluded. Probably 
 it was during the period between Eton and 
 Oxford, when Swinburne was either abroad or 
 under the tutorship of the distinguished " rumi- 
 nant ' Stubbs, afterwards Bishop of Oxford, 
 and then Vicar of Navestock in Essex, where 
 the boy sometimes resided with him. 
 
 In 1857 Swinburne entered Balliol College, 
 Oxford, as a Commoner. Pater, at Brasenose, 
 who was two years younger, was thus almost his 
 
 38
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 exact contemporary. William Morris had just 
 taken his degree. Jowett, nearly twenty years 
 after his election to a Fellowship at Balliol, had 
 lately become Regius Professor of Greek, only 
 to pay for his religious liberalism, at the sentence 
 of the University, with the emoluments of his 
 office during ten years. He became a friend of 
 Swinburne's, travelled in England with him, and 
 was a guest at his father's house. 
 
 Swinburne apparently did not become quite 
 friendly to the University, though he remained 
 sufficiently Oxonian to enjoy a laugh at " certain 
 wise men of the east of England — Cantabrigian 
 Magi." In spite of his scholarship, he was 
 placed only in the second class in classical 
 Moderations, earned no classical prizes, and never 
 took a degree ; but in 1858 he had the Taylorian 
 prize for French and Italian. It is clear that he 
 was a very great reader, especially of poetry ; 
 even twenty years later he could not really feel 
 that prose could be as good as verse, and he 
 wrote of the spring of 1616 as "the darkest 
 that ever dawned upon England or the world " 
 because it killed Shakespeare. All young or 
 bold writers had his heart, whether they were 
 lofty hke JEschylus and Dante and Milton, 
 sweet like Sappho, Catullus, Villon, Coleridge, 
 Musset and Tennyson, or sweet and lofty like 
 Shelley and Marlowe. After Shakespeare and 
 
 39
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Fliigo, he most loved Shelley and Marlowe, 
 most venerated Landor. He ehose, above all, 
 poetry that was in some way adventurous, 
 aspiring even to giddiness, free and yet ex- 
 quisite : whenee he could never fully admire 
 Spenser or Keats, Byron or Whitman. As an 
 older man he turned round on JNIusset, but as 
 a youth the poem where the Frenchman " whim- 
 pered like a whipped hound over the cruel work 
 of men w^ho shook the Cross and took away the 
 Saviour" seemed a genuine product of sincere 
 and tender inspiration, though he could not 
 look back to that period without "an inward 
 smile." New English poetry by itself — not to 
 speak of the personalities of the two living 
 poets then in Oxford, his friends Rossetti and 
 William Morris — was enough to produce his 
 "profound inattention to lectures on Aldrich's 
 Logic." Tennyson's finest short poems had 
 appeared : Maud was new and unpopular, but 
 admired by Swinburne. Browning was known 
 by his Pauline, Bells and, Pomegranates, Sordello, 
 and the plays ; Arnold by his Strayed Reveller, 
 Empedocles, and Scholar-Gypsy. Morris's De- 
 fence of Guenevere belonged to 1858. In France 
 Victor Hugo's Chutiments, Contemplations, and 
 Legende Des Siecles, Gautier's Emaux et Camces, 
 were new. Musset and Beranger were just dead 
 (1857) : Catullus and INIarlowe and Shelley were 
 
 40
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 in their freshest youth. These were days prob- 
 ably when he would have exclaimed with 
 Musset : 
 
 GrecC;, 6 mere des arts, terre d'idolatrie 
 
 De mes veux insenses eternelle patrie, 
 
 J'etais ne pour ces temps on les fleurs de ton front 
 
 Couronnaient dans les mers I'azur de 1' Hellespont. 
 
 Je suis un citoyen de tes siecles antiques ; . . . 
 
 The conscious Pagan of France emphasized 
 the lesson of Greece ; with Theophile Gautier 
 he learned to rebuke the monk for anathematis- 
 ing the body, " votre corps, modele par le doigt 
 de Dieu meme, que Jesus-Christ, son fils, a 
 daigne revetir " : 
 
 L'esprit est Immortel, on ne peut le nier ; 
 Mais dirCj comme vous, que la chair est infame, 
 Statuaire divine, c'est te calomnier. 
 
 Swinburne was never to calumniate the divine 
 sculptor in his capacity of sculptor. Gautier 
 no doubt helped him to be one of those who 
 must thrust their hands into the side of beauty, 
 who love above all whatsoever beautiful things 
 are hard and clear and bright, whatsoever are 
 to be seen with the eye and touched with lips 
 and hands. He chose the company of the young, 
 the glad and the lovely. 
 
 In his first year at Oxford he began writing 
 and publishing. The " Undergraduate Papers " 
 
 41
 
 A. C. SW INHURNE 
 
 of 1857 ;ind 18.58 contain both verse and prose 
 by Swinburne. AA'riting on tlic dramatists 
 Marlowe and Webster, he expressed his prefer- 
 ence for strong, fresh minds " from which the 
 stamp of a stern and glorious age was not yet 
 outworn," to those who, like Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, " mix with the very sources of poetry 
 that faint ftilse sweetness which enervates the 
 mind and clogs the taste of the reader." He 
 praised the " rapid rhythm and gorgeous luxuries 
 of Hero and Leander," and the poet who " did 
 justice once for all to that much misused and 
 belied thing, the purely sensuous and outward 
 side of love." He read with delight I.eander's 
 reply to Hero, the sacred nun of Venus : 
 
 The rites 
 In which Love's beauteous Empress most delightSj 
 Are banquets, Doric music^ midnight revel, 
 Plays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil. 
 Thee as a holy idiot doth she scorn, 
 For thou in vowing chastity hast sworn 
 To rob her name and honour, and thereby 
 Commit' st a sin far worse than perjury. 
 Even sacrilege against her Deity, 
 Through regular and formal purity : 
 To expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands, 
 Such sacrifice as this Venus demands. 
 
 He believed that "w^ise enjoyment, noble and 
 healthy teaching, lies for all in the forgotten 
 
 42
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 writings of the early masters," and concluded 
 with some original verses : 
 
 Honour them now (ends my allocution) 
 
 Not confer your degree when the folks leave college. 
 
 His poem, Queen Yseult, in the same number 
 of " Undergraduate Papers," shows the influence 
 of Morris's as yet unpublished early poems, both 
 in style and subject. Tennyson's Idylls did not 
 appear until 1859. The poem opens with the 
 death of Tristram's mother, Blancheflour : 
 
 There men found her as they sped 
 Very beautiful and dead, 
 In the lilies white and red. 
 
 And beside her lying there. 
 Found a manchild strong and fair 
 Lain among the lilies bare. . . . 
 
 And for the sweet look he had, 
 Weeping not but very sad, 
 Tristram by his name they bade. 
 
 The first and only Canto ends with Tristram's 
 embassage to fetch Yseult : 
 
 Spake the King so lean and cold, 
 " She hath name of honour old, 
 Yseult queen, the hair of gold. 
 
 All her limbs are fair and strong, 
 All her face is straight and long. 
 And her talk is as a song. 
 
 And faint lines of colour stripe 
 (As spilt wine that one should wipe) 
 All her golden hair cornripe. 
 
 48
 
 A. C. SWINBURNK 
 
 l")rawn like red j^old cars that stand 
 In I lie yellow suniincr land ; 
 Arnnv-stniij^ht her perfect hand. 
 
 And her eyes like river-lakes 
 Where a gloomy glory shakes 
 Which the happy sunset makes. 
 
 Her shall Tristram go to bring, 
 With a gift of some rich thing 
 Fit to free a prisoned King." 
 
 As Sir Mark said, it was done ; 
 And ere set the morrow's sun, 
 Tristram the good knight was gone. 
 
 Forth to Ireland bade he come. 
 Forth across the grey sea foam, 
 All to bring Queen Yseult home. 
 
 The next number proved that Swinburne liad 
 not surrendered the " merry madness " of 
 youth to write Queen Yseult, for it contained 
 a review of the imaginary " Monomaniac's 
 Tragedy and Other Poems of Ernest Whel- 
 drake, author of Eve : A Mystery." " Eve," 
 says the reviewer, " was anatomized * with a 
 bitter and severe dehght ' by all the critics who 
 noticed it with the exception (we beheve) of 
 Mr. Wheldrake himself." He quotes short 
 passages to show Belial blaspheming and dwell- 
 ing on " unbecoming topics," like " wine- 
 dishevelled tresses," " globed sapphires of 
 liquescent eyes, warmed with prenatal influx 
 of rich love," " luscious sweetnesses of vin- 
 
 44
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 tage-tinctured raiment." The hero of the 
 "Monomaniac's Tragedy," who is engaged in 
 writing " Iscariot : A Tragedy," has broken into 
 his brother's house and wrung a nephew's neck 
 in order to gain experience of the feehngs of 
 thieves and murderers. It cannot be complained 
 that the fun is long drawn out, when the same 
 short review gives as a specimen of Wheldrake's 
 writing a poem on Louis Napoleon which Swin- 
 burne trusts will atone in imperial circles for 
 Hugo's Chatiments : 
 
 He stands upon a rock that cleaves the sheath 
 
 Of blue sea like a sword of upward foam ; 
 
 Along the washing waste flows far beneath 
 
 A palpitation of senescent storm. 
 
 He, the Lethean pilot of grim death, 
 
 Utters by fits a very potent breath. 
 
 He is the apex of the focussed ages. 
 
 The crown of all those labouring powers that warm 
 
 Earth's red hot core, when scoriae sorrow rages. 
 
 He is the breath Titanic — the supreme 
 
 Development of some presolar dream. 
 
 Owls, dogs, that bellow at him ! is he not 
 
 More strong than ye t His intermittent love 
 
 The measure of your wretched hate keeps hot. 
 
 Ye are below him — for he is above. 
 
 At least this "review" seems to foretell Swin- 
 burne's own poems on "unbecoming topics," 
 the malicious hoaxing irony of his replies to 
 Robert Buchanan's pseudonymous attack, his 
 much furious and scornful abuse of Napoleon 
 
 the Little. 
 
 45
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Swinburne had gone up to Oxford with a very 
 complete Republicanism founded on the words 
 of I'lutarch and Milton, Shelley, I^andor, and 
 Mazzini ; and Orsini's attempt on Louis 
 Napoleon is said to have moved him to uphold 
 " the virtue of tyrannicide " in public. He has 
 recorded how as a freshman in the fifth or sixth 
 year of Louis Napoleon's *' empire of cutpurses 
 and cut-throats " he had been smiled on tolerantly 
 by his elders for believing in " the principles and 
 teaching of men who ventured to believe in the 
 realization of Italian unity." The Society of 
 the Friends of Italy had just been reconstituted, 
 and Walter Savage Landor was one of them. 
 England was disturbed, chiefly through the 
 agitation of JNIazzini, Garibaldi, and Kossuth, 
 by a considerable feeling for Itahan unity, against 
 Austria ; but, like Swinburne's Oxford audience, 
 Carlyle was impatient with Mazzini's " Republi- 
 canism," his " Progress," and other " Rousseau 
 fanaticisms." To Swinburne the movement for 
 Italian unity was like the movements celebrated 
 by Shelley in the Ode to Liberty, the Ode to 
 Naples, and Hellas. Phrases like Mazzini's 
 "God and the People," "God, the People, 
 Love and Liberty," the grand style of his sum- 
 mons " to a task like the tasks of God, the 
 creation of a people," his vision of the future 
 and " the people rising in its majesty, brothers 
 
 46
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 in one faith, one bond of equality and love, one 
 ideal of citizen virtue that ever grows in beauty 
 and might," his clear cry that " there can be no 
 moderation between good and evil, truth and 
 error, progress and reaction "—these words came 
 to unite in Swinburne's heart with Shelley's : 
 
 And thoUj lost Paradise of this divine 
 
 And glorious world ! thou flowery wilderness ! 
 
 Thou island of eternity ! thou shrine 
 
 Where Desolation, clothed with loveliness, 
 
 Worships the thing thou wert ! O Italy, 
 
 Gather thy blood into thy heart ; repress 
 
 The beasts Avho make their dens thy sacred palaces. 
 
 Swinburne could spend his fieriest intellectual 
 emotions on the Italian risorgimento without 
 throwing them away. Enthusiasm for a genuine 
 social movement never yet failed to be repaid, 
 if only with increase of enthusiasm ; to Swin- 
 burne it gave a material that could arouse and 
 match his swiftest and lordliest measures. After 
 his visit to Italy in 1864 he called her "my 
 second mother country." 
 
 His first book, published in the year of his 
 leaving Oxford, 18G0, had, however, httle enough 
 of liberty and republicanism. It consisted of 
 two plays — one, The Queen Mother, ending in 
 the Massacre of Bartholomew, and having for 
 its characters Catherine de Medici, Charles IX 
 of France, Henry of Navarre, Catholic and 
 Huguenot nobles, and certain maids-of-honour ; 
 
 47
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 the other, Rosa fno fid, depictinfy tlie last days of 
 the love between Ilcnry 11 of Eiifrland and fair 
 llosaniond. Botli are distinguished and marred 
 by a too curious Elizabethanism of style, as 
 where King Charles says in 7V/t' Queen 3I()tJtcr: 
 
 Or now, this gold that makes me up a king, 
 This apprehensive note and mark of time, 
 This token'd kinfrdoin, this well-tested worth, 
 Wherein my brows exult and are begirt 
 With the brave sum and sense of kingliness. 
 To have this melted from a narrow head 
 Or broken on the bare disfeatured brows. 
 And marr'd i' the veiy feature and fair place 
 Where it looked nobly — were this no shame to us ? 
 
 Sometimes the copy is admirable, sometimes 
 obscure. Browning was a better influence, lead- 
 ing the young poet to lines like those spoken by 
 Rosamond : 
 
 Who calls it spring ? 
 Simply this winter plays at red and green. 
 Clean white no colour for me, did they say ? 
 I never loved white roses much ; but see 
 How the wind drenches the low lime-branches 
 With shaken silver in the rainiest leaves. 
 Mere winter, winter. 
 
 He adopts even the Browningesque " suppose 
 you," in a passage where he takes leav^e to use 
 almost more than the most Elizabethan licence 
 with lines like : 
 
 Lost me my soul with a mask, a most ungracious one. 
 
 48
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 He showed the influence of Rossetti in the end- 
 ings of several such hues as — 
 
 Painted with colours for his ease-taking. 
 
 Both plays have songs, The Queen Mother in 
 French, Rosaviond in archaic English. Thus 
 early was Swinburne an excellent verse-master 
 outside his own tongue. 
 
 The Queen 3Iother holds the attention chiefly 
 through the character of Denise, the maid of 
 honour, Charles's mistress, who tries to per- 
 suade the king against the massacre, and at 
 last goes out in her madness into the bloody 
 streets and is killed. There are careful touches 
 of character on many pages, as where Catherine 
 says in the midst of the massacre : 
 
 I am hot only in the palm of the hands. 
 
 Do you not think, sir, some of these dead men, 
 
 Being children, dreamed perhaps of this } 
 
 But the play is more noticeable for the sympa- 
 thetic treatment of the amorousness and blood- 
 thirstiness of a palace which, he said at a later 
 date, in the Appendix to Mary Stuart, "it 
 would be flattery to call a brothel or a slaughter- 
 house," for "its virtues were homicide and 
 adultery." Denise is "a white long woman 
 with thick hair " ; and " not the lightest thing 
 she has that hair," says Margaret Valois. To 
 Marshal Tavannes the girl is "a costly piece 
 D 49
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 of white." Slie tells the King that she could 
 kill him " here between the eyes," rather than 
 lose his face to touch and his hair to twist curls 
 in : she reminds him of how he bit her above 
 the shoulder. During the massacre "twenty 
 with sweet laughing mouths " gathered about a 
 corpse to abuse it with " fleers and gibes " that 
 made the murderer merry. " Their blood," says 
 a noble : 
 
 Their blood is apt to heats so mutable 
 As in their softer bodies overgrow 
 The temper of sweet reason, and confound 
 All order but their blood, 
 
 Yolande, with an old man's brain "in her most 
 supple body," is one, thinks Catherine, who will 
 not " wry her mouth on tasting blood." Charles 
 practised as a boy to " pinch out life by nips in 
 some sick beast," likes the smell of a man's 
 blood : " it stings and makes one weep." Denise 
 alone is pitiful, telling her lover that the body 
 of the worst man is compounded of love and 
 pain, like himself, and "was worth God's time 
 to finish." 
 
 Rommond is far less a play. In The Queen 
 Mother Catherine talks about herself and the 
 mouth which " has been a gracious thing for 
 kisses to fall near " : in Rommond the best 
 passages are wliere Rosamond describes herself, 
 or where Henry or Eleanor describes Rosamond 
 
 50
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 to her face. Rosamond, indeed, sees herself 
 already as the legendary beauty ; she speaks of 
 herself as having been in turn Helen, Cressida, 
 Guenevere ; before the King comes she says she 
 will sleep, in order to have " the sweet of sleep " 
 on her face "to touch his senses with." The 
 result is a languid, luxurious, impression of the 
 " fair fool with her soft shameful mouth," and 
 the reader agrees with Bouchard that "being 
 fair, a woman is worth pains to see." As 
 Rosamond is amorous and gentle, the Queen 
 is amorous and cruel, loving well to feel pain 
 and to inflict it on the shrinking hated mistress. 
 Cruelty and amorousness are mixed also in 
 the boy Arthur's story, how he thrust himself 
 through the lattice to see a woman with a 
 white, smooth neck and wonderful red mouth, 
 and how the thought of her made him shake 
 in sleep ; but his master Hugh beat him for it 
 with a switch like a beehive let loose — he 
 could touch separately the twelve prints of 
 "the sharp, small suckers." Perhaps Swin- 
 burne had become interested in the birch at 
 Eton : that he was interested is quite clear 
 from the frequent mention of it in Loves Cross 
 Currents, where the boy Reginald — afterwards 
 a writer of verse very much like Swinburne's — 
 " relished the subject of flagellation as few men 
 relish rare wine." 
 
 51
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 The effect of Roscnnotid is more like that of 
 such a narrative as Tlie Eve of St. Agnes than 
 of a play. It is stuffed with the pleasantness 
 and pitifulness of love among people who seenn 
 to have nothing to do but to love, unless it be 
 to hate. But it is lov^e, too, whicli the lovers 
 know as sin, though Rosamond regards her 
 beauty as "part of the perfect witness of the 
 world, how good it is." 
 
 I that have held a land between twin lips 
 And turned large England to a little kiss ; 
 God thinks not of me as contemptible. 
 
 The poet who made her thought not of her 
 as contemptible, for evidently he was one of 
 love's lovers, loving it for its own sake and 
 because it gives the keenest relish to all things 
 in Nature and men and women. The book is 
 rich enough in the luxury of love to stop any 
 complaint against the form of drama, but it 
 can hardly have foretold dramatic success. It 
 is a choice exercise in English, French, and 
 Latin, for those that can enjoy such. For the 
 rest, it seldom misses the sweetness of the song 
 of Constance : 
 
 Sweet, for God's love I bid you kiss right close 
 On mouth and cheek, because you see my rose 
 
 Has died that got no kisses of the rain ; 
 So will I sinu; to sweeten my sweet mouth, 
 So will I braid my thickest hair to smooth, 
 
 And then — I need not call you love again. 
 52
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 The blank verse goes on and on with little 
 purpose but gathering sweets, and the rewards of 
 the gathering are undeniable. They were extra- 
 ordinary in a man of twenty-two or twenty-three. 
 The performance might surprise any but the 
 poet's friends. Among them his reputation as a 
 poet and a brilliant uncontrolled human being 
 was exceptional. He had become so worship- 
 ping a disciple of Dante Rossetti that Burne- 
 Jones said : " Now we were four in company, 
 not three," Morris being the other. " Courteous, 
 affectionate, and unsuspicious," he was " faithful 
 beyond most people to those he really loved." 
 Thus was deepened his " lifelong delight in the 
 forces of an art which is not my own, quickened 
 by the intercourse of many years with eminent 
 artists. ..." He continually saw these men, 
 going even three times a day to Burne-Jones 
 and often taking poems to repeat. He was a 
 noticeable small man with a "glorious abundance" 
 of " fiery " or "reddish yellow" or "orange" hair 
 and " blue-grey " or " clear green " eyes softened 
 by thick brown lashes. While he was repeating 
 poetry his eyes were lifted in a " rapt unconscious 
 gaze," his head hung on one side, his body 
 shook, his high - pitched voice expressed the 
 utmost fervour and excitement, and "in the 
 concentrated emphasis of his slow utterance he 
 achieved something like a Delphic ecstasy, the 
 
 53
 
 A. C. SWINIUJRNE 
 
 transfii^unition of the Pythia quivering on her 
 tripod." The lialo of hair was sometimes 
 " gravely or waggislily " waved at the com- 
 pany. He might also "jump ahout the room 
 in a manner somewhat embarrassing to the 
 listener." He was always restless, never 
 standing still ; his walk was turned into a 
 dance ; even sitting, he moved his wrists, per- 
 haps his feet also, as if he were keeping time 
 with some "inner rhythm of excitement." 
 Reciting or not, he was continually subject to a 
 "violent elevation of spirits," yet "the extra- 
 ordinary spasmodic action " accompanying his 
 paroxysms of excitement seemed to produce no 
 fatigue, but changed into a "graceful and 
 smihng calm ... his eyes fixed in a sort of 
 trance, and only his lips shifting and shivering a 
 little, without a sound." 
 
 His conversation, rapid and yet not voluble, 
 was " very splendid in quality," always vigorous, 
 often violent and often biting, but always 
 sparing an absent friend. It was made the 
 more remarkable by his memory. When 
 Rossetti buried his poems with his wife (1862), 
 Swinburne's memory kept many of them alive. 
 In an account of an evening at Fryston with 
 Lord Houghton it has been recorded how the 
 young poet, the only unknown in the party, 
 made an impression : 
 
 54
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 He was silent till the middle of dinner, when some- 
 body raised a literary ((uestion, touching Sophocles or 
 Shakespeare. Then he began ; and from his first words 
 his hearers knew they had to do with a master. Host 
 and guests played up to him, and he held them spell- 
 bound. " We dined, we smoked, he talked, and we were 
 enthralled," says, in effect, the writer ; and at midnight 
 I remember we all adjourned to my room, where we 
 sat about on chairs or on the bed listening while this 
 amazing young poet poured out page after page of the 
 Elizabethans and page after page of his own unpublished 
 verse till two in the morning. 
 
 To one who was not overwhelmed by him he 
 appeared "short, with shoulders that sloped 
 more than a woman's, from which rose a long," 
 but not {it is also said) a "slender neck, sur- 
 mounted by an enormous head " with too small 
 a chin. " The cranium was out of all proportion 
 to the rest of th^ structure. His spine was 
 rigid, and though he often bowed the heaviness 
 of his head, lasso papavera collo, he never 
 seemed to bend his back. Except in conse- 
 quence of a certain physical weakness" — pre- 
 sumably one of those " follies of Bohemianism " 
 which are " dangerous to health and life " — 
 "which probably may, in more philosophical 
 days, come to be accounted for and palliated — 
 except when suffering from this external cause, 
 he seemed immune from all the maladies that 
 pursue mankind. He did not know fatigue ; 
 
 55
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 his u«^ility and brif^htness were almost mechani- 
 cal. I never heard him complain of a headache 
 or a toothache. He required very little sleep, 
 and occasionally when I have parted from him 
 in the evening after saying good night, he has 
 simply sat back in the deep sofa in his sitting- 
 room, his little feet close together, his arms 
 against his side, folded in his frock-coat like a 
 grasshopper in its wing-covers, and fallen asleep, 
 apparently for the night, before I could blow 
 out the candles and steal forth from the doors." 
 Out of doors he was like " something blown 
 before a wind," having the movements of a 
 somnambulist. I seem to see him in Camber's 
 description of his brother Locrine : 
 
 My brother is a prince of paramours — 
 
 Eyes coloured like tlie springtide sea and hair 
 
 Bright as with fire of sundawn. . . . 
 
 In his circle he was already known by many 
 of the poems afterwards printed in Poems and 
 BiiUads ; for these, he said, in the dedication of 
 1865, came from seven years of his life. 
 
 The youngest were born of boy's pastime, 
 The eldest are young. 
 
 Several appeared in The Spectator in 1862, 
 including Fcmstinc, forty verses of Faustinc — 
 tempora mutantur — down to the last. During 
 tliat winter he recited the L,aus Veneris on the 
 
 56
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 sands of Tynemouth in the course of a visit to 
 William Bell Scott, as he recited " When the 
 hounds of spring are on winter's traces " on the 
 road between Newport and Shorwell in the 
 Isle of Wight. Like Rossetti he was writing 
 bouts-rimes and Limericks. He was also ex- 
 perimenting in metre, and one Sunday morning, 
 having looked at The Rhythm of Bernard de 
 Morlaix and an English translation, he wrote 
 twenty-six lines of "a projected version of 
 Bernard's Rhythm," of which these are a 
 specimen : 
 
 land without guilty strong city safe-built in a marvellous 
 
 place, 
 
 1 cling to thee, ache for thee, sing to thee, wake for thee, 
 
 watch for thy face : 
 Full of cursing and strife are the days of my life ; with their 
 
 sins they are fed. 
 Out of sin is the root, unto sin is the fruit, in their sins they 
 
 are dead. 
 
 He could turn aside, as he did in 1864, to 
 write a Morality^ the acting of which formed the 
 chief part of The Children of the Chapel, a story 
 by his cousin, now Mrs. Disney Leith. The 
 whole story was composed and written under 
 his eye. The morality. The Pilgi^im of Pleasure, 
 abounds in sweet characteristic verses, as where 
 Youth speaks : 
 
 57
 
 A. C. SWINiniRNE 
 
 We have f?onc by many lands, and many jjrievous ways, 
 And yet have we not found this Pleasure all these days. 
 Sometimes a li<;htenin<jf all about her have we seen, 
 A /rlittering of her garments among the fieldes green ; 
 Sometimes the waving of her hair that is right sweet, 
 A lifting of her eyelids, or a shining of her feet, 
 Or either in sleeping or in waking have we heard 
 A rustling of raiment or a whispering of a word, 
 Or a noise of pleasant water running over a waste place. 
 Yet have I not beheld her, nor known her very face. 
 
 He was thus already a master of those means, 
 such as the frequent use of "a," "the," "of," 
 " or," " in," and of participial nouns like " light- 
 ening," by which the language submitted itself 
 to all his love of metre. The piece is purest 
 Swinburne, nowhere more so than in the final 
 triumph of Death : 
 
 Alas ! your kingdom and lands ! alas ! your men and their 
 
 might ! 
 Alas the strength of your hands and the days of your vain 
 
 delight ! 
 Alas I the words that were spoken, sweet words on a 
 
 pleasant tongue ! 
 Alas! your harps that are broken, the harps that were 
 
 carven and strung ! 
 Alas ! the light in your eyes, the gold in your golden hair! 
 Alas ! your sayings wise, and the goodly things ye were ! 
 Alas ! your glory ! alas ! the sound of your names among 
 
 men ! 
 
 Behold it is come to pass, ye shall sleep and arise not again. 
 Dust shall fall on your face, and dust shall hang in your hair ; 
 Ye shall sleep without shifting of place, and shall be no 
 more as ye were ; 
 
 58
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 Ye shall never open your mouth ; ye shall never lift up your 
 
 head ; 
 Ye shall look not to north or to south ; life is done ; and 
 
 behold you are dead ! 
 With your hand ye shall not threat ; with your throat ye 
 
 shall not sing. 
 Ye, ye that are living yet, ye shall each be a grievous thing. 
 Ye shall each fare underground, ye shall lose both speech 
 
 and breath ; 
 Without sight ye shall see, without sound ye shall hear, and 
 
 shall know I am Death. 
 
 The repetitions, the rhetorical and Biblical 
 stateliness, the splendid farewells to what was 
 splendid, are admirable enough, yet seem to 
 reveal that the effort was an exercise and an 
 experiment only. The archaic song of Vain 
 Delight, in this form : 
 
 I am so noble a queen 
 I have a right little teen, 
 I were a goodly samite green. 
 Fresh flowers and red. 
 
 No man so sad there is 
 But if I will him kiss 
 With my good sweet lips, I wis. 
 He shall well be sped. 
 
 Whoso that will me see 
 He shall have great joy of me. 
 And merry man shall he be 
 Till he be dead — 
 
 this is as good as Swinburne always was at an 
 old form or dialect or foreign tongue. The 
 power to do it is the only originality shown. 
 
 59
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 He had already begun to write on Hlake in 
 1803; "•meanwhile some last word has to be 
 said concerning Blake's life and death," he writes, 
 still with something of Carlyle in his accent. 
 This book, with its necessary accounts of pic- 
 tures, encouraged Swinburne, if he had need of 
 encouragement, in pictorial description. Many 
 of his translations from pictures are as good as 
 possible in a concentrated style, owing a good 
 deal to Ruskin, which did not forbid Swinburne 
 the rhythms, the language, or the alliteration of 
 his verse, as for example in JVilliam Blake: 
 
 Dante and Virgil, standing in a niche of rifted rock 
 faced by another cliff up and down wliich a reptile crowd 
 of spirits swarms and sinks, looking down on the grovel- 
 ling and swine-like flocks of Malebolge ; lying tumbled 
 about the loathsome land in hateful heaps of leprous 
 flesh and dishevelled deformity, with limbs contorted, 
 clawing nails, and staring horror of hair and eyes : one 
 figure thrown down in a corner of the crowded clifF-side, 
 her form and face drowned in an overflow of ruined 
 raining tresses. 
 
 One page in this book alone shows into what 
 rhythms his thought ran when phrases Uke the 
 following are easily to be found : 
 
 " With limbs contorted, clawing nails, and staring 
 horror of hair and eyes." 
 
 " Amid heaving and glaring motion of vapour and fire." 
 
 60
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 "The dark hard strength and sweep of its sterile 
 ridges." 
 
 " Washed about with surf and froth of tideless fire, and 
 heavily laden with the lurid languor of hell." 
 
 His descriptions of Rossetti's and Burnc-Jones' 
 pictures in Essays and Studies could not fail to 
 confirm the habit and to impress his mind still 
 more deeply with Rossetti's women, such as 
 LiUth : 
 
 " Clothed in soft white garments, she draws out through 
 a comb the heavy mass of hair like thick spun gold to 
 fullest length ; her head leans back half sleepily, superb 
 and satiate with its own beauty ; [compare " Faustine "] 
 the eyes are languid, without love in them or hate ; 
 the sweet luxurious mouth has the patience of pleasure 
 fulfilled and complete, the warm repose of passion sure of 
 its delight. . . . The sleepy splendour of the picture is a 
 fit raiment for the idea incarnate of faultless fleshy beauty 
 and peril of pleasure unavoidable." 
 
 " Peril of pleasure unavoidable " might have 
 been the last line of a sonnet in Rossetti's 
 manner. Swinburne must have known well 
 Rossetti's poems on pictures : we know that he 
 knew and admired that Song of the Bower which 
 seems to point us back to Browning and on to 
 Swinburne : 
 
 . . . Shall I not one day remember thy bower, 
 One day when all days are one to me ? 
 Thinking "I stirred not, and yet had the power 1" 
 Yearning, " Ah God, if again it might be ! " 
 
 61
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Peace, peace ! such a small lamp illumes, on this high- 
 way, 
 So dimly so few steps in front of my feet. 
 Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. . . . 
 Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we 
 meet? 
 
 If he needed incitement to a Biblical accent, 
 he found it in the picture of " The Card Dealer," 
 and something else which he absorbed and 
 changed : 
 
 Whom plays she with ? with thee, who lov'st 
 
 These gems upon her hand ; 
 With me, who search her secret brows ; 
 
 With all men, bless'd or bann'd. 
 We play together, she and we. 
 
 Within a vain strange land : 
 
 A land without any order. 
 
 Day even as night (one saith) 
 Where who lieth down ariseth not 
 
 Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; 
 A land of darkness as darkness itself 
 
 And of the shadow of death. 
 
 What be her cards you ask ? Even these : 
 
 The heart, that doth but crave 
 More, having fed ; the diamond. 
 
 Skilled to make base seem brave ; 
 The club, for smiting in the dark ; 
 
 The spade, to dig a grave. 
 
 Though Morris was no painter, the influence 
 of his poetry, the mingled violence and dreami- 
 
 62
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 ness of life in the land of his early poems, or, 
 rather, that arras 
 
 Where the wind set the silken kings asway 
 
 could not but second the influence of painting. 
 The young poet might be expected to see living 
 men and women 
 
 Made sad by dew and wind, and tree-barred moon, 
 
 or 
 
 In Avalon asleep, 
 Among the poppies and the yellow flowers. 
 
 If "the ladies' names bite verily like steel," 
 and massier things weigh more light in " that 
 half sleep, half strife (strange sleep, strange 
 strife) that men call living," yet sometimes might 
 be heard a voice crying : 
 
 When you catch his eyes through the helmit-slitj 
 Swerve to the left, then out at his head. 
 And the Lord God give you joy of it. 
 
 Swinburne's memory of Morris's early verses, 
 or at least King Arthur's Tomb, enabled him 
 to quote them in reviewing Jason, and he 
 thought it would be safe to swear to his 
 accuracy ; " such verses are not forgettable," he 
 said; he found in the figures presented by them 
 "the blood and breath, the shape and step of 
 life." In 1862 he published a story in the 
 manner of Morris's early romances. Dead Love, 
 
 63
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 where a woman falls in love with the corpse of 
 her husband's murderer, and brings it to life by 
 her kissing, but is burnt along with it by the 
 cousin who had brought her the corpse to gratify 
 liate, not love. 
 
 Swinburne's training among artists taught him 
 to say of a poem of Baudelaire : " Nothing can 
 beat that as a piece of beautiful drawing." His 
 review of Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mai is at least 
 as interesting now for its indication of his own 
 tastes and opinions. Taking occasion to remark 
 that French critics seemed to have forgotten 
 that " a poet's business is presumably to write 
 good verses and by no means to redeem the age 
 and remould society," he did not conceal the 
 fact that in the greater part of the book Baude- 
 laire *' has chosen to dwell mainly upon sad and 
 strange things — the weariness of pain and the 
 bitterness of pleasure — the perverse happiness 
 and wayward sorrows of exceptional people. It 
 has the languid lurid beauty of close and 
 threatening weather — a heavy, heated tempera- 
 ture, with dangerous hot-house scents in it ; 
 thick shadow of cloud about it, and fire of 
 molten light." Which is very much what Pater 
 was afterwards to say of Morris's early poems. 
 " It is " Swinburne went on, " quite clear of all 
 whining and windy lamentation ; there is nothing 
 of the blubbering and shrieking style long since 
 
 04
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 exploded. The writer delights in problems and 
 has a natural leaning to obscure and sorrowful 
 things. Failure and sorrow, next to physical 
 beauty and perfection of sound or scent, seem to 
 have an infinite attraction for him. . . . Not the 
 luxuries of pleasures in their first simple form, 
 but the sharp and cruel enjoyments of pain, the 
 acrid relish of suffering felt or inflicted, the sides 
 on which Nature looks unnatural, go to make 
 up the stuff and substance of this poetry. . . . 
 Even of the loathsomest bodily putrescence and 
 decay he can make some noble use." Swin- 
 burne noticed Beaudelaire's "feline style of 
 beauty — subtle, luxurious, with sheathed claws." 
 Finally he said, what might appear to qualify 
 the remark first quoted, but does not and was 
 not meant to do so : " it is not his or any artist's 
 business to warn against evil ; but certainly he 
 does not exhort to it, knowing well enough that 
 the one fault is as great as the other." This is 
 the writing of a man whose intellect, whatever 
 his " Bohemian follies," was clear and serene. 
 
 One of Swinburne's chapters on pictures in 
 Essays and Studies consists of "Notes on 
 Designs of the old Masters at Florence," notes 
 made during a visit in the spring of 1864. 
 As in JVilliam Blake he made a number of 
 brilliant translations of pictures into words, of 
 a drawing by Michael Angelo, for example ; 
 E 65
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 IJroad biacelets divide the shapely splendour of her 
 arms ; over the nakedness of her firm and luminous 
 breasts, just below the neck, there is passed a band as of 
 metal. Her eyes are full of proud and passionless lust 
 after gold and blood ; her hair, close and curled, seems 
 ready to sjiudder in sunder and divide into snakes. Her 
 throat, full and fresh, round and hard to the eye as her 
 bosom and arms, is erect and stately, the head set firm on 
 it without any droop or lift of the chin ; her mouth 
 crueller than a tiger''s, colder than a snake's, and beautiful 
 beyond a woman's. She is the deadlier Venus incarnate ; 
 
 7roX\>] juev €P Ocoim koi'k ujwu^toy 
 Oeu' 
 
 for upon earth also many names might be found for 
 her ; Lamia re-transformed, invested now with a fuller 
 beauty, but divested of all feminine attributes not 
 native to the snake — a Lamia loveless and unassailable 
 by the Sophist, readier to drain life out of her lover 
 than to fade for his sake at his side ; or the Persian 
 Amestris, watching the only breasts on earth more 
 beautiful than her own cut off from her rivaPs living 
 bosom ; or Cleopatra, not dying but turning serpent 
 under the serpent's bite ; or that queen of the extreme 
 East who with her husband marked every day as it 
 went by some device of a new and wonderful cruelty." 
 
 By these fancies he prepared for his own 
 Faustine, for Pater's meditation on La Gio- 
 conda, for the metamorphoses of Dorian Gray. 
 
 Of one head which might be a boy's or a girl's, 
 <' having in it the delicious doubt of ungrown 
 
 no
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 beauty, pausing at the point where the ways of 
 lovehness divide," he says, thinking perhaps both 
 of his own and Musset's Fragoletta — " we may 
 give it the typical strawberry flower {Fragoletta) 
 and leave it to the Loves." 
 
 This visit to Italy confirmed his love of her. 
 Italy, like the sea, became his " Mother " ; she 
 had made him, he said, before his lips could sing 
 her " choral-souled boy priest." Siena became 
 "the lovely city of my love." Above all at 
 Fiesole, with an introduction from Monckton 
 Milnes (Lord Houghton), he called on Landor, 
 the Roman-hearted gentleman, repubHcan, poet, 
 scholar, lover of Italy, dishker of Byron, who had 
 gained " a double crown of glory in verse and in 
 prose " like Milton's and no other Englishman's 
 since, whom, henceforward, man and poet, 
 Swinburne was to praise and re-praise and over- 
 praise continually. He asked and obtained 
 permission to dedicate Atalanta in Calydon to 
 Landor, but by the intervention of death was 
 compelled to dedicate it, which he did in Greek, 
 to Landor's memory, adding a memorial poem 
 to Poems and Ballads, and to Studies in Song a 
 "Song" eight hundred lines long for the 
 centenary, though five years late (1880). Yet 
 further indirect tributes he paid in verse from 
 time to time, by his deification of tyrannicide, 
 for Landor had written a poem, with a note 
 
 67
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Iroin Cicero's "Pliilippics," called "Tyrannicide," 
 
 saying : 
 
 Most dear of all the virtues to her sire 
 
 Is Justice ; and mfist dear 
 To Justice is Tyrannicide . . . 
 
 Other literary influence on Swinburne, except 
 perhaps in confirming his tendency to massive- 
 ness in prose, Landor had none ; for he was the 
 calmest, most temperate, and most motionless of 
 poets ; the author o^ ^italanta was the least calm, 
 the most intemperate, the fullest of motion. 
 But for many years Swinburne liked to recall 
 how I^andor, " Republican and Atheist," who 
 had encouraged and strengthened the young 
 spirit of Shelley half a century before, had done 
 the same for " another young man who aspired 
 to show himself a poet." 
 
 L 
 
 68
 
 Ill 
 
 THE APPROACH 
 
 After Atalanta, but in the same year, Swiii 
 burne published another play, begun, at least, 
 when he was an undergraduate, in the period of 
 Rosamond and JVie Queen Mother. Later re- 
 vision probably made Chastelard a far more 
 characteristic piece. The style, for example, is 
 marked by ways that were to prevail in it 
 thenceforward. Such is the repetition of the 
 long " a " sound in these lines : 
 
 They shall not say but I had grace to give 
 
 Even for love's sake. Why, let them take their way ; 
 
 in many other places, and throughout Mary's 
 speech beginning, " One of you maidens there " ; 
 the repetition also of the same word, as here : 
 
 He says your grace given would scathe yourself, 
 And little grace for such a grace as that . . . ; 
 
 the fondness for an oft-repeated " i " as in : 
 
 And then fall blind and die with sight of it ; 
 
 69
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 and i'or chiming like " lied and died " and 
 
 Have made up my heart 
 To have no part ; 
 
 repetition of an idea under different forms, often 
 with a deceptive appearance of precision, as in : 
 
 Of sweet came sour, of day came night, 
 Of long desire came brief delight ; 
 
 a triumphant use of nothing but monosyllables, 
 for as many as seven lines on end in Mary 
 Beaton's speech beginning, " Nay, let love wait." 
 Throughout the play the variety and fluidity of 
 the lines make the least speeches pleasant to 
 read. 
 
 The subject is the love, evasively and incom- 
 pletely returned, of the poet Chastelard for 
 Mary Stuart (whom he had followed out of 
 France to Scotland), and his execution for " the 
 offence or misfortune of a second detection at 
 night in her bedchamber." Chastelard was be- 
 loved by one of JMary's "four Maries," Mary 
 Beaton, who tried to save him, and at his death 
 prayed for revenge : 
 
 So perish the Queeii's traitors ! yea, but so 
 Perish the Queen ! 
 
 In the third part of the trilogy on Mary Stuart, 
 Mary Beaton watched the execution of the 
 
 70
 
 THE APPROACH 
 
 Queen, the avenging of Chastelard, and heard 
 Elizabeth's men cry, "So perish the Queen's 
 traitors ! " 
 
 The play tells a story of aristocratic and poetic 
 courtship delicately, luxuriously, picturesquely, 
 with perfect sympathy and love of love. No 
 one else had made it superfluous by telling the 
 story in the same way and as well. Swinburne 
 himself could probably not at that time have 
 told it in the same way, if as well, in direct 
 narrative like that of Tristram or Balen : ques- 
 tion of the dramatic form is therefore idle. As 
 in The Queen Mother, there are many striking 
 encounters fitted with appropriate words ; but 
 as in Rosamond, the characters talk about them- 
 selves and one and another: Mary is "quite 
 sure I shall die sadly some day " ; she knows 
 " that I am beautiful " ; and describes the battle 
 of Corrichie and how she rode with her good 
 men and took delight as Swinburne would 
 have described it, but a little more briefly. The 
 story is enriched, but even more retarded, by 
 numerous picturesque delays of song or dance 
 with lyric or pathetic comment. Mary takes 
 Chastelard's sword, and seeing her fingers 
 
 Clear in the blade, bright pink, the shell colour, 
 
 becomes dreamy and suggests wearing it, and 
 pretending to be a man, Chastelard to be a 
 
 71
 
 A. C. SWINHURNE 
 
 woman. A very prcLty book ini|rlii be made 
 out of the pretty, amorous, stately, melanelioly 
 passages. J^ike tlie poet, tliese men and women 
 love the clear, visible world of things under the 
 sun, with a certain fever at thought of things 
 which are under the earth. When JNlary sees her 
 maids talking together she says : 
 
 You weep and whisper zaith sloped necks and heads 
 Like two sick birds. 
 
 In one place she describes the device on a breast- 
 clasp as closely and well as Swinburne describes 
 a picture ; she describes the dress in which she 
 looks so beautiful, and notes, " T am too pale to 
 be so hot." Chastelard, alone in prison, sees the 
 last sunbeam of his life in the dust as clearly as 
 if it were a childish memory. The Scottish 
 citizen, remembering a sermon against Mary 
 and the foreigners, is equally vivid with his pic- 
 ture of Pharaoh's men " beautiful with red and 
 with red gold . . . curling their small beards 
 Agag-fashion," and the woman 
 
 That got bruised breasts in Egypt, when strange men 
 Swart from great suns, foot-burnt with angry soils 
 And strewn with sand of gaunt Chaldean miles^ 
 Poured all their love upon her. . . . 
 
 (Here Swinburne was experimenting towards the 
 AlioUbah of his Poeim and Ballads.) Chastelard 
 will remember, even in the grave, INlary's lips, 
 
 72
 
 THE APPROACH 
 
 More hot than wine, full of sweet wicked words 
 
 Babbled against mine own li])s, and long hands 
 
 Spread out and pale bright throat and pale bright breasts. 
 
 Nor will the reader of the play forget them 
 and her many cruel or bold or graceful or in- 
 flaming acts. Down to the eyelash, nay, the 
 " very inside of the eyelid," and " the blue sweet 
 of each particular vein," the picture of the woman 
 is finished with amorous hands. The '* splendour 
 of great throat " and the lips " curled over, red 
 and sweet," owed something perhaps to Rossetti's 
 studio. The snake at her heart that " quivered 
 like a woman in act to love," seen by Chastelard 
 in a dream, may also have come from a picture, 
 but certainly became Swinburne's own, like the 
 " curled lips " ; Chastelard, for instance, would 
 like to have his soul bitten to death by joy and 
 " end in the old asp's way, Egyptian wise " — in 
 the cruelty of extreme desire he says that to die 
 of life is "sweeter than all sorts of life." 
 
 The chief characteristic of the play is that 
 Chastelard and Mary are lovers rather of love 
 than of one another. They think and dream 
 about love more than they love, and they come 
 as near as persons of spirit can to sickliness. 
 This is no fault, but a limitation. It was Swin- 
 burne's intention, and no accident : not perhaps 
 conscious, but nevertheless the intention of his 
 nature which was towards amorousness, the 
 
 73
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 love and luxury of love. Thus C/iasfclard is 
 like a lyric multiplied and evolved into a play. 
 Less than in other plays do the lyrics contained 
 in it stand out clearly, like single ships on a 
 wide sea. The fragment, 
 
 Aloys la chatelaine 
 Voit venir de par Seine 
 Thiebault la capitaine, 
 
 is but a decoration among decorations. But 
 Mary Beaton herself stands out against the 
 decorations almost like a song. It is she that 
 sings the one English song : 
 
 Between the sunset and the sea 
 My love laid hands and lips on me ; 
 Of sweet came sour, of day came night, 
 Of long desire came brief delight ; 
 Ah love, and what thing came of thee 
 Between the sea-downs and the sea ? . . . 
 
 She opens the play with a French song as 
 she sits with the other three Maries in the 
 upper chamber in Holyrood. Then she is sad 
 with singing and sad to hold her peace, but by 
 the end of the play her dainty sadness has 
 grown to a full sorrow coupled with a hate. 
 She is like Denise in The Quec?i Mother, and 
 shows the poet's feeling for greys among scarlets, 
 purples and greens. 
 
 74
 
 IV 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 When the Chorus in Atalanta, speaking magni- 
 ficently in spite of their conclusion that " silence 
 is most noble till the end," spoke of God as 
 " the supreme evil God " and said : 
 
 All we are against thee^ against thee, O God most high, 
 
 readers were confused because it sounded like 
 the Old Testament ; Chastelard disturbed them 
 because in it God undoubtedly looked small 
 beside Lust, not to speak of Love ; Poems and 
 Ballads made them indignant. At least the 
 poet cannot have disappointed them. They must 
 have guessed that 
 
 All day long 
 He used to sit and jangle words in rhyme 
 To suit with shakes of faint adulterous sound 
 Some French lust in men's ears. . . . 
 
 In the new volume " crueller than God " is a 
 term of comparison, God being a name for the 
 Supreme Being of Christian or Heathen. But 
 the " pale Galilean " also is accused and his end 
 foretold ; in spite even of his power when it was 
 
 75
 
 A. C. SWINRMRNE 
 
 yet new the worshipper of Proserpina could tor 
 a moment cease to lament and say : 
 
 Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but these thou shalt not take, 
 The laurel, the palms and the pa-an, the breast of the 
 
 nymphs in the brake ; 
 Breasts more soft than a dove's, that tremble with tenderer 
 
 breath ; 
 And all the wings of the Loves, and all the joy before 
 
 Death. . . . 
 
 In Dolores the poet asks — 
 
 What ailed us, O Gods, to desert you 
 For creeds that refuse and restrain ? 
 
 and in Laus Veneris the knight of Venus com- 
 pares Venus with Christ : 
 
 Alas, Lord, surely thou art great and fair. 
 But lo, her wonderfully woven hair ! 
 
 On the other hand the story of St. Dorothy 
 and The Cliristmas Carol, "suggested by a 
 drawing of Mr. D. G. Rossetti's," are faultlessly 
 devout ; and The Masque of Queen Bersabe is 
 a miracle play including a pageant of fair 
 women but ending ct tunc dicant laudamus ; 
 Aholibali is a chapter of Ezekiel put almost 
 unchanged into verse. The writer might have 
 been a member of the Church of England, or 
 a Catholic, though hardly a dissenter, and almost 
 certainly not a communicant. He abused God 
 that he might exalt Love and Life. In the 
 
 76
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 same way his lovers talk of death only because 
 they are so much in love with life and love that 
 they are indignant at the shortness thereof. 
 They are protesting against the view of that 
 other poet : 
 
 I am but a stranger here ; 
 Heaven is my home : 
 Earth is a desert drear ; 
 Heaven is my home. . . . 
 
 So, too, they speak often of weariness to show 
 the fury of life that has led to it ; and of pallor 
 to prove how they have spent their blood ; and 
 of sorrow that it may be known they have 
 tasted joy even to the end ; and as to sin, they 
 are monks and nuns in a shrine " where a sin 
 is a prayer." 
 
 At the end the poet could call it all a " revel 
 of rhymes." 
 
 It is even more true of Poems and Ballads 
 than of Chastelard that there is less love in it 
 than love of love, more passionateness than 
 passion. Yet in another sense it is all love and 
 all passion, pure and absolute love and passion 
 that have found "no object worth their con- 
 stancy," and so have poured themselves out on 
 light loves, dead women, women that never 
 were alive except in books, and "daughters of 
 dreams." Few other books are as full of the 
 learning, passing at times into pedantry, of love : 
 
 77
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 experience, fancy, and books have been ransacked 
 to store it, nor could anything but a divine 
 vitaHty have saved it from rancidity, putrescence, 
 dust. The vitaUty ascends to the height of 
 terror, that panic terror of noon which super- 
 stition truly discerned. In the midst of it stands 
 the poet, a young man of an ancient border 
 family with flame-coloured hair, a brilliant human 
 being who lived seventy-two years, and for the 
 most part flourished, until he died of influenza 
 and pneumonia. He resembles the beautiful 
 tyrant in Dolores : 
 
 When, with flame all around him aspirant, 
 
 Stood, flushed as a harp-player stands, 
 The implacable beautiful tyrant, 
 
 Rose-crowned, having Death in his hands ; 
 And a sound as the sound of loud water 
 
 Smote far through the flight of the fires. 
 And mixed with the lightning of slaughter 
 
 A thunder of lyres. 
 
 Until virtue produces a book fuller of life we 
 can only accept the poet's own label of sin in 
 peril of blasphemy. Nor is it inapt to recall 
 that Richard Jefieries, one of the holiest of 
 pagans and a lover o^ Poems caul Hal /ads, named 
 his sweetest heroine after one of its women, 
 Felise, and seems to reflect some of its ardours 
 in The Story of IVIy Heart. 
 
 Yet Swinburne did affix this label of sin. He 
 took it from the world and gloried in it, coup- 
 
 78
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 ling it with Love and Time ; coupling Desire 
 with Pain, Pleasure, Satiety, and Hate ; also 
 with Sorrow and Death. Now he was dwelling 
 on " loves perverse " and the " raptures and roses 
 of vice " in contrast with the " lilies and languors 
 of virtue " ; now calling sin " sweet," but " brief 
 beyond regret," and only a " brief bitter bliss " ; 
 acknowledging " all the sting and all the stain 
 of long delight " ; yet again acclaiming " the 
 strange great sins." Seldom is there any pure 
 so-called pagan delight in what may afterwards 
 be judged sin. At one time the very name of 
 " sin " is given where the world gives it ; at 
 another the pain and the weariness, the feverish- 
 ness, the bitterness, the faintness of it are pub- 
 lished, with moans or laughter. He consciously 
 exalts the name of sin, as Baudelaire did La 
 Debauche et la Mort . . . deux aimables filles ; 
 and Lady Macbeth, dme puissante au crime ; and 
 the Night of Michael Angelo : 
 
 Qui tors paisablement dans un pose etrange 
 Tes appas fa9onnes aux bouches des Titans ; 
 
 and the impure woman, that blind and deaf 
 machine, the queen of sins, the bizarre goddess, 
 the demon without pity : 
 
 Elle croit, elle sait^ cette vierge infeconde 
 Et portant necessaire a la marche du monde, 
 Que la beaute du corps est un sublime don 
 Qui de toute infamie arrache le pardon, 
 
 79
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 But Swinburne is more detaehed than Baude- 
 laire ; his praises are Hghter, and being from tlie 
 lips outward are less sincere as well as more 
 immoderate and unqualified. In a spirit of gay 
 and amateur perversity he flatters sin with the 
 appellations of virtue, as Geoi'ge Herbert gave 
 his religious poetry the unction of love. There 
 is no remorse, no repentance : 
 
 Until God loosen over sea and land 
 
 The thunder and the trumpets of the night. 
 
 The lovers are bruised and regretful but unre- 
 penting so long as they may " live and not 
 languish or feign." Even if " the keen edge of 
 sense foretasteth sin " they cannot relent. 
 Barrenness, sterility, perversity, monstrosity, 
 cruelty, satiety, are made into praises of Love 
 and Sin. Onnie animal post coituvi triste est, as 
 a criticism, cannot touch the wild drift of the 
 rhymes. If evil and misery have this sweetness 
 and tumultuous force, show me what is good 
 and joyous. Civilization and Christianity, 
 England and Puritanism, aristocratic breeding 
 and a classical education, and we know not 
 what, gave this man a ciu'ious knowledge of 
 bodily love and a loyal ardour, a wonderful 
 sweetness and mightiness of words, to celebrate 
 it as it was and as it had been. He brought all 
 the rays of life to bear upon this one thing, 
 
 80
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 making it show forth in turn the splendour and 
 gloom and strangeness of the earth and its 
 inhabitants. And one of his chief energies arose 
 out of opposition to the common, easy condemna- 
 tion or ignoring or denial of this thing. He 
 rebelled against the stupid ideal of colourless 
 polite perfection which would paste strips of 
 paper here and there over the human body, as 
 Christina Rossetti did over the words, " the 
 supreme evil, God," in her copy of Atahmta. 
 Personally, he was, I believe, not opposed to the 
 Criminal Law Amendment Act or even to 
 Divorce Law Reform. He sang what in his 
 hours of intensest life most rapt the attention 
 of his keenest powers of mind and body 
 together. 
 
 But, as a rule, he is not directly expressing a 
 personal emotion or experience. Few of the 
 completely characteristic poems of this volume 
 are or could have been addressed to one woman : 
 it is quite likely that the poet seldom felt mono- 
 gamous "three whole days together," and that 
 if he knew the single-hearted devotion to one 
 woman often expressed by Shakespeare, Burns, 
 Shelley, Wordsworth, or Rossetti, he never 
 expressed it, unless it was in A Leave-taking. 
 Instead of " Margaret and Mary and Kate and 
 Caroline," he celebrates Faustine, Fragoletta, 
 Aholibah, Dolores, Azubah, Aholah, Ahinoam, 
 F 81
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Atarah ; and it is a shock, though a pleasant 
 one, suddenly to come upon the Interlude^ 
 blithe, bright and actual, recording the happi- 
 ness between the singer and a woman who came 
 when 
 
 There was something the season wanted, 
 Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet. 
 
 This poem belongs to a class more numerous 
 than conspicuous in Swinburne's early poetry, 
 including, among others, Rococo, Stage Love, 
 A Match, Before Parting, and Anima Anceps. 
 They vary from the fanciful and playful to the 
 elegiac, but are all of such a kind that they 
 might have been not remotely connected with 
 the writer's experience. They have in them 
 something of Browning and something of 
 Rossetti under the influence of Browning. 
 They are admirably done, but they are ob- 
 scured by the poems of more astonishing 
 qualities, which were possibly drawn from a 
 longer fermentation of the same experiences. 
 Into the same class with them, as showing 
 Swinburne comparatively pale and mild, go the 
 narratives in the manner of Rossetti or some 
 other obvious model, and the decorative verses 
 after the style of Morris, and exercises, how- 
 ever consummate, like Aholihah, which could be 
 thought pure Swinburne by one ignorant of 
 Ezekiel. 
 
 82
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 Some of these lesser poems prove his ability 
 to idealize quite blamelessly, as in the meek 
 lines of St. Doi^othy : 
 
 Where she sat working, with soft bended brows, 
 Watching her threads, among the school maidens. 
 
 He could be blameless to absurdity, as in speak- 
 ing of the maidens' " cold, small, quiet beds." 
 He preferred to idealize beds that were neither 
 cold nor quiet. He himself has told us some- 
 thing of the origin of Faustine : 
 
 ^' Faustine is the reverie of a man gazing on 
 the bitter and vicious loveliness of a face as 
 common and as cheap as the morality of re- 
 viewers, and dreaming of past lives in which 
 this fair face may have held a nobler or fairer 
 station ; the imperial profile may have been 
 Faustina's, the thirsty lips a Maenad's, when 
 first she learnt to drink blood or wine, to waste 
 the loves and win the lives of men ; through 
 Greece and through Rome she may have 
 passed with the same face which now comes 
 before us dishonoured and discrowned. What- 
 ever of merit or demerit there may be in the 
 verses, the idea that gives them such life as 
 they have is simple enough ; the transmigration 
 of a single soul doomed as though by accident 
 from the first to all evil and no good, through 
 many ages and forms, but clad always in the 
 same type of fleshly beauty. The chance which 
 
 83
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 suggested to me this poem was one wliicli may 
 happen any day to any man — the sudden sight 
 of a living face which recalled the well-known 
 likeness of another dead for centuries : in this 
 instance the noble and faultless type of the 
 elder Faustina as seen in coin and bust. Out 
 of the casual glimpse and sudden recollection 
 these verses sprang." 
 
 That Swinburne was ready to take a hint of 
 this kind may be seen from the story of how a 
 lady deceived him by playing " Three Blind 
 Mice " as a very ancient Florentine ritornello ; 
 for he found that " it reflected to perfection the 
 cruel beauty of the Medicis." He had a nature 
 that magnified, and taste directed his magnifica- 
 tion towards sin and the sublimity of little- 
 known or wholly imagined evil : nor was he 
 incapable of deliberately flaunting vices before 
 the incurious virtuous. 
 
 As his poems are seldom personal, so they 
 are not real as Donne's or Byron's or Browning's 
 are, though often " realistic " at certain points. 
 
 I They are magnificent, but more than human. 
 Bliss were indeed bitter and brief if wives and 
 mistresses were so lithe and lascivious and 
 poisonous, snakes so numerous, blood and foam 
 so frequent in bower and brake. They are divine 
 
 \ rather than human, like the pictures in the 
 I temple at Sestos : 
 
 ^ 84
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 There might you see the Gods in sundry shapes, 
 
 Committing heady riots, incests, rapes : 
 
 For know, that underneath this radiant floor 
 
 Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower, 
 
 Love slyly stealing from his sister's bed. 
 
 To dally with Idalian Ganimede, 
 
 And for his love Europa bellowing loud. 
 
 And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud. . . . 
 
 Nature and inanimate things are sympa- 
 thetic ; not only are the girdle and the hair 
 " amorous," but the water round a woman 
 bathing is "sweet, fierce water." In A Ballad 
 of Life the very ballad is human flesh : 
 
 Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms. 
 
 Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat 
 Where the least thorn-prick harms ; 
 
 And girdled in thy golden singing-coat, 
 Come thou before my lady and say this ; 
 
 Borgia, thy gold hair's colour burns in me. 
 Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes ; 
 
 Therefore so many as these roses be. 
 
 Kiss me so many times. 
 Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is, 
 
 That she will stoop herself none otherwise 
 
 Than a blown vine branch doth. 
 And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes, 
 
 Ballad, and on thy mouth. 
 
 Except for the " vine branch," the verse gives 
 by itself a perfect courtly picture, dainty and 
 joyous, as a man sometimes imagines some 
 utterly past mode of life to have been. Swin- 
 burne could use the same sensuous plenty upon 
 
 85
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 something in tlic ordinary plane of life, as in 
 At Partifij^; but not witliout a touch almost of 
 meanness in the absence of anything else : In 
 t/ie Orchard, a not dissimilar mediaeval piece 
 from the Proven(,'al, is far finer, if it is not the 
 finest of all. In his most characteristic work, 
 as in Laus Veneris, The Triumph of Timc^ 
 Dolores, the ballads of Life and Death, he 
 multiplies thoughts and images, either very 
 clear or vaguely sublime or luxurious, consistent 
 with one another and given continuity by the 
 mood, and still more by the lovely stanza-form. 
 Only in the narrative work is this continuity, 
 logical or emotional, very definite, though the 
 pervading unity of tone usually gives a satis- 
 factory first impression. 
 
 Of confessedly decorative poems in the style 
 of Morris he wrote very few. He preferred 
 forms that allowed a loose combination of the 
 abstract and the concrete, where he could 
 multiply melodiously, as in A Hijnm to Proser- 
 pine, Hcsperia, A Lainentation. Catalogues, 
 like the Masque of Queen Bersabe, and A Ballad 
 of Burdens, and all stanza forms, the more 
 elaborate the better, permitting or commanding 
 repetition, like .i Litajuf and the Rondels, 
 pleased him. Every form made terms with him 
 except blank verse, wiiich naturally did not 
 compel him to the clear definition, the regular 
 
 86
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 pauses and slight variations of theme necessary 
 to produce his best poems and yet to confine 
 them ; even couplets were not always firm 
 enough in their hold on his energies. 
 
 The stanza forms of the book are numerous 
 and very different. Some are old, but he makes 
 the old seem new by making it leap, or making 
 it pause with "long reluctant amorous delay," 
 so that it hardly moves at all. Some are new 
 or unfamiliar. Even the stanza of Omar, used 
 for Laus Veneris, is transmuted, by rhyming the 
 third lines of each pair of quatrains, and by 
 greater variety of movement than Fitzgerald 
 gave it. In each poem the rhythm and the 
 arrangement of rhymes give the form a richness, 
 a clear tangibility, which must be enjoyed for 
 its own sake if a full half of the poem is not to 
 be lost. They might be as fairly indicated by 
 their metres as their subjects, except that Swin- 
 burne's use of metre is so individual that we 
 should have to say " a study in the stanza of 
 Dolo?^es," and so on. This is true not only of the 
 poems of love and lust, and the confessed ex- 
 periments in Sapphics and hendecasyllabics, but 
 of poems with a more social significance, like 
 those to Hugo and the memory of Landor, 
 and the songs In Time of Order, In Time of 
 Revolution, where the poet reveals intellectual 
 passions. He does not, like another poet, have 
 
 87
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 to think ill his metre : his mastery compels the 
 metre to think for him. 
 
 Swinburne's style liad now fully manifested 
 itself. Some of its qualities were prominent, 
 especially the repetition— repetition of single 
 vowel or consonant sounds, of single words, of 
 groups of words, of ideas. AVhether always 
 conscious or not, these were essentials in Swin- 
 burne's art. Some of them obviously make for 
 pleasantness of sound, as in the repeated " ur " 
 sound in " and pearl and purple and amber on 
 her feet"; others more doubtfully, as in the 
 frequent use of " light and night " and the like, 
 and the " i's " of Fragoletta : 
 
 O sole desire of my delight ! 
 O sole delight of my desire ! 
 Mine eyelids and eyesight 
 Feed on thee day and night 
 Like lips of fire. 
 
 Almost certainly unconscious were repetitions 
 like that of the image of a wine press, four times 
 used in Laus Veneris and several times else- 
 were : unconscious, too, the extent of the 
 repeated use, not merely in close connection, 
 but all through the book, of snakes and sin, of 
 the words lithe, pale, curled, sting, strange, sad, 
 great, soft, sweet, barren, sterile, etc., and of 
 collocations like : 
 
 88
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 Or poisonous foam on the tender tongue 
 Of the little snakes that eat my heart. 
 
 But repetition was not the only element 
 in the sweetness and sonority of Poems and 
 Ballads. As Swinburne loved the vowel sound 
 in "light," so he did all full vowels, especially 
 in combination with 1, r, m, and n, as in the line : 
 
 Comfort and cool me as dew in the dawn of a moon like a 
 dream. 
 
 Much as he delighted in the speed of the 
 anapaest with its subdued "of the," "in the," 
 "and the," "of a," "in a," "and a," etc., he 
 delighted also in the slow long vowels close 
 together which make the end of the last line of 
 A Ballad of Life a kiss : 
 
 And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes. 
 Ballad, and on thy mouth. 
 
 The rich effect of the repeated "th," of the 
 "m," the "i," and the "ou," apart from the 
 rhyme, is incomparably beyond that of the same 
 idea — if it be called so — had it been expressed by 
 
 Ballad, and om the Lips. 
 
 Sometimes he must bring together " thine " and 
 "heart," as when he does so and gives such 
 fondness to the slow line : 
 
 The soft south whither thine heart is set. 
 
 89
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Rather more than nothing perhaps is sacrificed 
 to sound, hut far more to the need for a stately, 
 a dchcate, or a suhhme scttincr to Love, Time 
 and Sin. The love of all lovely and pleasant 
 things deludes to some inexcusahly amphficd 
 similes. It may do no harm to the praise of a 
 woman to say that 
 
 Her breasts are like white birds, 
 And all her gracious words 
 As water-grass to herds 
 In the June days : 
 
 it certainly does not : but when Demeter in At 
 Eleusis describes herself unswaddhng the infant 
 Triptolemus, 
 
 Unwinding cloth from cloth 
 As who unhusks an almond to the white 
 And pastures curiously the purer taste, 
 
 she indulges the sense of taste inopportunely. 
 Other similes are carried so far that the matter 
 of the simile is more important in the total 
 than what it appeared to intensify ; others merely 
 add to the quality, not inharmonious and not 
 quite intelligible nor asking to be wholly under- 
 stood, of the passage, as in Hesperia : 
 
 And my heart yearns baffled and blind, moved vainly toward 
 thee, and moving 
 As the refluent seaweed moves in the languid exuberant 
 stream, 
 
 90
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 Fair as a rose is on earth, as a rose under water in prison, 
 That stretches and swings to the low passionate pulse of 
 the sea. 
 Closed up from the air and the sun, but alive, as a ghost 
 rearisen, 
 Pale as the love that revives as a ghost rearisen in me. 
 
 Here no likely reader will inquire, far enough 
 to be troubled, what it is that resembles the 
 rose, or that stretches and swings, or that is 
 closed up fi'om the air ; or object that finally 
 the subject of the comparison is virtually used 
 as a comparison for the comparison. Neither 
 perhaps should it be complained that in the 
 same poem Death is both a person and a some- 
 thing with " iron sides " through which hell can 
 be seen ; that in the same poem Love is a 
 "bloomless bower," and only "lives a day"; that 
 there are beds " full of perfume and sad sound," 
 and doors " made " with music and " barred 
 round " with sighing and laughter and tears, and 
 that with the tears "strong souls of men are 
 bound " : nor complained that very different things 
 are frequently spoken of as if belonging to the 
 same class, as "lips," "foam," and "fangs," or 
 " serpents " and " cruelties," " summer and per- 
 fume and pride," " sand and ruin and gold," 
 " the treading of wine " and " the feet of the 
 dove," " spring and seed and swallow " ; and 
 that exact correspondence is wanting in the 
 lines : 
 
 91
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 For reaping folk and sowing, 
 For harvest time and mowing. 
 
 Where metaphor and simile crowd they have 
 a lower scale of values than common, and no 
 attempt need be made to see Love filling itself 
 with tears, girdlintr itself with sighintr, letting 
 its ears be filled with " rumour of people sorrow- 
 ing," wearing sighs (not sighing) for a raiment, 
 decorated with " pains " and " many a grievous 
 thing," and having sorrows " for armlet and for 
 gorget and for sleeve." I do not know how to 
 defend it, except that in practice and in a state 
 of sobriety that verse of A Ballad of DeatJi can 
 be read with pleasure and without question. 
 But this confusion of categories and indefinite 
 definiteness of images is as common in Swin- 
 burne's poetry, as in bad prose. He will say 
 that a woman is " clothed like summer with 
 sweet hours," but that at the same time her 
 eyelids are shaken and blue and filled with 
 sorrow. He will say also that she had a cithern 
 strung with the " subtle-coloured " hair of a dead 
 lute-player, the seven strings being charity, 
 tenderness, pleasure, sorrow, sleep, and sin, and 
 " loving kindness, that is pity's kin and is most 
 pitiless " ; while of the three men with her one 
 is pity and another is sorrow. Who the lady is 
 and who " my lady " is, and what in A Ballad of 
 Life his soul meant in saying : 
 
 92
 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 This is marvellous 
 Seeing the air's face is not so delicate 
 Nor the sun's grace so great, 
 If sin and she be kin or amorous, 
 
 remains a matter for subtle and perhaps eternal 
 debate. Marvellous it also is that such confusion 
 ^ of what must be and what cannot be visualized 
 should yet be harmonized by rhythm, by sweet- 
 ness of words, and by the dominant ideas of Love, 
 etc., into something which on the whole the mind 
 accepts and the spirit embraces. At the same 
 time, not all the vagueness is good. " Grey old 
 miseries " is not good ; nor is " hours of fruitful 
 breath " or " lands wherein time grows " ; " the 
 wild end of things " is an inadequate description 
 of the scene of Prometheus' agony. There are 
 places, too, where the poet's figurative use of 
 " clothed " and " clad," from the first page to 
 the last but one, is vain, as when " the wave of 
 the world " is said to be " clad about with seas 
 as with wings " and also " impelled of invisible 
 tides." The source may, perhaps, be found in 
 the Biblical " clothed in thunder," which is said 
 to be a sublimity of mistranslation. 
 
 The Bible gave him the matter and language 
 of the whole of A Litany, and with Malory 
 and Morris gave him something at least of his 
 taste for monosyllables, the archaism of words 
 like " certes," " right gladly then," " begot," and 
 
 93
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 of wliole poems like The Manque of Queen 
 Bcrmbe. From Rossctti he took the habit of 
 rhyming " waters " with " hers " and so on ; from 
 Baudelaire something of his Satanism and some 
 of his snakes; from Hugo some of his exuberance. 
 But these elements are seldom unduly con- 
 spicuous save under a microscope. Elements 
 peculiarly his own are far more conspicuous. 
 Love of sound and especially of rhyme per- 
 suaded him to a somewhat lighter use of words 
 than is common among great poets. Space 
 would be wasted by examples of words pro- 
 duced apparently by submission to rhyme, not 
 mastery over it. The one line in Hespeiia : 
 
 Shrill shrieks in our faces the blind bland air that was mute 
 as a maiden, 
 
 is enough to illustrate the poet's carelessness of 
 the fact that alliteration is not a virtue in itself. 
 
 Since the adjective is most ready when words 
 are wanted he used a great number, yet without 
 equally great variety. He kept as it were a 
 harem of words, to which he was constant and 
 absolutely faithful. Some he favoured more 
 than others, but he neglected none. He used 
 them more often out of compliment than of 
 necessity. Compare his " bright fine lips " with 
 the passages quoted by Ruskin from Shake- 
 speare, Shelley, Suckling, and Leigh Hunt. 
 'J'hey do not belong to the same school of lan- 
 
 94
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 guage as " Here hung those hps," or Suckhng's 
 
 Her lips were redj and one was thin 
 Compared with that was next her cliin. 
 (Some bee had stung it newly.) 
 
 " Bright " and " fine " could doubtless be applied 
 to lips with perfect aptness, but they are not 
 applied so here. They are complimentary and 
 not descriptive. Swinburne admired brightness, 
 and he called a woman's lips "bright" and in 
 the next stanza but one a blackbird " bright." 
 1 do not know what " fine " means, but I sus- 
 pect that it is not much more definite than the 
 vulgar " fine " and his own " splendid." A group 
 of his epithets, as in "the lost white feverish 
 limbs" of the drowned Sappho, has sometimes 
 the effect of a single epithet by a master like 
 Keats. Many epithets express the poet's opinions 
 of things as much as their qualities, as in "mar- 
 vellous chambers," "strange weathers," "keen 
 thin fish," " mystic and sombre Dolores," " strong 
 broken spirit of a wave," " hard glad weather," 
 "purple blood of pain," "feverish weather," 
 " shameful scornful lips," " splendid supple 
 thighs," " sad colour of strong marigolds," " clean 
 great time of goodly fight," " fair pure sword," 
 " like a snake's love lithe and fierce," " heavenly 
 hair," " heavenly hands," " mute melancholy lust 
 of heaven," " fine drouth," " fierce reluctance of 
 
 95
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 disastrous stars," "tideless dolorous midland 
 sea," " fresh fetlocks," " fervent oars," or the four- 
 teen epithets applied to Dolores. The epithets 
 in the last stanza of A Ihilhid of l^catli are all 
 appropriate to the intention of the poet — 
 "rusted," "rain-rotten," "waste," "late un- 
 liappy" — and in keeping with the ideas of 
 fading, sighing, groaning, bowing down, even- 
 ing and death — but are for the most part but 
 indifferently fitted for their respective places, 
 and could perhaps safely be transposed in half a 
 dozen ways without affecting the "sense, though 
 I shall not prove it. That transposition would 
 change and probably spoil the total effect there 
 is no denying. 
 
 But Swinburne has almost no magic felicity 
 of words. He can astonish and melt but seldom 
 thrill, and when he does it is not by any felicity 
 of as it were God-given inevitable words. He 
 has to depend on sound and an atmosphere of 
 words which is now and then concentrated and 
 crystallized into an intensity of effect which is 
 almost magical, perhaps never quite magical. 
 This atmosphere comes from a vocabulary very 
 rich in words connected with objects and sensa- 
 tions and emotions of pleasure and beauty, 
 but used, as I have said, somewhat lightly 
 and even in appearance indiscriminately. No 
 poet could be poorer in brief electric phrases, 
 
 96
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 pictorial or emotional. The first line of 
 
 Out of the golden remote wild west where the sea without 
 shore is, 
 
 is an example of Swinburne's way of accu- 
 mulating words which altogether can suggest 
 rather than infallibly express his meaning. 
 "Golden," "remote," "wild," "west," "sea," 
 and " without shore " all have already some 
 emotional values, of which the line gives no 
 more than the sum, the rhythm and gram- 
 matical connection saving the words from death 
 and inexpressiveness. In the whole opening 
 passage of this poem there is the same accu- 
 mulation, aided by the vague, as in "region of 
 stories " and " capes of the past oversea." 
 
 Perhaps the greatest of his triumphs is in 
 keeping up a stately solemn play of words not 
 unrelated to the object suggested by his title 
 and commencement but more closely related to 
 rhymes, and yet in the end giving a compact 
 and powerful impression. The play of words 
 often on the very marge of nonsense has acted 
 as an incantation, partly by pure force of 
 cadence and kiss of rhymes, partly by the accu- 
 mulative force of words in the right key though 
 otherwise lightly used. Hardly one verse means 
 anything in particular, hardly one line means 
 G 97
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 anything at all, but nothing is done inconsistent 
 with the opening, nothing which the rashest 
 critic would venture to call unavailing in the 
 complete effect. Single words are used in some 
 poems, verses in others, as contributive rather 
 than essential ; their growth is by simple addi- 
 tion rather than evolution. Some pieces could 
 probably lose a verse or two without mutilation 
 or any loss. Faustine or JJo/o7'Cs, for example, 
 could ; and Felise would not miss many a verse, 
 and several of those phrases like 
 
 The sweetest name that ever love 
 Grew weary of, 
 
 in which it is exceptionally rich. Who would 
 miss a couple of queens from the crowd of 
 Herodias, Aholibah, Cleopatra, Abihail, Azu- 
 bah, Aholah, Ahinoam, Atarah, Semiramis, 
 Hesione, Chrysothemis, Thomyris, Harhas, 
 INIyrrha, Pasiphae, Sappho, IMessalina, Ames- 
 tris, Ephrath, Pasithea, Alaciel, Erigone ? AMio 
 could weep at the loss of a verse in the poems. 
 To Victor Hugo, or In Memorij of Walter Savage 
 lAUidor, which not even exaggeration can save ? 
 And yet at the same time the man who would 
 not miss Azubah or Atarah would not willingly 
 consent to her disappearance. It was not a good 
 thing to use simple addition very often as Shelley 
 had done once in The Sky-Lark ; but Swinburne 
 
 98
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS 
 
 also wrote In an Orchard, Itylus, Anima Anceps, 
 The Garden of Proserpine, and Before Dazvn, 
 where addition had no part, where English 
 words sang together as before 1866 they had 
 never done. In some of the poems, and con- 
 summately in Anima Anceps, the rhyming words 
 have a life of their own, as of birds singing or 
 fauns dancing. 
 
 99
 
 OPINIONS : PROSE-WORKS 
 
 England is said to have been troubled by the 
 sound of Swinburne praying to Dolores to 
 " forgive us our virtues." " The average English- 
 man," says an Edinburgh reviewer, " is not 
 easily thrown by the most potent spells into a 
 state of amorous delirium " ; he is anxious also 
 that others should share his salvation. The 
 book was withdrawn from sale by Moxon, but 
 taken over by Hotten. The " clatter," said 
 Swinburne at a much later day, gave him the 
 pleasure of comparing " the variously inaccurate 
 verdicts of the scornful or mournful censors who 
 insisted on regarding all the studies of passion or 
 sensation attempted or achieved in it as either 
 confessions of positive fact or excursions of 
 absolute fancy " ; in the Dedicatory Epistle to 
 the Collected Poems (1904) he was content to 
 say that " there are photographs from life in the 
 book ; and there are sketches from imagination." 
 He withdrew nothing. " There is not," he said 
 in The AtheniEum, 1877. " one piece, there is not 
 
 100
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 one line, there is not one word, there is not one 
 syllable in any one copy ever printed of that 
 book which has ever been changed or cancelled 
 since the day of publication." 
 
 The best-known attack, Robert Buchanan's 
 article on " The Fleshly School of Poetry " over 
 the signature of " Thomas Maitland," appeared 
 in The Contemporary in 1871, five years after 
 Poems and Ballads. In this article Tennyson's 
 Maud was summoned to receive blame for 
 affording "distinct precedent for the hysteric 
 tone and overloaded style which is now so 
 familiar to readers of Mr. Swinburne." Mingling 
 amused contempt with righteous anger, he 
 called the author of Anactoria and Laus Veneris 
 "only a little mad boy letting off squibs." 
 Swinburne's reply. Under the Microscope, was 
 withheld on account of an abusive digression 
 upon Tennyson's Idylls of the King, the " Morte 
 d' Arthur " and its " lewd circle of strumpets and 
 adulterers revolving round the central figure of 
 their inane wittol " ; but it is worth reading for 
 some of the criticism in that digression, and for 
 the loose and merry vigour of the retaliation 
 upon Buchanan of which this may serve as a 
 specimen : 
 
 Well may this incomparable critic, this unique and sove- 
 reign arbiter of thought and letters ancient and modern, 
 remark with compassion and condemnation, how inevitably 
 
 101
 
 A. C. SWTNHURXE 
 
 a tmining in Greek literature must tend to "emasculate'' 
 the student so trained; and well may we conifratulate 
 ourselves that no such process as robbed of all strength 
 and manhood the intelligence of Milton has had power to 
 impair the virility of Mr. Huchanan\s robust and masculine 
 genius. To that strong and severe figure we turn from 
 the sexless and nerveless company of shrill-voiced singers 
 who share with Milton the curse of enforced effeminacy ; 
 from the pitiful soprano notes of such dubious creatures as 
 Marlowe, Jonson, Chapman, Gray, Coleridge, Shelley, 
 Landor, cum semlviro comitatu, we avert our ears to 
 catch the higher and manlier harmonies of a poet with all 
 his natural parts and powers complete. For truly, if love 
 or knowledge of ancient art and wisdom be the sure mark 
 of " emasculation " and the absence of any taint of such 
 love or any tincture of such knowledge (as then in 
 consistency it must be) the supreme sign of perfect man- 
 hood, Mr. Robert Buchanan should be amply competent 
 to renew the Thirteenth labour of Hercules. 
 
 One would not be a young maid in his way 
 For more than blushing come to. 
 
 Nevertheless, in a country where (as Mr. Carlyle says in 
 his essay on Diderot) indecent exposure is an offence 
 cognizable at police offices, it might have been as well for 
 him to uncover with less immodest publicity the gigantic 
 nakedness of his ignorance. . . . 
 
 For some time after this Swinburne indulged 
 in the pleasure of harassing Buchanan, the 
 " polypseudonymous lyrist and libeller," with 
 prose and verse of some humour and much 
 hilarity. In later years he is said to have called 
 
 102
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 his early poems, or some of them, "sins of youth." 
 The crude mass of popular opinion had perhaps 
 made him feel that he had been too much of a 
 propagandist, or Satanic missionary. Whether 
 or not he felt that he had been guilty of " some 
 more or less inappropriate extravagance of 
 expression," as in some "hasty" topical lines long 
 afterwards, he had no wish to stand at street 
 corners beseeching all that would be saved to 
 adopt a wholesale un-English immorality. He 
 might not object to JNlaupassant's picture of 
 himself as perhaps the most extravagantly 
 artistic being then upon the face of the earth, a 
 fantastic apparition, dwelling among fantastic 
 pictures and incredible books, with an equally 
 surprising friend and a monkey, adorning his 
 dinner table with another monkey roasted. He 
 himself told how, when he was rescued from 
 drowning off the coast of France, he was 
 wrapped in a sail by the fisherman and beguiled 
 the return with declamations from the poetry of 
 Victor Hugo. In later years he declared at a 
 supper party that if he could indulge his whim 
 he would build a castle with seven towers, and 
 in each of the towers daily should be enacted 
 one of the seven deadly sins ; he enjoyed saying 
 that "after Catullus and Ovid," there was pro- 
 bably no poet "with whose influence a pious 
 parent or a judicious preceptor should be so 
 
 103
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 anxious to imbue or may be so confident of 
 imbuing the innocent mind of in^^enuous youth," 
 as Musset. But he spoke in elderly tones of the 
 decay coming upon Musset " which unmistak- 
 ably denotes and inevitably chastises a youth 
 not merely passionate or idle, sensual or self- 
 indulgent, but prurient and indifferent, callous 
 and effeminate at once " ; he condemned with 
 impatience Keats' early verses as " some of the 
 most vulgar and fulsome doggerel ever whim- 
 pered by a vapid and effeminate rhymester in the 
 sickly stage of whelphood " ; and pronounced 
 that "a manful kind of man or even a manly 
 sort of boy, in his love-making or in his suffering, 
 will not howl and snivel after such a lamentable 
 fashion " as Keats in his letters to Fanny 
 Brawne. 
 
 Swinburne had in fact something like the 
 standards of any other Englishman of his class 
 in most matters excepting art and beauty. 
 Even his view of art was modified to suit these 
 standards in the presence of so new a phenome- 
 non as Zola or Whitman. "What," he asked, 
 when Zola's L'Assommoir was appearing in 
 La Republique des Lettres : 
 
 What in the name of common sense, of human reason, 
 is it to us, whether the author's private life be or be not 
 comparable only, for mystic and infantile purity, to that 
 of such men as Marcus Aurelius or St. Francis of Assisi, 
 
 104
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 if his published work be what beyond all possible question 
 it is — comparable only for physical and for moral abomina- 
 tion to such works as, by all men's admission, it is im- 
 possible to call into such a court as the present, and there 
 bring them forward as the sole fit subjects for com- 
 parison ; for the simple and sufficient reason, that 
 the mention of their very names in print is generally, 
 and not unnaturally, considered to be of itself an ob- 
 scene outrage on all literary law and prescription of 
 propriety ? 
 
 He confessed with some naivete that he had not 
 read the book through and could not do. He 
 was not interested in the matter of L'Assom- 
 moir ; he felt himself perhaps confronted with 
 an enemy of his class and tradition ; he proved 
 to himself that it was not a work of art and 
 condemned it. In the case of Whitman he 
 began by admiring the democracy and the 
 sexual freedom of Leaves of Grass. He said 
 in 1872 that as far as he knew he was entirely 
 at one with Whitman " on general matters not 
 less than on political " ; to him the views of life 
 set forth by Whitman appeared " thoroughly 
 acceptable and noble, perfectly credible and 
 sane " ; in Songs before Sunrise he had called 
 out to the American poet : 
 
 Send but a song over sea for us^ 
 
 Heart of their hearts who are free. 
 
 Heart of their singer, to be for us 
 More than our singing can be. . . . 
 
 105
 
 A. C. SWINIU ll\E 
 
 15ut by 1887 Whitman's opinions were no 
 longer sullicient to excuse his lorni or his con- 
 scious purpose. Therefore Swinburne said that 
 " Macpherson could at least evoke shadows : 
 Mr. Tupper and Mr. Whitman can only accunm- 
 late words. The informing principle of his 
 work is not so much the negation as the con- 
 tradiction of the creative principle of poetry." 
 So much for his art. As for his opinions, 
 " Mr. ^^^hitman's Venus is a Hottentot wench 
 under the influence of cantharides and adulter- 
 ated rum," and in Studies i?i Prose and Poetry 
 Swinburne appealed to public taste in an 
 eloquent passage beginning : "If nothing that 
 concerns the physical organism of men or of 
 women is common or unclean or improper for 
 literary manipulation ..." 
 
 In brief, Swinburne in his fiftieth year felt 
 that Whitman, his ideas and his methods, were 
 incompatible with fact and fancy at Eton, 
 Capheaton, Paphos or Putney. Probably he 
 was already equally admiring and "adoring" 
 both Imogen and Cleopatra, both Blake and 
 Baudelaire, in the days of Poems and Ballads 
 and of his first love of AVhitman, when it seemed 
 to him that the qualities common to Blake 
 and Whitman were so many and grave as 
 " to afford some ground of reason to those who 
 preach the transition of souls or transfusion 
 
 106
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 of spirits." So, too, when he had had enough 
 of Whitman and abused him with a virulence 
 due perhaps in part to shame at his former 
 admiration, he retained his detestation of Puri- 
 tanism " from whose inherited and infectious 
 tyranny this nation is as yet (1889) but im- 
 perfectly delivered." It may be surmised also 
 that he continued to be able to enjoy the rich 
 strong humour of Jonson's Bartholomew Fair, 
 having refused to leave the table in disgust at 
 the coarseness of the meats and the rankness 
 of the sauces. He did not resent Aristophanes 
 or Rabelais. But Coprology or the Science of 
 Filth he " left to Frenchmen," at a time when 
 his patriotism had the upper hand. Moreover, 
 he condemned Wycherley's Country Wife as 
 one of the disgraces of our literature — "the 
 mere conception . . . displays a mind so prurient 
 and leprous, uncovers such an unfathomable 
 and unimaginable beastliness of imagination, 
 that in the present age he would probably have 
 figured as a virtuous journalist and professional 
 rebuker of poetic vice or artistic aberration." 
 Nor could he stomach the "realism and ob- 
 scenity " of Shakespeare's third period, the 
 " fetid fun and rancid ribaldry of Pandarus and 
 Thersites " : though he was ineligible for mem- 
 bership of a Society for the Suppression of 
 Shakespeare or Rabelais, of Homer or the 
 
 107
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Bible, he could feel only rcj)ulsion on reading 
 the prose portions of the fourth act of '* Pericles." 
 He was glad to be rid of these things, the only 
 matter in Shakespeare's work which could be 
 unattractive to the perceptions of " any healthy- 
 minded and reasonable human creature." Nor 
 should it be forgotten that he thought no man 
 ever did Shakespeare better service than Bowdler, 
 who " made it possible to put him into the 
 hands of intelligent and imaginative children." 
 
 These words were written thirteen years after 
 the publication of Poems and Ballads. With 
 very short intervals Swinburne probably ad- 
 mired " healthy-minded and reasonable " human 
 creatures all the days of his life. AVith aberra- 
 tions, he was himself a healthy-minded and 
 reasonable man. He thought Charles Dickens 
 the " greatest Englishman of his generation," 
 and though his expressions were too easily 
 excessive, he was at most points in agreement 
 with general or respectable opinion, when he 
 had not, as in the case of Blake or Fitzgerald, 
 powerfully helped to create it, or far preceded 
 it. Never a shy solitary singer, he gradually 
 took a public or national, though not a popular, 
 position. He wrote patriotic sonnets about the 
 Armada and about the Boer War. Even when 
 not a patriot he was a passionate lover of Eng- 
 land, of her fields and waters, of her great men, 
 
 108
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 from the Bastard in King John to Cromwell 
 and Nelson, from Chaucer and Shakespeare and 
 Milton to Landor and Shelley ; and generously 
 he praised them, with a kind of mingled state- 
 liness and excitement, conservatism and revolu- 
 tionism. He would not have Arnold speak of 
 England as if it were the whole of Philistia, 
 and wisely answered a certain page with : " I do 
 not say that marriage dissoluble only in an 
 English divorce court is a lovely thing or a 
 venerable ; I do say that marriage indissoluble 
 except by Papal action is not." He not only 
 loved Shakespeare and Rabelais and Cervantes, 
 but it pleased him to repeat it : " And now 
 abideth Rabelais, Cervantes, Shakespeare, these 
 three ; but the greatest of these is Shake- 
 speare." If " to recognize their equal, even their 
 better when he does come," were the test of 
 great men, as Swinburne says it is their delight, 
 great would he be, for his praise of Hugo, 
 Leconte de Lisle, Tennyson, Browning, Arnold, 
 Rossetti, Dickens, Mrs. Browning. . . . He 
 lived by admiring usually to the point of adora- 
 tion, which was for him religion, though he 
 scorned idolatry. For on the whole he was 
 glad of the earth and what was upon it, past 
 i and present. He preferred Milton's Areo- 
 pagitica to Carlyle's Latter Day Pamphlets, 
 and Athens to New York, but he believed also 
 
 109
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 in " the incalculable progress of hunumity " since 
 Shakespeare's death, and he enjoyed the in- 
 comparable felicity of sharing the earth with 
 \'ictor Hugo. 
 
 As to the formal religions current in his time 
 he could seldom speak of them with much 
 civility, and there is no reason for doubting 
 that he shared the feeling of the singer of the 
 Hymn to Proserpine about " ghastly glories of 
 saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods." Abuse 
 of the deity was one of his chief poetic 
 pleasures. Of priests he always wrote as if 
 inspired to outgo Shelley's indignation at 
 thought of " the priest, the slave and the 
 liberticide." His indignation went, in fact, so 
 far as partly to disable him from appreciating 
 Dante, for the " ovens and cesspools " of whose 
 Inferno he expressed careless contempt as being 
 fit only for " the dead and malodorous level of 
 mediaeval faith." He rejoiced to discover that 
 the author of Hamlet was a free-thinker — 
 '* that loftiest and most righteous title which 
 any just and reasoning soul can ever deserve to 
 claim." He had discovered also that Shake- 
 speare, as the author of Julius Caesar and King 
 Lear, was a republican and a socialist. With 
 Jesus, Swinburne had no real quarrel, but only 
 with the Cross and its worshippers, and he once 
 flattered Jesus by a comparison with Mazzini, 
 
 110
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 and spoke of Emily Bronte's " Christ-like long- 
 suffering and compassion." When he had 
 written two sonnets on the death of Louis 
 Napoleon, with the title, The Descent into 
 Hell, and the conclusion, " the dog is dead," his 
 defence was that he could only have offended 
 "those to whom the name of Christ and all 
 memories connected with it are hateful, and 
 those to whom the name of Bonaparte and all 
 memories connected with it are not. I belong 
 to neither class " : he spoke with " horror " of 
 the " blasphemy offered to the name and memory 
 or tradition of Christ by the men who in 
 gratitude for the support given to the Church 
 by Louis Bonaparte and his empire, bestowed 
 on the most infamous of all public criminals the 
 name, till then reserved for one whom they 
 professed to worship as God, of Saviour and 
 Messiah." It had hardly been possible for 
 Swinburne to refuse reverence to Jesus, since 
 one of the few formal elements in his religion 
 was his exaltation of Man in place of God. 
 This became a form to which it was seldom 
 possible to attach a meaning, save a vague, 
 sublime one. At least, with all his enthusiasm, 
 he never gave it the solemnity of that passage 
 from Blake, which he quoted in his study of 
 the poet : 
 
 The worship of God is, honouring His gifts in other 
 
 111
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 men according to his genius and loving the greatest men 
 best : those who envy or cahnnniate great men hate God, 
 for there is no other God. 
 
 Of lesser men or men whom he found him- 
 self hating he was less respectful. His enemies 
 were "vermin." Capital punishment for "a 
 parricide or a poisoner, a Philip the Second 
 or a Napoleon the Third," seemed delightfully 
 equitable. He had evidently no instinctive or 
 philosophic regard for human life, or a very 
 keen enjoyment of the process of taking an 
 eye for an eye overcame it ; for it was his 
 opinion that an imaginary "dealer in pro- 
 fessional infanticide by starvation might very 
 properly be subjected to vivisection without 
 aucTsthetics, and that all manly and womanly 
 minds not distorted or distracted by pre- 
 possessions or assumptions might rationally and 
 laudably rejoice in the prospect of that legal 
 and equitable process." Even to Victor Hugo 
 he would not give up this sense of justice, 
 though at a later date he preferred to say 
 merely that it was a horrible notion that such 
 a murderer sliould be "knowingly allowed for 
 one unnecessary hour to desecrate creation and 
 to outrage humanity by the survival of a mon- 
 strous and maleficent existence." No better proof 
 could be given of his reasonableness and healthy- 
 mindedness, if it is remembered that when not 
 
 112
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 speaking as a plain citizen he could praise 
 Voltaire for doing so much "to make the 
 instinct of cruelty not only detestable but 
 ludicrous." A more real defection from the 
 religion of humanity which he appeared to pro- 
 claim can only be excused on the ground of 
 idolatry, for it is from Victor Hugo that he 
 accepts, without comment except of over- 
 praise, that pretty children grow up into ugly 
 adults because "God makes and man finishes 
 them." Which is blasphemy made doubly 
 vicious by its conventional source and its senti- 
 mental purpose. But Swinburne would concede 
 anything to a child in the company of Hugo. 
 
 Freedom or Liberty was a safer object of 
 worship than Man because she could never be 
 embodied though too easily personified. Some- 
 times he meant by it a state to which men 
 looked forward as lacking some present evil of 
 tyrant or law ; sometimes " that one thing need- 
 ful without which all virtue is as worthless as 
 all pleasure is vile, all hope is shameful as all 
 faith is abject." The Freedom of Byron and 
 Shelley or the Freedom of the wild-hearted 
 Emily Bronte was in his mind the object of the 
 Republicanism which he loved for the sake of 
 Brutus, Milton, Shelley, Landor, and ^Mazzini. 
 He used the words " repubhc " and " repubUcan " 
 as freely as he had once used " love " and " sin," 
 H 113
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 and ^\dth equal fervour. When he found in 
 Ben Jonson the sentence : 
 
 A tyrant, how great and mighty soever he may seem 
 to cowards and shiggards, is but one creature, one animal, 
 
 he pronounced it worthy of Landoi*, and hastened 
 to say that " such royahsm as is compatible with 
 undisguised approval of regicide or tyrannicide 
 might not irrationally be condoned by the 
 sternest and most rigid of republicans " : he en- 
 rolled even Collins among the priests of tyran- 
 nicide. The kindly queens and princes who had 
 adorned his poems with their beauties and their 
 vices he quite forgot. 
 
 ISIazzini was always a bigoted republican in 
 his fight for the unity of Italy, and Swinburne 
 would probably have gone as far as Landor in 
 acclaiming an ideal republic and abhorring a real 
 democracy like the American ; he was content 
 to live under a harmless hereditary sovereign 
 and sing of a " white republic " that never was 
 on sea or land. In the poet's mind freedom and 
 republicanism had become inseparable from the 
 light, so much loved by him, to which he had 
 compared them in his adulation. They were 
 kept fresh as well as alive by his joyous hatred 
 of Pope "Pius Iscariot" and "Buonaparte the 
 Bastard." As a rule he was content that 
 " Freedom " sliould mean what it could, ac- 
 cording to the reader's prejudice or capacity ; 
 
 114
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 but Carlyle and Riiskin, proposing, as it seemed 
 to him, obedience instead of self-reliance, drill 
 instead of devotion, force instead of faith, for 
 the world's redemption, roused him to a tract in 
 1866 Of Liberty and Loyalty, privately printed 
 in 1909, with notes by Mr. Edmund Gosse. He 
 accused Carlyle of a doctrine of " utter passivity 
 and of absolute dejection." Loyalty, he said, 
 was a different thing ; " wherever there is a grain 
 of loyalty there is a glimpse of freedom " ; if we 
 give up the freedom of choosing between love 
 and hate we give up loyalty. He ended by 
 asking : " What virtue can there be in giving 
 what we have no choice but to give? in yielding 
 that which we have neither might nor right to 
 withhold ? " " The law of the love of Hberty " 
 continued to be for him something beyond " all 
 human laws of mere obedience." It was with 
 Swinburne chiefly a question of personal re- 
 ligion : should he worship the dark goddess 
 Obedience, or the bright Liberty ? It had the 
 advantage of suggesting to him as the "only 
 two destinations " appropriate for the close of a 
 rogue's career — " a gibbet or a throne." It could 
 not seriously interfere with his mainly inherited 
 notions of what was " manly " and what was 
 " womanly." 
 
 Swinburne's judgments are less interesting 
 than his tastes, even in the arts. His judgments 
 
 115
 
 \ 
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 were often just, his reasons for them exciiiisite, 
 but too often he sliowed how personal a matter 
 Htcrary criticism was to him, yet without giving 
 up the excessive judicial pomps; far too often 
 he could not praise one man without damning 
 \ another. Therefore, too seldom could he use 
 the power which enabled him to distinguish the 
 perfection of the execution in The Ancient 
 Mariner, as "not the speckless and elaborate 
 finish which shows everywhere the fresh rasp 
 of file or chisel on its smooth and spruce ex- 
 cellence ; this is faultless after the fashion of 
 a flower or a tree," or the complete devotion which 
 led him to write that essay in Miscellanies about 
 Lamb's IMS. notes on ^Vither, intended for 
 *' those only who would treasure the shghtest 
 and hastiest scratch of [Lamb's] pen which 
 carried with it the evidence of spontaneous en- 
 thusiasm or irritation, of unconsidered emotion 
 or unprompted mirth." 
 
 His one wholly necessary and perhaps un- 
 fading book of prose is the study of Blake, 
 since it ffives a vivid account, a subtle but also 
 forcible and well-supported criticism of a genius 
 then almost new to the world and the critics ; it 
 is almost free from truculence, asseveration and 
 waste digression ; and no one has superseded any 
 considerable part of it. The study of Shake- 
 speare has enough virtues to make a good book : 
 
 IIG
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 an equal combination of sense, acuteness, scholar- 
 ship and affectionate sympathy is hardly to be 
 found elsewhere, and a style so hostile to every 
 one of those qualities. For, as he grew older, 
 Swinburne developed a manner of writing 
 English such as had not raised its head since 
 Johnson's time. Massiveness and balance were 
 cherished in it with extraordinary singleminded- 
 ness, and humour that should have somewhat 
 pricked their follies commonly helped to swell 
 them, though once he admitted a Limerick 
 into his prose, saying that literary history would 
 hardly care to remember that " there was a bad 
 poet named Clough, whom his friends found it 
 useless to pufF: for the public, if dull, has not 
 quite such a skull as belongs to believers in 
 Clough." Not that the style crushed the 
 humour. When he described Dr. Furnivall's 
 writing as combining " the double display of an 
 intelligence worthy of Mr. Toots and a dialect 
 worthy of his friend the Chicken " ; when he 
 suggested that Charles Reade " should not desire 
 as he does not deserve to escape the honour of 
 being defamed or to incur the ignominy of being 
 applauded by the writers or the readers of such 
 romances of high life as may be penned by some 
 erotic scullion gone mad with long contempla- 
 tion of the butler's calves and shoulders, or by 
 some discarded footman who, since he was 
 
 117
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 kicked out of his last place with the spoons in 
 his pocket, may have risen or sunk into notoriety 
 or obscurity as a gluttonous and liquorish rhyme- 
 ster or novelist, patrician of the pantry, whose 
 aristocratic meditations alternate between the 
 horsewhip with which he is evidently familiar 
 and the dinner with which he apparently is not 
 — the prose and the poetry, the real and the ideal 
 of his life " — here Swinburne added to the more 
 usual qualities of humour that of carving in 
 marble what should be writ in water ; he made 
 dignity laugh at itself. When he quoted 
 JMacaulay's remark that a certain passage in 
 Crabbe's Borough has made many a rough and 
 cynical reader cry like a child, and added that he 
 himself was " not so rough and cynical as ever 
 to have experienced that particular effect from 
 its perusal," he was making the pompous letter 
 " p " do an amusing task. But this dignity was 
 not always laughing at itself, nor when it is can 
 it always be sure of company. Sometimes, on 
 the other hand, it is laughable when itself is 
 gravest. That laugh, however, is cheerless at 
 best, and at the end of half a dozen volumes can 
 be but a hollow "mocking at gi-ief." Only a 
 long labour of most diligent eugenists could 
 breed men to endure such sentences as this, in 
 The Age of Shakespeare, concerning a dialogue 
 in Dekker's Virgin Martyr. 
 
 118
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 Its simplicity is so childlike, its inspiration so pure 
 in instinct and its expression so perfect in taste, its utter- 
 ance and its abstinence, its effusion and its reserve, are so 
 far beyond praise or question or any comment but thanks- 
 giving, that these forty-two lines, homely and humble in 
 manner as they are if compared with the refined rhetoric 
 and the scrupulous culture of Massinger, would suffice to 
 keep the name of Dekker sweet and safe for ever among 
 the most honourable if not among the most pre-eminent 
 of his kindred and his age. 
 
 Sentences of this at present superhuman long- 
 windedness seemed to be aimed chiefly at long- 
 windedness. It is produced by the double pro- 
 cess of repetition and modification, both useless 
 except for that purpose, since no one gains 
 anything from the addition of "humble" to 
 ** homely " or from the supposed distinction 
 between " most honourable " and " most pre- 
 eminent." A simple love of balance and inflation 
 compelled Swinburne to translate into the Swin- 
 burnian as it did Johnson into the Johnsonian. 
 He would speak of the year of The Alchemist 
 as "the year which gave to the world for all 
 time a gift so munificent as that of The Al- 
 chemist." He would say, after mentioning George 
 Eliot's Totty, Eppie and Lillo, that " the fiery- 
 hearted Vestal of Haworth had no room reserved 
 in the palace of her passionate and high-minded 
 imagination as a nursery for inmates of such 
 divine and delicious quality " ; he forgot that 
 
 119
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 " passionate and hifrh-minded," " divine and 
 delicious," retarded the sentence without giving 
 it depth, and that "divine" v^^as in any case a 
 vain vulgarism. But he was of a spending and 
 ceremonious nature, and this, coupled with his 
 artistic delight in balance, repetition and opposi- 
 tion, ruined his prose. At times lie seems to 
 write for the sake of constructing formally per- 
 fect and sonorous sentences, more often the kind 
 of sentence he prefers is dictated as much by 
 that preference as by his thought. Now he 
 must find something unqualified to say about 
 everybody ; again he must qualify everything, 
 and institute distinctions founded apparently 
 rather on a love of repeating phrases than on 
 subtlety, as when he says that Ben Jonson's 
 Discoveries would give him "a place beside or 
 above La Rochefoucauld, and beside if not above 
 Chamfort " ; or he will allow himself to be hag- 
 ridden by the letter " t " and " d " as in the 
 clause : 
 
 Some perversity or obliquity will be suspected, even 
 if no positive infirmity or deformity can be detected, in 
 his intelligence or his temperament ; 
 
 or having suggested " a curious monotony in 
 the variety " will ask " if there be not a curious 
 variety in the monotony." Had De Quincey 
 and Dr. .Johnson collaborated in imitating Lyly 
 they must have produced Swinburnian prose. 
 
 120
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 The Bible had helped : here and there Carlyle 
 is detected in a phrase like " Let that preferable 
 thing be done with all the might and haste that 
 may be attainable " : Landor had given his 
 benediction to the massiveness, Ruskin to the 
 early picturesqueness, Hugo to the effusiveness. 
 But from none of these could he have learned 
 to speak of " the right to seem right " ; to launch 
 himself upon rhythms too easily detached from 
 the context ; to praise the aged Corneille's 
 Psyche as 
 
 A lyric symphony of spirit and of song fulfilled with 
 all the colour and all the music that autumn could steal 
 from spring if October had leave to go a-maying in some 
 Olympian masquerade of melody and sunlight ; 
 
 to write passages very much like parts of 
 rhetorical sonnets. Time after time his prose, 
 especially in Blake, struggles to be metrical, but 
 remains agitated and dishevelled prose. The 
 hand which was loose on blank verse and the 
 heroic couplet, was no sterner on prose, which 
 offers still less incitement to control. The formal 
 sentence was perhaps a kind of feeling after a 
 stanza in prose, but it was inadequate. In short 
 passages it could, even to the last, be magnificent 
 in compliment, contumely or humour, and when 
 he set himself to pronounce eulogies of nine 
 dramatists of Shakespeare's age in turn his per- 
 formance was admirable as well as astonishing. 
 
 121
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 His style is meant for public orjition. Even so, 
 it has in it too many of the elements of debate. 
 It is restless in readiness for attack. It could 
 not live without comparison, and comparison 
 involved tlie most truculent disparagement of 
 someone, of Euripides, Byron, Carlyle, or Mar- 
 £^fes Hallam, or praise, too general, and too 
 mucli like flattery, of someone else, of Landor 
 or Victor Hugo. It never means a jot more 
 than it says, and by such a style " when all is 
 done that can be done then all is done in vain." 
 It makes no background for itself and no atmo- 
 sphere, being hard and gleaming and mechanical. 
 Swinburne had a singular knowledge of books, 
 because it was not mere learning but a violent 
 passion ; he was a voluptuary in books, and had 
 been free to indulge himself in the princely 
 library of his relative. Lord Ashburnham ; and 
 yet all he could do was to flatter or abuse them. 
 Seldom could he expose their qualities, never 
 his own feeling for them, witliout belabouring 
 them with praise. In criticism he makes laws 
 and pronounces judgments ; nor has he more 
 mercy for books tlian for men, whom he could 
 condemn to "lifelong seclusion from intercourse 
 with the humanity they dishonour "' as " the 
 irreducible minimum of the penalty demanded 
 rather than deserved by their crimes." He is 
 best at loyal flattery in verse : probably no other 
 
 122
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 poet has written so much poetry about books 
 and writers. 
 
 The study of Blake and many scattered 
 opinions and points of textual criticism, must 
 be long connected with Swinburne's name. 
 Oblivion, and for the first time peace, must be 
 the end for most of his prose, with all its passion 
 for literature, for what is beautiful and brave 
 and generous in men and women, with all its 
 eloquence and subtlety. 
 
 When he talked his prose the power of it was 
 undeniable. He talked much as he wrote, but 
 added his own priceless excitement of enthusiasm 
 or indignation. Mr. Gosse thinks his "mock 
 irascibility" and pleasure in fighting "dehber- 
 ately modelled on the behaviour of Walter 
 Savage Landor " ; but Swinburne's size, some- 
 thing between a third and a half of Landor's, 
 must have established a new variety. Mr. 
 Gosse recalls part of a typical conversation in 
 which Swinburne, in 1875, was indulging this 
 irascibility towards someone absent and un- 
 named : 
 
 He had better be careful. If I am obliged to take the 
 cudgel in my hand the rafter of the hovel in which he 
 skulks and sniggers shall ring with the loudest whacks 
 ever administered in discipline or chastisement to a howl- 
 ing churl. 
 
 After a slow beginning the words were poured 
 
 123
 
 I 
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 forth in rapid cxiiltjition " in towcrin<,' hi<rh 
 spirits, without a moment's pause to find a 
 word." So powerful was liis temperament that 
 he read Bothwcll, a double-length ehroniele 
 play, aloud to Burne-.Tones, O'Shaugnessy, P. B. 
 ISIarston, and Mr. Gosse, without giving any 
 recorded cause for complaint. Even Ruskin 
 bowed down before the portent of this most 
 extravagantly artistic being then upon the earth, 
 remarking of course that he was " righter " than 
 Swinburne, but " not his match." His spirit was 
 extraordinary. At the age of fifty he would 
 write, over the signature of " A Gladstonite," a 
 letter to the St. James's Gazette, saying that he 
 had observed a certain vagueness in the charges 
 against the boycotters of the Primrose League, 
 and giving this more definite instance : 
 
 On the 1st of April — I will confine myself to the 
 events of that single day — Mrs. Outis, of Medamothy, 
 was shot dead in her carriage, while returning from a 
 visit in the adjoining parish of Nustjuam, by a masked 
 assassin wearing a primrose in his buttonhole. . . . 
 
 The anonymity was unmasked by the editor. 
 Near the end of his life he wrote to The Times 
 protesting against " the unsolicited adulation of 
 such insult " as his inclusion in that " unimagi- 
 nable gathering," the British Academy. In all 
 things he is said to have been extreme. AVhen 
 he had left a dull meeting a noise broke in upon 
 
 124
 
 OPINIONS: PROSE-WORKS 
 
 the dullness from outside, which proved on in- 
 quiry to be Swinburne dancing upon some 
 scores of silk hats by way of revenge for that 
 part of the dullness which he had endured. 
 Once, it is said, he amazed and delighted a 
 dinner party with his conversation and reappeared 
 the following day to apologize for having for- 
 gotten the invitation. Many stories of uncertain 
 historic and natural-historic value are told which 
 await the imprint of official biography, such as 
 that one relating how a Belgian poet, going to 
 pay his respects to the great Englishman, had to 
 ring at the door many times before it was opened 
 by Swinburne himself ; he was in his shirt which 
 displayed his chest covered with blood, the result, 
 as it turned out, on anxious questioning, of a 
 romp with his cat. In other ways he has been 
 reported "constitutionally unfitted to shine in 
 mixed society." The gentlest of his passions 
 seems to have been for babies, whom he wor- 
 shipped on his knees and was "very fantastic 
 over." In every way he acknowledged the 
 possession of " the infinite blessing of hfe," " the 
 fervour of vital blood," which made him, as he 
 said of Blake, " a man perfect in his way, and 
 beautifully unfit for walking in the way of any 
 other man," an extraordinary man, and yet 
 fundamentally a "healthy-minded and reason- 
 able " one. He made friends of other men with 
 
 125
 
 A. C. SWTNRURNE 
 
 this possession. Like Shelley, he was, as he 
 said, fortunate in his friends, chiefly artists and 
 poets like the Rossettis, Morris, Burne-Jones, 
 Bell Scott, Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, Mr. 
 Edmund (iosse, but ranging in type from the 
 saintly Christina Rossetti to the "unsaintly" Sir 
 Richard Burton, who called him his only beloved 
 son in whom he was well pleased. 
 
 126
 
 VI 
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE 
 
 Already by his verses on Landor and Hugo, 
 and his songs In Time of Order and In Time of 
 Revolution, Swinburne had shown that if Love 
 and Sin were a passion with him, they were not 
 an exclusive obsession. In the very year after 
 Poems and Ballads, his Song of Italy, dedicated 
 to Mazzini, proved that he had another passion. 
 Dolores moved him to no such tremorous 
 emotion as he gave to the words of Freedom 
 addressing Italy : 
 
 Because men wept, saying Freedom, knowing of thee. 
 Child, that thou wast not free. . . . 
 
 no such worship as he offered Mazzini, then in 
 despair at the unsuccess of Garibaldi and the 
 humiliating generosity of Napoleon : 
 
 Thy children, even thy people thou hast made, 
 
 Thine, with thy words arrayed, 
 Clothed with thy thoughts and girt with thy desires ; 
 
 Yearn up toward thee as fires. 
 
 127
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Art thou not father, O father, of all these? 
 
 From tliiiu' own Genoese 
 To where of nights the lower extreme lagune 
 
 Feels its Venetian moon, 
 Nor suckling's mouth nor mother's breast set free 
 
 But hath that grace through thee. . . . 
 
 His Obhition could not but have been mis- 
 taken for a love poem to a woman had it 
 appeared in another of his books, though a 
 nation seems a more natural recipient than a 
 woman of the other kind of love poem, forty 
 stanzas long. Swinburne had never a better 
 excuse for repetition and for progress by addi- 
 tion, than in the doxology where he bids the 
 winds and all things, and one by one the cities 
 of Italy, praise Mazzini, " the fair clear supreme 
 spirit without stain." If there be such a thing 
 as religious poetry, this is religious, ending in 
 hopes for "a bloodless and a bondless world," 
 Freedom and the "fair republic," an earth 
 " kingdomless," " throneless," " chainless." 
 
 The theme of A Song of Italy is magnificent ; 
 the poet's mood of grave sweetness and a kind 
 of dark joyfulness is worthy of it, and is above 
 thinking too much of priests and kings, " creeds 
 and crimes " ; his words and rhythms have a 
 religious sensuousness. But it is a poem that 
 ought not to be read, as most often it has to be, 
 dispassionately in a study, instead of being 
 chanted by some impersonal priest or priestess, 
 
 128
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 So chanted, the rhythm, the majestic images 
 and words — hardly a word is used without sug- 
 gesting either subhmity of hope and sorrow, 
 or sharply contrasted qualities — should be com- 
 parable for effect to the greatest passages of a 
 religious service, that is among those for whom 
 Freedom and Italy mean something spiritually 
 vast. Freedom saying : 
 
 Though God forget thee, I will not forget . . . ; 
 
 the " hundred cities' mouths in one " praising 
 the " supreme son " of Italy ; the poet bidding 
 her 
 
 Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee say 
 That thou wast even as they. . . . 
 
 these should make a joyful and noble sound 
 in any temple of Liberty or Fraternity. 
 
 At present there is no such temple. The 
 poem must be read by isolated citizens of the 
 world in places which A Song of Italy will not 
 convert into temples. There the words will 
 at least gain nothing by the reverberation which 
 they might so well set up amongst a multitude 
 assembled. Closer and quieter inspection will 
 reveal a hundred beautiful things, and an even 
 grace, a thrilling purity, hardly to be found in 
 any other poem of Swinburne's. At no point 
 is it lacking in dignity and fairness. But the 
 I 129
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 wliole is not equal to the sum of tlie admirable 
 parts. To have been as great as its aim, it 
 should have been more than equal. It does not 
 justify its length by a pervading, continuous 
 and accimiulating passion, wliich could absorb 
 until a second or third reading the pleasure of 
 
 O chosen, O pure and just. 
 Who counted for a small thincr life's estate. 
 And died and made it jrreat. . . . 
 
 of 
 
 This is that very Italy which was 
 And is and shall not pass. 
 
 Whether all these clear beauties would count 
 were the song publicly declaimed can hardly 
 be imagined. In private reading they cannot 
 be missed. They seem of too fine and delicate 
 a kind for a structure of this magnitude. 
 Neither is this delicate quality everywhere 
 effectual. The opening, for example, is defaced 
 by some of Swinburne's characteristic mixture 
 of precision and obscurity, as when he sees 
 
 the hours 
 As maidens, and the days as labouring men, 
 
 And the soft nights again 
 As wearied women to their own souls wed. 
 
 And ages as the dead. 
 
 In the doxology he gives way to the temptation 
 to appeal to such different things as winds, 
 
 130
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 light, storm, summer, shore, wave, skies, graves, 
 hopes, memories, years, sounds, sorrow, joy, 
 human beings dead and aHve. Therefore, when 
 he comes to " dews and rains " it is hardly 
 possible not to be impatient of what is so Hke 
 in its weakness and so unlike in its strength 
 to the great original, " O all ye Works of the 
 Lord, bless ye the Lord : praise him and magnify 
 him for ever." Swinburne sacrifices the regularity 
 of the original, but takes only a licentious and 
 occasional freedom. The objects addressed, of 
 very different classes, are multiplied to excess ; 
 and some are treated with a fancy natural to 
 the poet, and both brilliant and appropriate, 
 as in 
 
 Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines, 
 
 Banners of blowing pines, 
 Standards of stormy snows, flags of light leaves. 
 
 Three wherewith Freedom weaves 
 One ensign that once woven and once unfurled 
 
 Makes day of all a world. 
 Makes blind their eyes who knew not, and outbraves 
 
 The waste of iron waves. . . . 
 
 It is a fancy that helps to undermine the 
 structure both of the whole and of the doxo- 
 logical portion, though it adds to the pleasures 
 by the way. Thus the poem is the work of 
 Swinburne partly as an isolated lyrist and partly 
 also as a national, pubHc, or social poet. His 
 attempt to make the two one was glorious ; but 
 
 131
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 whether any modern poet wliatever eoiild liave 
 sueceeded in it or in any siniihir one is doubtful. 
 If any has done, it is Tennyson in his Ode on 
 the Death of the Duke of Wellington, and 
 perhaps Whitman ; but then Whitman is the 
 intimate and equal of everything and everyone 
 in his poetry, writing of what he has touched 
 and understood, moving freely and cheerfully in 
 and out. Swinburne seems to be definitely 
 assuming a part ; he has come from outside to 
 celebrate men and events of which I cannot feel 
 that he was the equal, save in ardour, and this 
 ardour has a certain thinness and shrillness. 
 When he had to call up city after city to praise 
 Mazzini, only a manly grasp of reality could 
 have saved him from the too " poetical " style in 
 which differentiation was impossible ; so to this 
 he gave way. His task was a more difficult one 
 than Shelley's, who, in the Ode to Naples, for 
 example, is a solitary man expressing private 
 imaginings which must succeed or fail with very 
 little help from aciual events and places. Swin- 
 burne, surrendering himself and his personality, 
 appeals to us, as it were, with an impersonation 
 of Freedom, Italy, Rome : he Avas in a public 
 capacity, his poem was addressed to a public 
 man, and to the general eye and ear. He per- 
 sonified Italy and Freedom and gave them words 
 to utter : he used as a model a poem which was 
 
 132
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 not private, nor the work of an isolated man. 
 His song, with all its fire, grace, and strength, 
 falls short only of a kind of perfection which no 
 private stranger with one lyric impulse, how- 
 soever divine, could possibly achieve. 
 
 Freedom and revolution aiming at freedom 
 had come to mean for Swinburne something 
 very much what light and the sea meant. His 
 early Song in Time of Order shows him in a 
 mood like that which sent Byron and Landor 
 and Tennyson towards real fighting. The song 
 is sung at the launching of a boat to carry the 
 lovers of freedom out to sea, away from a land 
 ruled by a king : 
 
 Out to the sea with her there^ 
 
 Out with her over the sand. 
 Let the kings keep the earth for their share ! 
 
 VV^e have done with the sharers of land. 
 
 There are but three of them, but " while three 
 men hold together the kingdoms are less by 
 three," and they rejoice in the rain in their hair 
 and the foam on their lips. This eagerness was 
 in the spirit of Byron's 
 
 Yet Freedom^ yet thy banner torn but flying 
 Streams hke a thunderstorm against the wind. ... 
 
 and Shelley's 
 
 Let there be Hght ! said Liberty. 
 
 Putting behind him Dolores, Faustine, and 
 
 133
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Felise, Swinburne dedicated to Freedom the 
 little time given to men : 
 
 A little time that we may fill 
 
 Or with such good works or such ill 
 
 As loose the bonds or make them strong 
 
 Wherein all manhood suffers wrong. 
 By rose-hung river and light foot-rill 
 
 There are who rest not ; who think long 
 Till they discern as from a hill 
 
 At the sun's hour of morning song, 
 Known of souls only, and those souls free, 
 The sacred spaces of the sea. 
 
 But for the more than metaphorical relation- 
 ship to light and the sea Swinburne's freedom 
 might command our respect, but certainly not 
 our attention throughout Songs Before Sunrise 
 and his later poems. Unless his Freedom gains 
 sublimity or lustre from the associations with 
 eternal things it cannot but be held lightly after 
 a time save by bigots. To those fighting in the 
 cause of Italian unity the words " Freedom," 
 " Liberty," and " Republic," may have had the 
 same value as certain other words at religious 
 revivals. These exalted values may or may not 
 be false ; it is certain that they do not give ever- 
 lasting life to hymns or poems. It is not diffi- 
 cult to find verses where one of these words is 
 used much as other words are used in hymns, 
 as, for example, in Tenebrce, in the verse : 
 
 134
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 There all chains are undone ; 
 
 Day there seems but as night ; 
 Spirit and sense are as one 
 In the light not of star nor of sun ; 
 
 Liberty there is the light. 
 
 " Spirit and sense " gives no help. Swinburne's 
 great admiration for Shakespeare's phrase, "spirit 
 of sense," caused him to repeat and vary it be- 
 yond all reason both in prose and verse. 
 
 In Quia Multum Amavit Freedom speaks, 
 calling itself first, " God, the spirit of man," 
 and next, "Freedom, God and man," which is 
 very much like popular poetical theology. Free- 
 dom is God and also " the spirit of earth," the 
 "earth soul," the only God, in the poem to 
 Whitman. Saluting her, as " God above all 
 Gods " and " light above light, law beyond law," 
 Swinburne declares himself to be her harp and 
 her clarion, her storm thrush, having heard her 
 and seen her coming before ever her wheels 
 " divide the sky and sea." The Marching Song 
 speaks of Freedom "whence all good things 
 are." She is the " most holy one " — in The In- 
 surfTction in Candia — who will " cleanse earth 
 of crime." He does not succeed in giving the 
 word a high and distinct value by transferring 
 to it a value more often connected w^ith Jehovah 
 or one of the other deities, though unconsciously 
 from the context of aspiring and exulting words 
 
 135
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 it acquires a vaguely religious sense correspond- 
 ing to that Avith which it thrills perhaps the 
 majority of men, lovers of Shelley or not ; and 
 it may do more than this for men of any sect 
 that responds at once to the sentiment of A 
 Years Burden : 
 
 There should be no more wars nor kingdoms won. . . . 
 
 A man belonging to no sect must feel that here 
 and on almost every page of Songs Before Sun- 
 rise Swinburne is either addressing a sect or 
 starting one. 
 
 Throughout the book Swinburne applies 
 Christian terms to his own purposes. Whatever 
 Christians may feel, no one else can see more 
 than a naive and showy compliment in the end 
 of the Hymn to Man : 
 
 Glory to Man in the Highest ! for Man is the master of 
 things. 
 
 To say that " all men born are mortal, but not 
 man," as he does in T/tc Pilgrims, if ingenious, 
 is nothing more, being a matter of words only. 
 To compare men favourably ^vith the gods, 
 ancient and modern, is just, and can be both 
 amusing and inspiriting, but assertion and as- 
 severation is not beyond the strength of propa- 
 gandists, though commonly they have not the 
 solemn tones to pronounce for them, as in On 
 
 136
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 the Downs, that there is no God but man. The 
 poet's abuse of God does not help the word 
 when appUed to man, as in A Years Burden : 
 
 Thy thought, thy word, O soul repubhcan, 
 O spirit of hfe, O God whose name is man : 
 What sea of sorrows but thy sight shall span ? 
 Cry wellaway, but well befall the right. 
 
 Here nearly all Swinburne's favourite significant 
 words are confused, inextricably if not sublimely. 
 "Cry wellaway, but well befall the right" is 
 repeated six times as a burden to the verses, 
 and the poetical "wellaway," especially in a 
 burden, first demands, and then at last almost 
 creates, a sensuousness overpowering words like 
 " repubhcan." Fortunately, these words are often 
 overpowered and reduced to the value of their 
 sounds. It would be pedantic and a proof of 
 viperish deafness to inquire into the verse of 
 Sie7ia for example : 
 
 Let there be light, O Italy ! 
 
 For our feet falter in the night. 
 O lamp of living years to be, 
 
 O light of God, let there be light ! 
 Fill with a love keener than flame 
 Men sealed in spirit with thy name. 
 The cities and the Roman skies. 
 
 Light is everywhere in Songs Before Sunrise, 
 the light of the sun and the light of Swinburne's 
 
 137
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 li(,'lil-lovin<T spirit, us in the end of On the 
 
 Downs : 
 
 And the sun smote the clouds and slew, 
 And from the sun the sea's breatii blew, 
 
 And white waves laughed and turned and fled 
 The long green heaving seafield through. 
 
 And on tliem overheard 
 
 The sky burnt red. . . . 
 
 Possibly this end would gain were " time's deep 
 dawn" to have a spiritual meaning both clear 
 and powerful : certainly it is too closely allied 
 to the splendour of the physical sun to fail of 
 being poetry. JNlany poems like the IHvc of 
 Revolution are saved from simple dullness by 
 the actual and figurative presence of "the four 
 winds of the world," and by that metrical energy 
 which is not unworthy of wind and sun. Poem 
 after poem is worth much or nothing according 
 as the reader can take the first line or verse as 
 a keynote and then allow the metre to sing, with 
 occasional guidance from the words "light," 
 "men," "sea," "thundering," "sleep," "weep," 
 " sword," " grave," " time," " crown," etc. Not 
 that they are to be regarded as majestic non- 
 sense rhymes, for they treat grave matters 
 gravely and grammatically. But the writer 
 trusts more than usual to his metre and his 
 rhymes ; the interspaces are filled more loosely 
 with words. This looseness is guided by rules 
 
 138
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 of sound, but sometimes of dignity. Thus 
 where Browning sings : 
 
 Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup ; 
 
 Swinburne says in The Insurrection in Candia : 
 
 Let wine be far from the mouth. 
 
 In his Marcliing Song the singers have with 
 them the morning star, the dayspring — " even 
 all the fresh daysprings " — and " all the multi- 
 tude of things," also winds, fountains, mountains, 
 and not the moon but the mist which lies in the 
 valley, " muffled from the moon," also highlands 
 and lowlands, and sea bays, shoals, islands, cliffs, 
 fields, rivers, grass, haze, and not the hills but 
 the peace " at heart of hills," also all sights and 
 sounds, all lights, also the nightingale, and "the 
 heart and secret of the worldly tale." The 
 point is that Swinburne writes in such a manner 
 that the feebleness of the last phrase does not 
 tell against him but is absorbed, contributing to 
 the whole a certain cadence and the rhyme 
 "ale." It is not absurd for Swinburne to make 
 Spain speak of her " sins and sons " being dis- 
 persed through sinless lands : it is not out of 
 key, and does not prevent us from admiring the 
 words that follow, to describe how those sins 
 made the name of man accursed, that of God 
 thrice accursed. 
 
 Two pages afterwards Switzerland speaks of 
 
 139
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 " snows «and souls," considerably lowering the 
 value of " souls " for the plodding reader, who 
 is not blinded by the pomp of the Litany. 
 Even the reader too wise to plod is not content 
 with a trick, such as that in " before any world 
 had any light," when it is repeated as this is 
 three times within seven verses {Genesis) ; but 
 he will recognize too that the parallelism of 
 
 Slowlier than life into breath, 
 Surelier than time into death. . . . 
 
 in To Walt JFIiitman in America had never so 
 consistent a setting in prose or poetry before 
 Swinburne s time. At its best this style makes 
 its own terms, and often in long series of Unes, 
 beginning perhaps with the same word, " By " or 
 " Ah," as like one another as wave to wave, the 
 verse advances magnificently, in stateliness, or 
 turbulence, or eager speed. There is no other 
 poetry where the substance is so subdued to the 
 musical form of verse. It is not thought set to i 
 music, but music which has absorbed thought./ 
 Far less than Shelley's will it permit paraphrase. 
 By comparison, the Ode to Liberty is massive 
 with thought and history, and the rhyme 
 seems a fortunate accident. In The Song of 
 the Standard, in Heiiha, in Monotones, in 
 Messidor, in Tenebnv, in A Watch of the 
 Night, for example, the metre and rhyme make 
 of each verse a spiritual being that never existed 
 
 140
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 before, and has no existence except when evoked 
 by an exact repetition of each word. Where 
 the thought demands separate attention it fails, 
 as in the verse which asks to be visuaUzed, and 
 cannot, in On the Downs : 
 
 As a queen taken and stripped and bound 
 Sat earth discoloured and discrowned ; 
 
 As a king's palace empty and dead 
 The sky was^ without light or sound, 
 
 And on the summer's head 
 
 Were ashes shed. 
 
 The relative positions of earth, sky, and summer 
 can be settled by no diplomacy. Sometimes 
 even an indiscretion refuses to sink out of sight 
 in the music, as in Quia Multum Amavit, when 
 " lordly " is appHed to " laughter " on one page 
 as a word of credit, and on the next " Hes and 
 lords" are handcuffed together. The vague 
 is not of necessity unfriendly, but a line in 
 Tiresias like 
 
 Order of things, and rule and guiding song 
 
 is apt to detach itself There is also a large 
 class of comparisons, such as " A sound sublimer 
 than the heavens are high," which are preten- 
 tious and under no circumstances effectual : the 
 constant figurative use of " clothe " has no force. 
 Even verbosity can seem a vice when it makes 
 the line 
 
 But heart there is not, tongue there is not found. . . . 
 
 141
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 And language is not even a beautiful disease 
 in the lines : 
 
 O thought inimitable and infinite heart 
 Whose blood is life in limbs indissolute 
 
 That still keeps hurtless thy invisible part 
 And inextirpable thy viewless root. . . . 
 
 The risks run in this adventure were great ; 
 it is not wonderful that they proved sometimes 
 too great. That a volume coming only a few 
 years after Poems and Ballads should have been 
 so fully consecrated to Liberty, using Love 
 only for images of " bride " and " bridegroom " 
 and the like, is alone a superb proof of the 
 poet's devotion, but it is of small account when 
 compared to the positive proofs — the splendour 
 and variety of metre and imagery, the ardour 
 that changes and never abates. 
 
 In these same years Swinburne wrote other 
 political poems which were printed with A Song 
 of Italy in Songs of Ttvo Nations. They in- 
 clude a long Ode on the Proclamation of the 
 French Republic : September J4h, 1S70, and a 
 number of sonnets concerning, among others, 
 " the worm Napoleon." The ode shows that 
 already he ran the danger of becoming poet 
 laureate of Freedom, laboriously delirious. The 
 sonnets made him conscious that perhaps " wrath 
 embittered the sweet mouth of song," He had 
 
 142
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 not the same regard for himself as he had for 
 Italy when he bade her 
 
 Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee say 
 That thou wert even as they. . . . 
 
 The hissing, spitting, and cm'sing is the frantic 
 abuse of a partisan, which is the worse and not 
 the better for being done in the name of liberty. 
 It is a dead relic of 1870, proving that Swin- 
 burne was not of Shelley's or Byron's stature. 
 He speaks of " our blood " and " our tears," 
 but the vomit is his own. His spirit is less 
 that of Dante condemning men to Hell than 
 of Judge Lynch. But the worst of these 
 sonnets is that they will support any doubts of 
 Swinburne's right and power to sing what he 
 strove to sing in Songs Before Sunrise and 
 Songs of Two Nations, since it is almost in- 
 credible that the same man should have room 
 for so much love of liberty as well as so much 
 hate of Napoleon. Swinburne continued to 
 hate Gods, priests and kings, though often with 
 deep respect and love of Christ, even to the 
 days of the South African War, when noble 
 blood and patriotism swamped his love of 
 Liberty without noticing it. He wrote a poem 
 *'for the feast of Giordano Bruno, philosopher 
 and martyr," coupling his name with Lucretius, 
 Sidney and Shelley, saying that surely his 
 
 143
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 " spirit of sense " had gone up to meet their 
 spirits. He iibused tlie Czar. He praised 
 Kossuth. He wrote lAnes on the Monument 
 of Giuseppe Mazzini^ once more saying that 
 JMazzini was greater than his fellow-townsman 
 Columbus. When the " shadows fallen of years 
 were nine since heaven grew seven times more 
 divine " at Mazzini's entry, Swinburne again 
 addressed him — " as very Christ " but not 
 " degraded into deity." The Saturday Re- 
 view's opinion that, "as a matter of fact, no 
 man living, or who ever lived — not Casar or 
 Pericles, not Shakespeare or Michael Angelo — 
 could confer honour more than he took on 
 entering the House of Lords " moved him to 
 write Vos Deos Lmtdamus : The Conservative 
 Journalisfs National Anthem, beginning: 
 
 O Lords our Gods ... 
 
 Because "What England says her lords unsay" 
 he wrote : 
 
 Clear the way my lords and lackeys ! 
 
 and was not above reminding the lords, for the 
 sake of readers of the Pall Mall Gazette, that : 
 
 Lust and falsehood, craft and traffic, precedent and gold, 
 Tongue of courtier, kiss of harlot, promise bought and sold. 
 Gave you heritage of empire over thralls of old. 
 
 Nell Gwynn had drawn a sonnet from him to 
 Our Lady of LaugJiter and Our Lady of Pity, 
 
 144
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 but even she could not save the dukes from 
 being reminded that they were : 
 
 Graces by grace of such mothers 
 As brightened the bed of King Charles. . . , 
 Bright sons of sublime prostitution. 
 
 Landor's centenary reminded him of " Milton's 
 white republic undefiled," and the fact that 
 Song's " fires are quenched when Freedom's are." 
 Of Landor he could still say : 
 
 . . . Of all souls for all time glorious none 
 
 Loved Freedom better, of all who have loved her best. 
 
 Still as in the days when Landor promised a 
 money payment to the family of the first patriot 
 to assert the dignity and fulfil the duty of 
 tyrannicide, he could hail Felice Orsini with the 
 double honours : " Patriot and Tyrannicide." 
 An ode was addressed to Athens, showing that 
 the Greeks were Swinburne's Gods : 
 
 Gods for us are all your fathers, even the least of these are 
 Gods. . . . 
 
 and yet he laughed at other " Creed-wrought 
 faith of faithless souls that mock their doubts 
 with creeds." 
 
 Of more recent Gods he went on praising 
 Hugo, comparing him with Christ and Prome- 
 theus, and hailing him as King, comforter and 
 prophet, Paraclete and poet, In 1882 on the 
 K 145
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 subject of the Russian persecution of Jews he 
 appealed to Christ to know if it had not been his 
 passion " to foreknow in death's worst hour the 
 works of Christian men." The suggested 
 Channel tunnel was to him a "pursy dream" 
 of " vile vain greed," which could not link the 
 two nations ; nor could anything save " union 
 only of trust and loving heart." King, priest, or 
 God made no difference to his love of England 
 any more than of Eton : 
 
 Where the footfall sounds of England^ where the smile of 
 
 England shines, 
 Rings the tread and laughs the face of freedom^ fair as hope 
 
 divines 
 Days to be, more brave than ours and lit by lordlier stars for 
 
 signs. 
 All our past acclaims our future : Shakespeare's voice and 
 
 Nelson's hand, 
 Milton's faith and Wordsworth's trust in this our chosen 
 
 and chainless land, 
 Bear us witness : come the world against her, England yet 
 
 shall stand. 
 
 The question of Home Rule for Ireland naturally, 
 therefore, moved him to assert in Astrophcl that 
 
 Three in one, but one in three, 
 God, who girt her with the sea. 
 Bade our Commonweal to be. . . . 
 
 The jubilee of 1887 earned from him a loyal 
 poem which bade earth and sea join the "just 
 
 146
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 and sacred jubilation." When he was thirty 
 England was " among the faded nations " because 
 that was the conventional view of a republican. 
 Patriotism destroyed his dreams as if they had 
 never existed : foreign nations became " dark 
 Muscovy reptile in rancour," " base Germany, 
 blatant in guile " ; the people became " blind 
 ranks and bellowing votes " ; Ireland was 
 " murderous Ireland." He was inclined more 
 and more to bestow the title of Cant on any- 
 thing beyond a general love of liberty and justice. 
 Thus in Ast?'ophel he sang without a smile : 
 
 Lovelier than thy seas are strong, 
 Glorious Ireland, sword and song 
 Gird and crown thee : none may wrong. 
 Save thy sons alone. 
 
 Thus with a smile, in 1876, he sang in A Ballad 
 of Bulgarie : 
 
 The gentle knight, Sir John de Bright, 
 
 (Of Brummageme was he,) 
 Forth would he prance with lifted lance 
 
 For love of Bulgarie. 
 No lance in hand for other land 
 
 Sir Bright would ever take ; 
 For wicked works, save those of Turks, 
 
 No head of man would break ; 
 But that Bulgarie should not be free, 
 
 This made his high heai't quake. . . . 
 
 presumably also with a smile in 1889, about 
 Parnell, in A Ballad of Truthful Charles : 
 
 147
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Charles Stuart the crownless king whose hand 
 Sways Erin's sceptre — so they sing, 
 The bards of holy Liarland. . . . 
 
 Swinburne was then fifty-two. Hoth before 
 and after this he gave reason to beUeve that 
 accident had consecrated to Liberty, Love and 
 Peace a nature that might have sung Tyranny, 
 Hate and War with equal bigotry. It was not, 
 however, permitted to him to go farther than to 
 say first that the Enghsh are a people " that 
 never at heart was not inly free," and are " the 
 first of the races of men who behold unashamed 
 the sun " ; and second that " none but we . . . 
 hear in heart the breathless bright watchword 
 of the sea," and moreover that " never was man 
 born free" on the other side of the Channel. 
 Side by side with this strain ran that other of 
 general hope : 
 
 See the light of manhood rise in the twilight of the Gods ; 
 
 and : 
 
 Not for gain of heaven may man put away the rule of light. 
 
 The Englishman and the universal brother in 
 Swinburne were entirely different and distinct, 
 like soldier and priest. Hardly a second time 
 did he find the grave mellow note of Two 
 Leaders where he salutes two " prophets of past 
 kind," "high souls that hate us," men whom 
 
 148
 
 SONGS OF TWO NATIONS 
 
 he thought reactionary children of night but 
 honourable : 
 
 Pass with the stars and leave us with the sun. 
 
 The note is worthy of Wordsworth or Tenny- 
 son at his best, but in Swinburne it seems almost 
 an accident of temper, in a moment of freedom 
 from the obsession of Liberty. 
 
 149
 
 VII 
 
 LATER POEMS: CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 After So??gs Before Siuwise and Songs of Two 
 Nations, Liberty gave Swinburne little help 
 towards the making of poetry. His poems in 
 future were to be laid before many Gods, in- 
 cluding Liberty, Love, and Sin, but Music 
 before all. In 1878 appeared a second series of 
 Poems and Ballads, in 1880 Songs of the Spiing- 
 fides and Studies in Song, in 1882 Tristram of 
 Lyonesse, in 1883 A Centurij of Roundels, in 1884 
 A Midsummer Holiday, in 1894 Ast?'ophel, in 
 1896 The Tale of Balen, in 1904 A Channel 
 Passage. Except the two narratives, IVistraffi 
 and Bale?/, none of these books was so much of 
 a piece as Songs Before Sunrise or even as 
 Poems and Ballads : A Century of Roundels 
 comes nearest because all the poems are in 
 similar forms. 
 
 Altogether, hardly any of our poets have 
 written more short poems, save those Hke 
 Herrick, who wrote many of only a few lines 
 apiece. This multitude includes Latin, French, 
 and border dialect poems, narratives, descrip- 
 
 150
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 tions, odes, poems of reflection and of passion 
 and of both, and some translations. But the 
 great variety of forms and subjects is no obstacle 
 to one fairly clear but accidental division. On 
 the one hand lie perhaps the only poems which 
 have a distinguishable subject, those confessedly 
 connected with a particular person, place, or 
 event: these include the political poems, the 
 poems relating to men, whether friends or great 
 men, Uving and dead ; and with these go the 
 translations. On the other hand lie those 
 poems which essentially exist in Swinburne's 
 books or in the memories of his lovers and 
 nowhere else, and have no important connection 
 with anything outside — poems which at their 
 best could not be paraphrased or abridged or 
 represented by anything but themselves, which 
 could hardly be thought of as better or worse 
 than they are or in any way different. 
 
 The second class is superior to the first, 
 because as a rule either Swinburne abated his 
 style for the sake of things known to the world, 
 or he made an unsuccessful attempt to envelop 
 them in it. The best example of this failure is 
 the poem entitled A Channel Passage, which is a 
 travel sketch in verse, and never does more than 
 remind us that the actual scene was one of 
 uncommon magnificence. The poet calls the 
 steamer a " steam-souled ship " and the same 
 
 151
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 translation of reality into poetry — to put it in a 
 crude intelligible way — is the essence and the 
 fatal fault of the poem. Whenever art allows a 
 comparison with nature, wherever nature in- 
 trudes in her own purity and majesty, art fails. 
 Uniformity of illusion is a condition of success. 
 In A Channel Passage there is hardly any 
 illusion : it is a man being poetical on a steamer, 
 which is no less and no more absurd than being 
 poetical in an omnibus ; but being poetical is 
 not poetry. 
 
 Stern and prow plunged under, alternate : a glimpse, a 
 
 recoil, a breath, 
 As she sprang as the life in a god made man would spring at 
 
 the throat of death. . . . 
 
 is a versification and rhetorical treatment of 
 notes, whether in a pocket-book or not. The 
 prose description of the same scene in Essays 
 and Studies is brief and suggestive and humane. 
 The poem is an inhuman perversion of language 
 and metre. 
 
 The Lake of Gaube in the same volume is 
 also founded upon an actual, perhaps a single, 
 experience, with an entirely different result. 
 The experience has been digested ; the illusion 
 is complete, and no comparison with the lake 
 itself possible except as a late afterthought to 
 those who know it ; the same world, Swinburne's 
 world, is with us from the first words, " The 
 
 152
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 sun is lord and god," until the last. Swinburne's 
 style touches actual detail only at its peril. 
 When he speaks of" one sweet glad hawthorn," a 
 '* dyke's trenched edge," " the steep sweet bank," 
 and " the dense bright oval wall of box in- 
 wound," he can seldom avert the fatal com- 
 parison. It gives occasion for the just and 
 cruel smile at the poet " turning beautiful things 
 into poetry," as the world says. There are poets 
 who can speak of "when the northering road 
 faced westward " and " as the dawn leapt in at 
 my casement," but Swinburne cannot. After 
 them the various metrical forms of Loch 
 Torridon, and the excited words, can do no 
 more than show us a composition in an inter- 
 mediate stage, between a memory and a poem. 
 Lines like these : 
 
 But never a roof for shelter 
 And never a sign for guide 
 Rose doubtful or visible. . . . 
 
 can be translated into prose, and have possibly 
 been translated out of it — not into poetry. 
 
 One of the poems in the same volume ap- 
 proaching perfection within this class is A Land- 
 scape by Courbet : 
 
 Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still 
 And glad of silence : down the wood sweeps clear 
 To the utmost verge where fed with many a rill 
 Low lies the mere. 
 
 153
 
 A. C. SWINHURNE 
 
 The wind speaks only summer : eye nor ear 
 Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill, 
 From sound or shadow felt or fancied here. 
 
 Strange, as wc praise the dead man's might and skill, 
 Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer. 
 While, clothed with peace by heaven's most gentle will, 
 Low lies the mere. 
 
 It is spoilt by the irrelevant *'as we praise the 
 dead man's might and skill," which introduces 
 us to a group in a picture gallery. 
 
 Probably the finest of all the poems where 
 Swinburne deals with a quite definite, tangible, 
 well-known subject is the Elegy lSGO-1801, on 
 the death of Sir Richard Burton, though even 
 here some must pause at " our demigod of 
 daring," " the sovereign seeker of the world," 
 and at other phrases that might seem only 
 exaggerations of rhetoric. In it he seems to be 
 half-way between a manly fleshly view of nature, 
 of "the swordsman's hand, the crested head," 
 and a spiritual transfiguring view. Possibly the 
 name " Burton " in the last verse is no gain. 
 " Auvergne, Auvergne," however, which opens 
 the poem, is of itself sufficiently unfamiliar, per- 
 haps — the repetition gives it a slightly extra- 
 natural value — and onwards from the first verse : 
 
 Auvergne, Auvergne, O wild and woeful land, 
 O glorious land and gracious, white as gleam 
 
 The stairs of heaven, black as a flameless brand, 
 
 Strange even as life, and stranger than a dream. . . . 
 
 154
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 there is, I suppose, scarcely any temptation to 
 think of Auvergne apart from these massy 
 stanzas. The poem is in every way a charac- 
 teristic one. The "glorious" and "gracious," 
 indefinite, complimentary, and excited epithets, 
 duplicating sound and sense, and the one clear, 
 small comparison to a "flameless brand," and 
 the three others indefinitely sublime to "the 
 stairs of heaven," and "fife" and "a dream," 
 could hardly be found in another poet. He 
 begins by asking whether the earth would not 
 remember this man if it could remember men at 
 all. With him the poet had seen Auvergne, 
 " the mountain stairs " 
 
 More bright than vision, more than faith subUme, 
 Strange as the Hght and darkness of the world. . . . 
 
 strange also, as he goes on to say, as night and 
 morning, stars and sun. Somewhat rudely and 
 obscurely, but forcibly, he makes a comparison 
 between the effect of death on Burton, and 
 dawn on the mountain, using a crude line of 
 conventional type such as he now and then does 
 affect : 
 
 Whom fate forgets not nor shall fame forget. 
 
 There follow a number of stanzas where 
 similar comparisons are made in such a way 
 that the spiritual exalts the physical — an abyss, 
 
 155
 
 A. C. SWINHURNE 
 
 " viewless even iis time's," makes him " now 
 dreiim how high the freed soul climbs " after 
 death — until at length the mountains and the 
 river are strange in a half Dantesque, half 
 Ossianic manner. The vague — " past and mon- 
 strous things " — " deadlier things unseen" — plays 
 a part. Everything is violent or extreme. In 
 the mist the two men are blinded as a pilot with 
 foam, and " shrouded as a corpse," and they go 
 along ledges too narrow for wild goats and sit 
 blinded over the abyss. The mist is "raging." 
 The " gi'im black helpless heights " " scorn " the 
 sun and " mock " the morning. The wdnds had 
 " sins for wings." The river below suggests the 
 river, soundless and viewless, in which the dead 
 man is being borne according to some super- 
 stition which the poet rejected ; and he turns in 
 thought to the priests, " loud in lies," who will 
 mock his dust with their religion. But the soul 
 of the man is free, with eyes keener than the 
 sun, and wings wider than the world. His 
 scorn, too, was " deep and strong as death and 
 life." The poet asks in what "illimitable, in- 
 superable, infinite " space the soul will use its 
 wings. He answers immediately that no dream 
 or faith can tell us. But having said that this 
 soul's flight had always been sunward, his mind 
 turns to Sophocles and the garden of the sun, 
 and the tree of wisdom growing in it which had 
 
 156
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 gone to make the sheaf "his strenuous spirit 
 bound and stored aright." Still thinking of the 
 sun he supposes a further advance of the soul 
 " toward the dawn " after death — " the imperious 
 soul's indomitable ascent." " But," he says, 
 meaning perhaps that a thin " soul " is not 
 recognizable as Burton : 
 
 But not the soul whose labour knew not end — 
 
 But not the swordsman's hand, the crested head. . . . 
 
 However much the Elegy tells us of Burton, 
 one verse at least pictures the mind of the poet : 
 
 We sons of east and west, ringed round with dreams. 
 Bound fast with visions, girt about with fears, 
 
 Live, trust and think by chance, while shadow seems 
 Light, and the wind that wrecks a hand that steers. 
 
 This is the man to whom Burton's path through 
 the world was beset with dangers that "coiled 
 and curled " against him, who saw the waves of 
 the mountains more "fierce and fluctuant" than 
 the seas, and the steep-built town as a "fear- 
 less " town hailing and braving the heights, who 
 felt the heights brighter than vision, sublimer 
 than faith, strange as light, darkness, night, 
 morning, stars and sun. 
 
 If Swinburne had written about Auvergne in 
 prose, and apart from Burton, his description 
 might well have differed from that of other men 
 only in lucidity and vigour : it would probably 
 
 157
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 have differed a great deal from that in the Elegy. 
 Memory and tliought had heen awakened and 
 excited by liurton's deatli, and the ordinary 
 values of things — the tourist value, for ex- 
 ample — had been disturbed or destroyed. His 
 recollections of the mountains ceased to be, if 
 they ever had been, more or less large dis- 
 integrated fragments of the earth and became 
 a region of the spiritual world, mingling with 
 other mountains seen, read of, or imagined, 
 coloured and changed by a hundred other 
 images assembled at the passionate thought of 
 death and of the past. He ceased to be a hard 
 Victorian atheist ; he was unveiled as a man 
 who through his ancestors and through his own 
 thought and fancy had entertained a multitude 
 of the forms of death. Once this paroxysm 
 of emotional thought had begun to enter the 
 form of 
 
 Auvergne, Auvergne, O wild and woeful land. . . . 
 
 the incalculable suggestions of rhythm began to 
 enter and still further to convert the humorous 
 and rational atheist. The result is, 1 believe, 
 as accurate and real as a map or a guide-book, 
 and that in spite of what, to another view, 
 might seem words only, begotten of words. 
 
 Rhyme certainly acted upon Swinburne as 
 a pill to purge ordinary responsibilities. He 
 
 158
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 became sensible to many of the values of words, 
 ancient and modern, ordinary and figurative, 
 etymological and melodic. Thus he played 
 with the literal meaning of Gautier's Christian 
 name, Theophile : " Dear to God," he said, and 
 went on to speak of the God that gives men 
 " spirit of song." Thus he played with the name 
 of Cape Wrath : 
 
 But north of the headland whose name is Wrath, by the 
 wrath or the ruth of the sea. , . . 
 
 Another form of play is noticeable in : 
 
 Enmeshed intolerably in the intolerant net, 
 
 and still more in : 
 
 And in the soul within the sense began 
 
 The manlike passion of a godlike man. 
 
 And in the sense within the soul again 
 
 Thoughts that made men of gods and gods of men. 
 
 This may turn out to be very nearly nonsense ; 
 but certainly it fills a place harmoniously in 
 Thalassms, a poem which is not nonsense. The 
 line before it is an example of another kind 
 of play with words. Instead of saying "the 
 nightingale " he says " the singing bird whose 
 song calls night by name " ; a thing " eight 
 hundred years old " is one " that has seen de- 
 cline eight hundred waxing and waning years." 
 Speaking of himself and others who read 
 Tennyson in their teens, he says that it was 
 
 159
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 "ere time in the rounding rhyme of choral 
 seasons had hailed us men," which is more than 
 mere periphrasis. The next line but one con- 
 tains an example of a kind of play which surprises 
 us by making perfect sense : 
 
 Life more bright than the breathless light of soundless moon 
 in a songless glen. 
 
 Its perfect sense is, I think, not more important 
 than its pattern, which is of a kind that seems 
 instantly to forbid examination save by the 
 ear. Another very old game played all through 
 Swinburne's books is that with the phrase 
 " spirit of sense." In one example, just given, 
 the play is with soul and sense : sometimes the 
 two are a line apart, sometimes combined as by 
 Shakespeare, sometimes in the form of " spirit 
 in sense," sometimes as " spirit and sense." 
 Mademoiselle de Maupin was "the golden 
 book of spirit and sense." The play of allitera- 
 tion needs no example, except one which shows 
 at the same time another variety of " spirit of 
 sense," and how the long line was yet another aid 
 to Swinburne's redemption from responsibility : 
 
 And now that the rage of thy rapture is satiate with revel and 
 
 ravin and spoil of the snow, 
 And the branches it brightened arc broken, and shattered 
 
 the treetops that only thy wrath could lay low^ 
 How should not thy lovers rejoice in thee, leader and lord of 
 
 the year that exults to be born, 
 
 ICO
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 So strong in thy strength and so glad of thy gladness whose 
 
 laughter puts winter and sorrow to scorn ? 
 Thou hast shaken the snows from thy wings, and the frost 
 
 on thy forehead is molten ; thy lips are aglow 
 As a lover's that kindle with kissing, and earth, with her 
 
 raiment and tresses yet wasted and torn, 
 Takes breath as she smiles in the grasp of thy passion to feel 
 
 through her spirit the sense of thee flow. 
 
 Here the rhythm should subdue curiosity : if it 
 does not, March: An Ode will fail, since there 
 is nothing but rhythm, the descriptions and 
 even the form of the sentences being often 
 imperfectly harmonious with the rhythm, and 
 no serious aspirant will be satisfied with the 
 amount of sense in : 
 
 For the breath of thy lips is freedom, and freedom's the 
 
 sense of thy spirit, the sound of thy song. 
 Glad god of the north-east wind, whose heart is as high as 
 
 the hands of thy kingdom are strong. . . . 
 
 It is important to notice that verse permits 
 the poet to use *' the hands of thy kingdom " 
 and a thousand other aids to length and opacity. 
 Thus in Ex Voto he thinks of his "last hour" 
 — he personifies it vaguely— and how she will 
 kiss him. 
 
 The cold last kiss and fold 
 Close round my limbs her cold 
 Soft shade as raiment rolled 
 And leave them lying. 
 
 It bears analysis, but, except to lovers of the 
 
 161 
 
 ^
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 rhymes and this stanza form, must seem long- 
 winded, llhyme and the stanza excuse him 
 when he pictures En*^]and not only with : 
 
 The sea-coast round her hkc a mantle, 
 
 but with : 
 
 The sea-cloud like a crown. 
 
 This would be a grave weakness in a poet who 
 encouraged reading closely with eye and ear. 
 In the next stanza of the same poem, llic 
 Commonweal, the rhyme " deathless " leads him 
 to speak of " the breathless bright watchword of 
 the sea." This is extraordinarily near nonsense, 
 almost a bull's-eye. He is speaking of English- 
 men bearing " in heart " this watchword, 
 " breathless " means perhaps silent or inner, 
 and " bright " is complimentary : but it is a 
 near thing. Swinburne is usually privileged 
 when singing of the sea, for it can mean the 
 wild sea water, or the spirit of the sea which 
 is freedom, or the mother of Venus. There- 
 fore, when Swinburne tells us that England 
 loves light for the sake of light, and truth for 
 the sake of truth, but song for the sake of the 
 sea as well as of song, we acknowledge the in- 
 separableness of song and sea. 
 
 Sometimes the god of rhyme leads him to 
 un-English writing, as when he speaks of Sep- 
 tember, the month of the proclamation in 1870 
 
 1G2
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 of the French RepiibHc, as "Having only the 
 name of honour, only sign of white." Hardly 
 more English are some of the Biblical phrases, 
 like " the strengths of the storm of them " ; but 
 they provided pairs of short syllables where such 
 were wanted. 
 
 Lengthiness through redupHcation or multi- 
 plication needs hardly an example, except per- 
 haps in the class of comparisons. In the two 
 first cases one comparison is seen provoking 
 another in almost merry mood : 
 
 The sea was not lovelier than here was the land, nor the night 
 than the day, nor the day than the night. . . . 
 
 So again, light at moonrise is lapped in gloom, 
 
 Even as life with death, and fame with time, and memory 
 
 with the tomb 
 Where a dead man hath for vassals Fame the serf and Time 
 
 the slave. 
 
 In this third case comparisons lead out of com- 
 parisons in a tangled network which helps to 
 hide from some readers that hzards are the 
 subjects of all the Hues but the first : 
 
 Flowers dense and keen as midnight stars aflame 
 And living things of light like flames in flower 
 That glance and flash as though no hand might tame 
 Lightnings whose life outshone their stormlit hour 
 And played and laughed on earth, with all their power 
 Gone, and with all their joy of life made long 
 And harmless as the lightning life of song, 
 Shine sweet like stars when darkness feels them strong. 
 
 1G3
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 The lizards are compared to lightninfrs, which 
 are then compared to song ; and finally flowers 
 and lizards are compared to stars : the stanza is 
 thus filled with words of light and movement. 
 Sometimes the comparisons overwhelm the sub- 
 ject of them, that is, for a reader disobedient 
 to the command of sound and metre and the 
 suggestiveness which they ordain. An Auhivin 
 Vision, for example, includes a storm which is 
 thus exalted by a complexity of abstract com- 
 parisons which is almost maddening to the 
 soberly inquiring intelligence : 
 
 As the darkness of thought and of passion is touched by the 
 
 light that gives 
 Life deathless as love from the depth of a spirit that sees 
 
 and lives. 
 From the soul of a seer and a singer, wherein as a scroll un- 
 furled 
 Lies open the scri})ture of light and of darkness, the word 
 
 of the world, 
 So, shapeless and measureless, lurid as anguish and haggard 
 
 as crime, 
 Pale as the front of oblivion and dark as the heart of time. 
 The wild wan heaven at its height was assailed, and subdued 
 
 and made 
 More fair than the skies that know not of storm and endure 
 
 not shade. 
 
 Comparisons, like these, which either combine 
 or confuse the physical and the spiritual world, 
 are numerous and intensely characteristic in 
 Swinburne : he would not be anything Hke what 
 
 164
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 he is without his lands " loneUer than ruin," his 
 seas "stranger than death," his land of "sand 
 and ruin and gold," his friend's laughter that 
 was as kind "as love or sleep." 
 
 Akin to the comparisons are the lightly made 
 personifications as of England, of the " last hour " 
 in Esc Voto, of defeat and ruin, here : 
 
 Wherein defeat weds ruin, and takes for bride-bed France, 
 
 and of hope here : 
 
 And hope fell sick with famine for the food of change. 
 
 How ready we are for personification. Poems 
 and Ballads proved by the poem where the 
 Ballad is bidden to go with flowers to his lady, 
 who shall kiss him in several places : 
 
 Ballad, and on thy mouth. 
 
 There the personification is really lost in embodi- 
 ment : the ballad becomes a boy. As a rule 
 there is no embodiment of "hope" that "sets 
 wide the door," nor of empire, when " con- 
 founded empire cowers," and so on ; and we 
 accept it as indolently as perhaps it was offered. 
 It is part of the roughness of Swinburne's as 
 of other styles : what is necessary is that these 
 elements shall be absorbed into the spiritual 
 substance of words, as, for example, the witch 
 
 is in this beautiful verse from By the North 
 
 Sea : 
 
 165
 
 A. c. swiniuirnf: 
 
 Far Hickers the light of the swallows, 
 
 Far (lutters the weft of the grass. 
 Spun dense over desolate hollows 
 
 More pale than the clouds as they pass : 
 Thick woven as the weft of a witch is 
 
 Round the heart of a thrall that has sinned 
 Where youth and the wrecks of its riches 
 
 Are waifs on the wind. 
 
 There the grass flutters as the swallow flickers, 
 and the earth becomes light and hollow under us. 
 Some vagueness and some cheapness exist 
 where words so abound ; where three words 
 have to do the work of one, there can seldom 
 be any fineness of single words or short phrases, 
 and at times the sea will be called "divine" 
 and "deathless," and so on, and things will be 
 " heavenly," " strong as life," " subhme as death," 
 and so on. But more noticeable than the 
 vagueness is the violence and extravagance. 
 The dawn springs like a panther " with fierce 
 and fire-fledged wings " upon the lava-black 
 land of Auvergne. A tiger used for comparison 
 in T/talassius is 
 
 Drunk with trampling of the murderous must 
 That soaks and stains the tortuous close-coiled wood 
 Made monstrous with its myriad-mustering brood. 
 
 This is like the dream tiger of a child mad with 
 fear, and as superhuman as Dolores : with the 
 panther in Laus Vencrifi, which has a " hot, 
 sweet throat," it might almost have come 
 
 166
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 from the days when the palm tree languished 
 for its mate, and the viper and the lamprey 
 most strangely loved. The child in llialassius 
 feels the thunder and the lightning as atro- 
 ciously as he dreamed of the tiger — he was 
 " half distraught with strong delight " while the 
 heavens were " alive and mad with glory and 
 angry joy." Of a quieter but equal extremity 
 is the phrase " inlaid as with rose " which is 
 used of a beaker "left divine" by the lips of 
 Dione at a feast on Olympus, and the state- 
 ment that the sun does not light the Channel 
 Islands like Victor Hugo's fame, or that 
 Tennyson (who died with Cymbeline open 
 beside him) was led from earthward to sun- 
 ward, "guided by Imogen," which Swinburne 
 cannot have believed. So Gautier's tomb was 
 a "golden tomb," and Bath was "like a queen 
 enchanted who may not laugh or weep." 
 These things remind us that Swinburne had 
 not only a splendid, vivid, exuberant nature, 
 but a spendthrift and reckless one. He has 
 defended himself in an interesting manner in the 
 Dedicatory Epistle of his collected poems to 
 Mr. Watts-Dunton : 
 
 Not to you, or any other poet, nor indeed to the very 
 humblest and simplest lover of poetry, will it seem in- 
 congruous or strange, suggestive of imperfect sympathy 
 with life or inspiration from nature, that the very words 
 
 167
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 of Sappho should be hoard and rccogni/cd in the notes of 
 the nightingales, the glory of the presence of dead poets 
 imagined in the presence of the glory of the sky, the 
 lustre of their advent and their passage felt visible as in 
 vision on the live and limpid floorwork of the cloudless and 
 sunset-coloured sea. The half-brained creature to vk'hom 
 books are other than living things may see with the eye 
 of a bat and draw with the fingers of a mole his dullard's 
 distinction between books and life: those who live the 
 fuller life of a higher animal than he know that books 
 are to poets as much part of that life as pictures arc to 
 painters, or as music is to musicians, dead matter though 
 they may be to the spiritually stillborn children of dirt 
 and dullness, who find it possible and natural to live while 
 dead in heart and brain. Marlowe and Shakespeare, 
 ^schylus and Sappho, do not for us live only on the 
 dusty shelves of libraries. 
 
 It is excellently said, and necessary ; but perhaps 
 S^\inburne was unaware that poets and their 
 poetry entered more directly into his work than 
 into other poets', that Landor, Hugo, Milton, 
 Shelley and Marlowe took a place in it which 
 Virgil did not in Dante's or Tennyson's, which 
 Spenser or Chapman did not in Keats', or Shelley 
 in Browning's. To give one example, he quotes 
 from Landor : " We are what suns and winds 
 and water make us," and on that text preaches 
 the sonnet beginning ; 
 
 Sea, wind, and sun, with light and sound and breath 
 The spirit of man fulfilling — these create 
 That joy wherewith man's life grown passionate 
 Gains heart to hear, and sense to read and faith 
 
 168
 
 LATER POEMS 
 
 To know the secret word our Mother saith 
 
 In silence, and to see, though doubt wax great. 
 
 Death as the shadow cast by Hfe on fate, 
 
 Passing, whose shade we call the shadow of death. . . . 
 
 As he was called the " seamew " in childhood, 
 so he often wrote of himself as one with more 
 than fondness, and of the sea as his " mother " 
 with more than gravity. It was an old-fashioned 
 name for the relation, but it meant more than 
 the name meant elsewhere and has its effect. 
 So also with the sun and the light, whose names 
 are repeated with strange frequency in his last 
 book of poems. The Prologue to Dr. Faustus 
 is full of light, bright, fire, lightning; on the 
 first page of The Afterglow of Shakespeare, 
 " light " occurs three times, " lighten " twice, 
 " sunlight " once, along with " fire," " shone," 
 "shine," "bright," "brighter," "flame" and 
 " lustrous " ; the last words of the book are : 
 
 While darkness on earth is unbroken, 
 Light lives on the sea. 
 
 and the last in Poems and Ballads were : 
 
 With stars and sea winds in her raiment. 
 Night sinks on the sea. 
 
 That light and that sea have a beauty of spiritual, 
 and, as some would say, symbolical, significance. 
 And yet when Swinburne was writing A 
 Swimmers Dream the rhyme of water appears 
 to have sent him off to Love, who was " the sea's 
 
 169
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 own daughter." It is one of his most beautiful 
 poems, and to have overcome the effect of that 
 abrupt change in the third Hue : 
 
 Dawn is dim in the dark soft water, 
 Soft and passionate, dark and sweet. 
 Love's own self was the deep sea's daughter. . . . 
 
 was a consummate labour of suggestive music. 
 I will give one more example of a sacrifice to 
 rhyme, where Swinburne translates Words- 
 worth's lines : 
 
 I've heard of hearts unkind kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
 into this verse : 
 
 The poet high and hoary 
 
 Of meres that mountains bind 
 
 Felt his great heart more often 
 
 Yearn, and his proud strength soften 
 
 From stern to tenderer mood, 
 
 At thought of gratitude 
 
 Shown than of song or story 
 
 He heard of hearts unkind. 
 
 It was not for this that rhyme and metre were 
 evolved. 
 
 170
 
 VIII 
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 Such a lover of words and music could only 
 spend his full powers on poems which essentially 
 exist in his books or in the memories of his lovers, 
 and nowhere else, having no important connection 
 with anything outside. Sometimes, as in the 
 Elegy oil Sir Richard Burton, he triumphed with 
 a distinguishable subject ; but his best work is 
 where he makes no overt appeal to our interest 
 or sympathy, though the richer we are in the love 
 of life and of words the greater will be our 
 pleasure. The same is true of all poets, but not 
 in this degree. For it may be said of most poets 
 that they love men and Nature more than words ; 
 of Swinburne that he loved them equally. 
 Other poets tend towards a grace and glory of 
 words as of human speech perfected and made 
 divine, Swinburne towards a musical jargon that 
 includes human snatches, but is not and never 
 could be speech. Yet it must never be forgotten 
 that this jargon was no arbitrary novel language, 
 
 171
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 no mere anarchic tumult of words. It was the 
 medium evolved out of human speech and liter- 
 ature by a man who was lovable and admirable 
 to many of his finest contemporaries ; that it was 
 at least as natural as any other medium is shown 
 by the fact that in a five-mile walk he would 
 think out a poem down to the last line and 
 syllable without touching paper and then join 
 a luncheon party and be companionable and 
 witty, full of interest in the newspapers and 
 topics of the day. In these witty moods he 
 was able also to turn round and look upon his 
 own jargon, parodying it and its content com- 
 pletely, thus : 
 
 Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit 
 
 and soul of our senses 
 Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the 
 
 semblance and sound of a sigh ; 
 Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and 
 
 triangular tenses — 
 " Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the 
 
 dawn of the day when we die." 
 Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodi- 
 ously mute as it may be, 
 While the hope in the heart of the hero is bruised by the 
 
 breach of men's rapiers, resigned to the rod ; 
 Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the 
 
 bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, 
 As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies 
 
 growing green at a groan for the grimness of God, 
 Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its 
 
 binding is blacker than bluer : 
 
 172
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their 
 dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things ; 
 
 Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn 
 that is freed from the fangs that pui-sue her. 
 
 Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from 
 the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings. 
 
 He parodied himself, Tennyson, Browning, 
 Whitman, Patmore, Owen Meredith, and Ros- 
 setti, and succeeded in being funnier than them 
 all. It is greatly to be lamented that he never 
 fulfilled his intention of writing the diary of 
 Mrs. Samuel Pepys, kept concurrently with her 
 husband's. 
 
 He said himself of his own work in the 
 Dedication to Collected Poems that his medium 
 or material had " more in common with a 
 musician's than with a sculptor's." Hence we 
 accept from him combinations far more astonish- 
 ing under analysis than those which Dr. Johnson 
 condemned in Lycidas. We accept them, for 
 example, in the Ave Atque Vale. A volume 
 might well and profitably be written upon this 
 poem which, compared to Tennyson's Ode on 
 the Death of the Duke of Wellington or even 
 to Adonais, is like an Elizabethan " Bestiary " 
 compared to a modern " Natural History." 
 How simple and natural in comparison are 
 Baudelaire's own words quoted at the head of 
 the poem, about the poor dead, suffering when 
 the October winds blow melancholy among the 
 
 173
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 tombs und feeling the ingratitude of living men! 
 He begins : 
 
 Sli.ill I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 
 Hrother, on this tlmt was the veil of thee ? 
 Or quiet sea-Hower moulded by the sea, 
 
 Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel. 
 Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, 
 Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve ? 
 
 Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before. 
 Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale Avith heat 
 And full of bitter summer, but more sweet 
 
 To thee than gleanings of a northern shore 
 Trod by no tropic feet ? 
 
 It is the simplest of the eighteen verses, and, 
 after hesitating over those beautiful Dryads in 
 the two lines nearest to magic in Sv^^inburne, 
 sets the tune of the whole. No man, I suppose, 
 can be " all ear " to a poem ; he must stray a 
 little now and then to think, apart from the 
 tune. If it were possible never thus to stray in 
 reading or hearing, Ave Atque Vale would seem 
 a perfect poem. Compounded of different 
 elements arising from regret and inquiry, it 
 makes out of Nature and poetry, fancy, super- 
 stition, mythology, and truth, a perfect tune, 
 rich, sorrowful, and beautiful. I cannot pretend 
 to explain it. But I know that the sound and 
 the sense of the first line seem to prepare for it all 
 and to make almost impossible a false curiosity; 
 the " sea-flower moulded by the sea " lulls a 
 
 174
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 little more, so does the rhyme of " sorrel " and 
 " laurel " ; so, far more, do all those long-vowelled 
 endings of thee, sea, weave, eve, heat, sweet, 
 feet, before, and shore. " Half faded " is ever 
 so little disturbing if I allow it to combine too 
 closely with the blossoms and to produce actually 
 half-faded flowers instead of fiery ones to which 
 are added the idea and the sound of fading but 
 not the fact. In the second verse Baudelaire's 
 " flowers of evil " lead Swinburne to far lands 
 and so to the sea, and in particular to the sea 
 round " Lesbian promontories," and to the 
 " barren " kiss of " piteous " wave with wave 
 which is ignorant what " Leucadian grave " 
 " hides too deep the supreme head of song " : 
 the sea, like Sappho's kisses, " salt and sterile," 
 carries her hither and thither and vexes and 
 works her wrong. Here, too, I do not too 
 closely combine " barren " and " kiss," " piteous " 
 and "wave," nor ask how waves could know 
 where Sappho was lying, nor why she lies "too 
 deep." " Salt " and " sterile " enter into the 
 music to the extent of three syllables and, in 
 the faintest manner, add to the effect of the 
 " bitter " in the first stanza. So, later, in the 
 phrase " effaced unprofitable eyes," " unprofit- 
 able " belongs to the whole and not to the eyes 
 in particular : it is a faintly pervasive sound 
 and feeling, like "poisonous," "luxurious," 
 
 175
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 " tumultuous," " sleepless," " sombre," " mysteri- 
 ous," " sunless," " irrevocable," and the recurring 
 " strange " and " bitter " and " sin." I confess 
 that I pause Avhen Swinburne speaks of laying 
 on the tomb, Orestes-like, " a curl of severed 
 hair." Now and then a thought will rise a little 
 too far above the surface, as when the dead is 
 once " a little dust," and again " wind and air." 
 But having reached the last words — 
 
 For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, 
 All waters as the shore, 
 
 I feel that there is more of death and the grave 
 and a living man venturing among them than in 
 any other poem except : 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies. . . . 
 
 and in some of the ballads. The poem is not a 
 rational meditation, but the uncouth experience 
 of death clothed in the strangest variety of words 
 and ideas, which results in music rather than 
 articulate speech. Perhaps no single sentence 
 in the poem is unintelligible to the mind any 
 more than it is ungrammatical. But the com- 
 bination is one which the mind cannot judge, 
 though it may approve, seeing the effect, and 
 say that it is beyond her expectation or under- 
 standing. 
 
 Side by side with this may be taken At a 
 MoutJis End, in the same book. It opens with 
 
 17C
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 an interplay of sounds and words which might 
 have preluded pure enchantment : 
 
 The night last night was strange and shaken : 
 More strange the change of you and me. 
 
 Once morCj for the old love's love forsaken. 
 We went out once more toward the sea. 
 
 For the old love's love-sake dead and buried, 
 L One last time, one more and no more. . . . 
 
 But it develops into a psychological study of 
 two lovers in something like Browning's manner. 
 The man is Swinburne, or at least a " light white 
 sea-mew." His mistress is a " sleek black pan- 
 theress," a "queen of panthers" whose title calls 
 for the rhyme of " anthers " later on, and the 
 Browningesque tone which the rhyme denotes 
 refuses to mingle with Swinburne's lyric ardour, 
 ruining the piece as a study, making it seem 
 a grotesquely poetical handling of fact. Relics, 
 the solitary belated last successor of Fausthie 
 and Felise, is a failure of the same kind : it 
 shows us an experience plus an attempt to use 
 it in poetry. The other failures are the poems 
 to Barry Cornwall, where rhyme and fancy are 
 thrown as decorations over simple and sensible 
 thoughts. But the successes in Swinburne's 
 own richest style are many. One of them, " A 
 Vision of Spring in Winter," is said to have 
 been half composed in a dream, and the others 
 have a similar faithful relation to something 
 M 177
 
 A. C. SWINRUTINE 
 
 which we do not quite reco^ize as reality. 
 llie Year of the Ruse, for example, is full of: 
 
 A music beginning of loves 
 In the light that the roses niadej 
 Such hght as the music loves. 
 The music of man with maid. 
 
 Tkc Last Oracle tempts by its sober appearance 
 to a more careful reading than it ought to have 
 if it is to succeed in making a grandeur of dark- 
 ness out of which emerges the cry : 
 
 O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, 
 Destroyer and healer, hear. 
 
 The sestina called The Complaint of Lisa, and 
 the Choriambics, are two poems which give a 
 perfect content to the form of sestina and chori- 
 ambics. Tlie Ballad of Francois Villon is a 
 perfect ballad almost as saturated with colour 
 and sense and humanity as Ave At que Vale. 
 Before Sunset is a melodious arrangement of 
 words so sweet as to be almost wordless in 
 effect, ylt Parting fits the idea "For a day or 
 a night love sang to us, played with us " to 
 a tune lasting for three verses of seven lines. 
 A Forsaken Garden is nearly a successful 
 attempt to turn the reality of a " steep square 
 slope," fields that " fall southward," and a 
 "dense hard passage," into the music of "all 
 are at one now, roses and lovers." L^our Songs 
 of Four Seasons are similar attempts and less 
 
 178
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 successful, especially in the short lines of Winter 
 in Northumberland, where the frequent rhymes, 
 often of a comic sort, cause deafness to all else. 
 Swinburne was often in later years to repeat 
 this quality, a kind of joyless leaping and danc- 
 ing of lifeless words, often a masque of simple 
 facts or conceits in fancy dress. Rarely could 
 he repeat anything like the quality of Ave Atque 
 Vale. His translations from Villon make us 
 wish that all the enthusiasm for Love and Sin 
 of the sixties had left him a substance like 
 Villon's. 
 
 Erectheus (1876), being after the same model, 
 might have restored the glory of Atalanta. It 
 may be a better play, as Swinburne thought it, 
 but the style is too far gone in the Biblical, the 
 classical and the un-English, too rich in phrases 
 like " tongueless water-herds," " this holiness of 
 Athens," "nor thine ear shall now my tongue 
 invoke not," " a God intolerable to seamen," and 
 " as a cloud is the face of his strength " ; not to 
 speak of the tendency marked in this : 
 
 Drew seaward as with one wide wail of waves, 
 
 Resorbed with reluctation ; such a groan 
 
 Rose from the fluctuant refluence of its ranks. . . . 
 
 and the confirmed trick shown in this : 
 
 The whole world's crowning city crowned with thee 
 As the sun's eye fulfils and crowns with sight 
 The circling crown of heaven. 
 
 179
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 The blank verse is gracious everywhere and 
 subtly varied, yet is in efTcct monotonous be- 
 cause it is uncontrolled and lacking in con- 
 tinuous form and purpose. Lacking these it 
 cannot, except in the charge of some rare voice, 
 hold us long either with its speed and mass or 
 with the fullness of vowels in lines like these : 
 
 Hear then and know why only of all men I 
 That bring such news as mine is, I alone 
 Must wash good words with weeping ; I and thou, 
 Woman, must wail to hear men sing, must groan 
 To see their joy who love us. . . . 
 
 It is possible also to be tired of hearing 
 laments over the fact that a girl is to die a maid. 
 The movement of the chorus is always lovely or 
 magnificent, but the words have not enough of 
 any sensuous quality save sound to conceal a 
 thinness of substance, a formality of style. On 
 the stage it would have majesty: it offers per- 
 haps the greatest possible opportunity for the 
 extending of a perfect voice. 
 
 Studies in Song contixiu^ the fine endless poem 
 in seven movements, called Bij the North Sea, 
 dedicated to Walter Theodore Watts, now 
 Theodore Watts-Dunton, with whom he had 
 just gone to live at Putney. On examination 
 this proves to mention many things which have 
 sensuous properties, earth and sea and men and 
 women, but though written after the poet had 
 
 180
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 become very deaf, it is sensuously powerful only 
 in sound. The length and monotony help to 
 conceal what lies below the sound and must, to 
 some extent, enrich it : refusing to give way to 
 the sound we may notice the verse : 
 
 For the heart of the waters is cruel^ 
 And the kisses are dire of their lips, 
 
 And their waves are as fire is to fuel 
 To the strength of the sea-faring ships, 
 
 Though the sea's eye gleam as a jewel 
 To the sun's eye back as he dips. 
 
 Having noticed it we may question the value of 
 the comparison in lines 3 and 4 save to provide 
 " fuel," and we may be slow in perceiving that 
 the waves are said to be as fire " though " now 
 at sunset the sea is waveless and reflects as one 
 jewel. We may notice, too, that oft-repeated 
 thought that the border Hne "sundering death 
 from life, keeps weariness from rest." Yet we 
 may read the poem more than once without 
 seeing Ulysses in it. We shall not gain by dis- 
 covering him. The essence of the poem is : 
 
 A land that is lonelier than ruin ; 
 A sea that is stranger than death. 
 
 That is the key. At the end the sun — "our 
 father, the God "—is added to earth and sea, 
 and the poet appears to bow down to it and to 
 offer : 
 
 181
 
 A. C. SWINIUJRNE 
 
 My dreams to the wind ever-living, 
 My song to the sea. 
 
 Sun and sea and poet make O//" shore another 
 complete and satisfactory poem : here, too, the 
 sun is his " Father God "... 
 
 But thou art the God, and thy kingdom is heaven and thy 
 shrine is the sea. 
 
 The forty stanzas are in praise of the liglit and 
 the sea. Nothing is said unworthy of them : 
 nothing remains in the memory of the forty 
 stanzas save the Hght and the sea. The eight- 
 hundred -Une Song for the Centamry of ]Valtcr 
 Savage Landor is not almighty sound, but re- 
 flection long drawn out through love of sound. 
 Thus the sound makes the reflection tedious, 
 and the reflection interferes with the sound, and 
 the poem is a monument for patience. Evening 
 on the Broads is another versifled travel sketch 
 which might seem more but for the intrusion of 
 the fact : " Northward, lonely for miles, ere ever 
 a village begin," which mars the music, and save 
 in music it is not strong enough to endure the 
 intrusion. A Parting Song (to a friend leaving 
 England for a years residence in Australia) 
 reveals very clearly that Swinburne could imitate 
 as well as parody himself, and that he could and 
 would write beautifully on a broomstick. The 
 
 182
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 Emperors Progress is interesting because it 
 shows the poet condemning Nero's " heavy fair- 
 faced hateful head," partly no doubt because 
 Nero was an Emperor, partly because Swinburne 
 had turned forty. 
 
 Songs of the Springtides, three long medita- 
 tive lyrics and a longer birthday ode to Victor 
 Hugo, belonging to the same year as Studies in 
 Song, is one of the best of Swinburne's books, 
 and in its original form one of the most pleasant 
 to possess. It is also one of those in which he 
 himself plays a conspicuous part. Thalassius, 
 the first poem, appears to be an autobiographical 
 poem of the same class as Shelley's Epipsychidion, 
 and open to the charge brought by Swinburne 
 against that poem, of containing riddles as well 
 as mystery. The name Thalassius is presumably 
 a variant of his boyish nickname " Sea-mew," 
 and in the dedication to Trelawny he compares 
 his book seeking favour of Shelley's friend to a 
 " sea-mew on a sea-king's wrist alighting." The 
 child is found in April, the poet's birth-month, on 
 the sea shore. By an old warrior poet, a man 
 like the sages in Shelley's Prince Athanase and 
 Laon and Cythna, he is taught Liberty, Love, 
 Hate, Hope, Fear (" fear to be worthless the 
 dear love of the wind and sea that bred him 
 fearless ") : and in the end the old man blesses 
 him: 
 
 183
 
 A. C. S\V INIUJUNM^: 
 
 Child of my sunlij^ht and the sea, from birth 
 
 A fosterling and fugitive on earth ; 
 
 Sleepless of soul as wind or wave or fire, 
 
 A man-child with an ungrown God's desire ; 
 
 Because thou hast loved nought mortal more than me, 
 
 Thy father, and thy mother-hearted sea ; 
 
 Because thou hast given thy flower and fire of youth 
 
 To feed men's hearts with visions, truer than truth ; 
 
 Because thou hast kept in those world-wandering eyes 
 
 The light that makes one music of the skies ; 
 
 Because thou hast heard with world-unwearied ears 
 
 The music that puts light into the spheres ; 
 
 Have therefore in thine heart and in thy mouth 
 
 The sound of song that mingles north and south. 
 
 The song of all the winds that sing of me. 
 
 And in thy soul the sense of all the sea. 
 
 The whole poem is a dimly grandiose and 
 luxuriant portrait-history of a poet's breeding. 
 The human figure in it is not often more dis- 
 cernible than a figure in fire or cloud, and Hke 
 such is easily lost. But it does not so much as 
 Epipsychidion suggest questions and riddles, 
 except to irrelevant or inessential curiosity. It 
 should be read first of all Swinburne's poems 
 both as showing his _conception of himself, and, 
 what is far more important, how inextricably 
 mingled with nature and with words, how 
 entangled and obscured by them, he really is, 
 and how they modify his conception. Analysis 
 proves the framework and the thought very 
 simple ; but the grandiose dimness is due to 
 
 184
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 no mere exaggeration or mist of words, but to yr 
 a genuine, an insuperable sense of the mystery ^ 
 of simple things, and also a dissatisfaction with 
 the debased simplicity of phrases like " He 
 loved the sea." This is one of the longest of 
 Swinburne's entirely successful pieces of music. 
 Like Ave Atque Vale it is in a so-called iambic 
 metre, resembHng Lycidas in the rhyming and 
 the occasional short lines, but more abundant 
 both in rhymes and short lines. Its success 
 illustrates the fact that his best work is almost 
 always done with a familiar English rhythm, 
 though very often with much added variety in 
 rhyme-pattern and length of line. The warmth 
 and richness of colour and feeling permitted 
 by these rhymes alone strengthen the music 
 incalculably. 
 
 On the Cliffs, the next poem in Songs of the 
 Springtides, is another example. It is similar 
 in rhythm and rhyme. Here, again, the poet 
 speaks of his "winged white kinsfolk of the 
 sea," and says " we sea-mews." And as he is 
 half a bird, so the nightingale, whose song 
 threads the poem, is half a woman, or rather 
 more than half. He identifies Sappho and the 
 nightingale, and addresses them separately or 
 together, and sometimes as a " soul triune," 
 " woman and god and bird," throughout the 
 poem. But the identification is misty, perhaps 
 
 185
 
 A. C. SWINHURNE 
 
 arbitrary, and never ceases to be a slight im- 
 pediment to the reader, while the interspersed 
 fragments of Sappho are both unintelligible in 
 their places and ineffectual. Though On tfie 
 Clifjs would gain by annotation, it does not 
 fail to make a powerful, harmonious impression 
 by means of a musical, passionate use of time, 
 sea, night, and solitude, the poet, the poetess, 
 and the bird, and a tracery of words more 
 delicious to the faculties combined in reading 
 than to the pure intelligence. Like TlialussiuH 
 it is enriched by autobiography, which some- 
 times asks in its turn to be illuminated by 
 intimate personal knowledge. As in Jlialassius, 
 the poet is dimly glorified. He is like the 
 nightingale : 
 
 My heart has been in thy heart, and my life 
 
 As thy Hfe is, a sleepless hidden thing. 
 
 Full of the thirst and hunger of winter and spring, 
 
 That seeks its food not in such love or strife 
 
 As fill men's hearts with passionate hours and rest. . . . 
 
 For all my days as all thy days from birth 
 
 My heart as thy heart was in me or thee, 
 
 Fire ; and not all the fountains of the sea 
 
 Have waves enough to quench it, nor on earth 
 
 Is fuel enough to feed. 
 
 While day sows night and night sows day for seed. 
 
 Child and bird have been " as brother and 
 sister" since first her I^esbian word flamed on 
 him. The " harmonious madness " which, as 
 
 186
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 Shelley foresaw and desired, is the result is not 
 birdlike more than it is childlike or manUke. 
 In the poet's own words, " light, sound and life 
 are one" in it: it is like that song which he 
 heard while swimming, with the sea-birds, his 
 "bright born brethren," skimming overhead, a 
 song of "earth and heaven and sea" molten 
 together. It shifts periods and attitudes and 
 moods, and combines them in a manner that 
 needs a book of words if ever music did. 
 
 The Garden of Cymodocc, the next poem, is 
 in the same metre, but varied with several 
 different lyric verses. It begins with a prayer 
 to the sea, to be : 
 
 A spirit of sense more deep of deity^ 
 
 A light of love, if love may be, more strong 
 
 In me than very song. 
 
 The first half makes music of an unnamed wild 
 island, a garden that has snow-coloured spray 
 for its petals, black rocks for its thorns. The 
 verse, in spite of references to visible things, 
 has only the visual effects of music. It does 
 not build solidly, clearly, and fixedly ; its 
 rhythm and rhyme do not allow it; nor is it 
 desirable that they should. Photography has 
 convinced too many people that they see 
 what the camera shows them. The Garden of 
 Cymodoce is probably at least as near as a 
 photograph to what a human being sees, that 
 
 187
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 is, provided the human being has not seen a 
 photo Girapli beforehand and known what to look 
 for. But, ahis ! N'^ictor Hugo sets foot on this 
 fair island and he is celebrated, he the God and 
 Master and Lord, and Napoleon 1 1 1 is abused, 
 
 Whose reeking soul made rotten 
 The loathed live corpse on earth once misbegotten. 
 
 Only to those who can allow Hugo to become 
 a mythic figure, vast and vague, like the old 
 warrior poet in Thalassius, will the whole 
 poem be satisfactory. Still more is this ability 
 necessary to excuse the BirtJulay Ode for the 
 Anniversary Festival of Victor Hiigo^ Fel)- 
 ruary 26, 18S0. Being Hugo's ever-ready self- 
 chosen laureate was not much more profitable 
 to poetry than being Edward the Seventh's. 
 These birthday odes and the like are but 
 poems in the manner of Swinburne, with every- 
 thing of the original save the illusion, the 
 transfiguration, the absolute and unbroken 
 sense of music. It is a pity that he never said 
 of this imitator as of the others, according to 
 H. D. Traill: 
 
 They strut like jays in my lendings^ 
 They chatter and screech : I sing. 
 
 They mimic my phrases and endings. 
 And rum Old Testament ring : 
 
 But the lyrical cry isn't in it, 
 
 And the high gods spot in a minute 
 That it isn't the genuine thing. 
 
 188
 
 LATER rOEMS: RESULTS 
 
 In the year of this Birthday Ode, 1880, 
 appeared his Heptalogia ; or the Seven against 
 Sense, with its parody of himself. 
 
 The Century of Roundels might at first seem 
 a disappointing failure from a poet who so loved 
 metre. But in fact they only prove how much 
 there is beyond metre in his best work. The 
 roundels are in fact nothing but roundels. The 
 difference between them and his best work 
 proves that they were written in a spirit of gay 
 if loyal experiment, so that the best of them 
 are the Envoi, bidding them " Fly, white butter- 
 flies, out to sea," and the roundel on the roundel : 
 
 A roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere 
 With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unwroughtj 
 That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear 
 A roundel is wrought. 
 
 Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught — 
 
 Love, laughter, or mourning — remembrance of rapture or 
 
 fear — 
 That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought. 
 
 As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear 
 Pause answer to pause, and again the same strain caught. 
 So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear, 
 A roundel is wrought. 
 
 With a public that suspects delight in tech- 
 nique for its own sake, the roundels tell a little 
 against Swinburne, but they should tell still 
 more in his favour because they make it so clear 
 that in that mood of delight he was one half a 
 
 189
 
 A. C. SWINIUTRNE 
 
 poet, that his fire was not one to be kindled at 
 will, that the echoing and chiming of his words 
 could not be equalled by mechanical regularity 
 of recurrence, ^'et some of tlic loundels are 
 the prettiest saddest things alive ; for if Swin- 
 burne did not seek all in writing them, he 
 sacrificed nothing; and he was justified without 
 referring to Hugo when he said in the Dedi- 
 catory Epistle to Collected Poem^ : 
 
 A writer conscious of any natural command over the 
 musical resources of his language can hardly fail to take 
 such pleasure in the enjoyment of this gift or instinct as 
 the greatest writer and the greatest versifer of our age 
 must have felt at the highest possible degree when com- 
 posing a musical exercise of such incomparable scope and 
 fullness as " Les Djinns." 
 
 It may even be regretted that Swinburne did 
 not always use this, or a similarly labelled form, 
 when writing occasional or complimentary 
 verses. Nearly all his poems to or about chil- 
 dren are of this kind. Many stories of his 
 devotion to children are told, and if any doubt 
 of his love remained it should be dispelled by 
 the last verse of "A Moss Rose," where he says 
 that the best of all moss-roses is that where the 
 flower is the face of a baby and the moss a 
 bonnet of plush. Few of his children's poems 
 can in fairness be offered except to other adorers. 
 They abound in the " silly " tones perhaps 
 
 190
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 inevitable in one-sided affections. They are 
 excessively one-sided, and the child is buried 
 under the man's indiscriminate compliments. If 
 the child appears he is delightful, as in A Child's 
 Pity^ where the poet tells how, after a piteous 
 tale was read of a mother crocodile that was 
 killed, hours after, the child — " our blithe small 
 lord of Paradise," Swinburne calls him — was 
 heard crying : 
 
 He was so sorry, sitting still apart^ 
 
 For the poor little crocodiles, he said. . . . 
 
 Then the poet goes on to ask " what heavenliest 
 angels of what heavenly city could match the 
 heavenly heart in children here " ? The croco- 
 diles are delicious, but not poetry, any more 
 than " what heavenliest angels . . ." is poetry. 
 
 A Midsumnie?^ Holiday was remarkable for a 
 series of sketches after nature in ballade form. 
 But even the strict bounds of the ballade did 
 not give these sketches the unity and complete- 
 ness, the independent life necessary to poetry. 
 The form itself was wonderfully varied, and pro- 
 moted to a new rank of scope and power : the 
 landscape was very often gracious and some- 
 times perfectly felicitous as in the description 
 of a wasting coast where earth is " a fruit rain- 
 rotted to the core." But the form could not 
 make poetry of these incidents, which in their 
 turn were on such a scale and of such a nature 
 
 191
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 as rather to strain the form. Most of the other 
 poems in this vohime grew out of actual scenes 
 and actual events, like many great poems, but 
 are interesting perhaps only to readers with 
 a particular knowledge of these scenes and 
 events. 
 
 The third series of Poems and Ballads gave 
 an unsurpassable exhibition of metrical experi- 
 ments. They can only be judged when rendered 
 by an excellent voice. " The Armada," for 
 example, needs a " God-gifted organ voice of 
 England " to recite it : without such a voice, 
 the mere creeping intelligence intrudes and 
 interrupts, making a fatal pause in the tempes- 
 tuous tide of it. Read silently alone it loses the 
 effect of combining and accumulating sound : 
 at most, the words only giv^e occasional transitory 
 impulses to the spirit. In Swinburne's poetry 
 the large groups of sounds and meanings are 
 what count, and except in a short poem the eye 
 and the mind cannot do these justice. Ear and 
 mind are necessary. Possibly even March: A71 
 Ode would seem to have merit if declaimed as 
 well as possible. Without that advantage A 
 Woixl ivif/i the Wind is recognisable as a charac- 
 teristic piece of Swinburne, each of the roundels 
 of Retnrn fills the mind like a bell stroke, and 
 the Ballad of Bath is a stately flattery, but only 
 the dialect poems and the lines Fo?^ Seamen can 
 
 192
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 give up all that they have to give. To a Sea- 
 Mew is different ; it is in any case a spotless 
 ecstasy in rhyme, but is doubled in value by its 
 connection w^ith Swinburne and the sea-mew at 
 Beachy Head in September, 1886: 
 
 Ah^ well were I for ever 
 
 Would'st thou change lives with me. 
 
 The poems in folk-ballad style are among the 
 happiest of Swinburne's experiments in language 
 and dialects other than his own. When he re- 
 viewed Rossetti's poems he praised Stratton 
 Water but complained that "it is so far a copy 
 that it seems hardly well to have gone so far and 
 no further." Swinburne compromised by giving 
 his phrases and his rhythms a sharper finish 
 than is usual in the genuine ballads ; otherwise 
 he added nothing to place them among his best 
 original work. The Winds is a perfect thing : 
 
 O weary fa' the east wind. 
 
 And weary fa' the west : 
 And gin I were under the wan waves wide 
 
 I wot weel wad I rest. 
 
 O weary fa' the nox-th wind. 
 
 And weary fa' the south : 
 The sea went ower my good lord's head 
 
 Or ever he kissed my mouth. 
 
 Weary fa' the windward rocks. 
 
 And weary fa' the lee : 
 They might hae sunken sevenscore ships. 
 
 And let ray love's gang free. 
 
 N 193
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 And weary fa' ye, mariners a', 
 
 And weary fa' the sea : 
 It might hae taken an hundred men. 
 
 And let my ae love be. 
 
 In poems like The Balldd of Dead Mciis Bay, 
 the ballad has merely modified Swinburne's 
 customary style and produced an attractive 
 form of simplicity. But Kingsley did at least 
 as well in Airly Beacon. For dialect and for 
 substance Tennyson's Northern Farmer is 
 superior, because it enlarged the poet's range, 
 while Swinburne's was actually narrowed. 
 
 Astrophel contained more of these experi- 
 ments and perhaps an equal metrical variety. 
 Some of this, as before, is of a kind that is 
 three parts wasted if read in silence. Its sound 
 is its chief sensuous element : read in silence 
 the abstract nature of Swinburne's vocabulary 
 is painfully apparent, and lines like : 
 
 Faith, a splendour that hope makes tender, and truth, whose 
 presage the soul divines — 
 
 call for the fundamental brainwork that brings 
 to the verse nothing but calamity. Loud or 
 silent, pieces like G7-ace Darling can hardly es- 
 stablish a claim to be more than commonplace 
 thought decorated by enthusiasm in fancy dress. 
 But the Elegy on Burton — not the lines On the 
 Death of Richard Burton — is one of his master- 
 pieces of richly imaged emotion, the Threnody 
 
 194
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 on P. B. Marston, one of his masterpieces of 
 abstract contemplation made sensuous only by- 
 rhythm. A Sxvimj}iei-'s Dream can be seen even 
 by the eye to be the finest of Swinburne's 
 praises of swimming : 
 
 A purer passion, a lordlier leisure, 
 
 A peace more happy than lives on land. 
 Fulfils with pulse of diviner pleasure 
 
 The dreaming head and the steering hand. 
 I lean my cheek to the cold grey pillow, 
 The deep soft swell of the full broad billow. 
 And close mine eyes for delight past measure. 
 
 And wish the wheel of the world would stand. , . . 
 
 The ear makes it what the eye cannot make it — 
 a dream in music ; not the music of sweet words 
 in which Swinburne is often deficient, but of 
 rhythms and great images in harmony with 
 them. A Nympholcpt is yet finer, but being 
 longer suffers more from the mute and curious 
 eye, for it allows the mind to resent the emphasis 
 and the words which seem periphrastic rather 
 than expressive. But in fact this poem, almost 
 as long as if it were in praise of Hugo and not 
 of Pan, has, diffused but unbroken throughout 
 it, the magic unexpectedly revealed in those two 
 lines of Ave Atque Vale\ 
 
 Such as the summer sleepy dryads weave. 
 Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve. 
 
 All the description, the reflection, the magnifica- 
 
 195
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 tion, do not obscure this magic, hut orchestrate 
 it tor tlie reader who has ears to hear and some- 
 one else to till them with 
 
 Thine immanent i)rescnee, the pulse of thy heart's hfe, Pan. 
 
 Then he will not inquire why the wave should 
 " reek " of the light that flickers or of the spray 
 that flies, but will submit liimself to the spirit 
 of the hour — and of the poet — that subdues all 
 to Pan : 
 
 And nought is all^ as am I, but a dream of thee. 
 
 Keats could have put as much magic into one 
 line ; but then he wrote no long poem which 
 sustains that magic until it possesses and enslaves 
 the reader. He does no more than put an in- 
 cantation into our lips which we use each accord- 
 ing to his capacity. Swinburne's poem has no 
 voice as of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, but a 
 blare and blaze of music which is tyrannous, 
 and allows a choice only between absolute 
 submission and rejection. It is impossible to 
 enjoy A Nympholept without this absolute 
 submission — impossible to slip quietly into 
 this brassy fairyland and out again. The effect 
 lasts while the sound reverberates in the ears ; 
 for a time the mind is mazed, not altogether 
 at ease. With the restoration of silence 
 the experience seems unreal, a little theatrical, 
 not wholly pleasant, and it cannot be recovered 
 
 19C
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 without a repetition of the performance ; nor 
 will this invariably succeed ; and if it does 
 not succeed it will disgust. There is no such 
 power in Astrophel where the metre is several 
 times, or in An Autiivni Vision, where it is 
 seven times, changed, nor in On the South Coast, 
 where the same verse is used throughout, as in 
 A Nympholept itself. 
 
 As Swinburne came more frequently to attach 
 his poems openly to definite persons, places and 
 events, he wrote many memorial poems for lost 
 fiiends, and it is worth noticing that he allowed 
 himself much latitude of conjecture or assump- 
 tion about death, and in exalting that unbodied 
 monster consents to blaspheme earthly " life that 
 is fettered in bonds of time and clasped with 
 darkness about as is earth with sea." Instead of 
 saying that Landor died, Swinburne used the 
 phrase : " went to find his equals and rejoin his 
 kin among the Grecian shades where Orpheus 
 and where Homer are." This alone does not 
 prove Swinburne's belief in the immortality of 
 the soul any more than " God damn " proves a 
 belief in God and Hell. But the phrase is not 
 the only one superficially incompatible with 
 Swinburne's statement that, like Landor himself, 
 he thought the immortality of the soul an 
 " utterly incognisable " matter " on which it is 
 equally unreasonable to have, or wish to have, an 
 
 197
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 opinion." Nor, perluips, is it incompatible with 
 his retort — to one who rebuked him for bhis- 
 phemy with the words, " You'll die like a dog, 
 sir ! " — " Oh, say a cat ! " for nine lives might well 
 have seemed to such a lover of life equivalent to 
 immortality, whether "where Orpheus and where 
 Homer are," or elsewhere. 
 
 It may fairly be urged that Swinburne's phrase 
 about Landor was used ceremoniously of one who 
 stood to him in place of a god. To strip some 
 poets of all such ceremonious traditional phrases 
 would leave them in rags, if not insufficiently 
 covered for decency. But the words of poets 
 cannot off-hand be accused as traditional and 
 condemned as meaningless. No one would treat 
 in this way, for example, the lines of Shelley : 
 
 I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
 
 Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, 
 
 The soul of Adonais like a star, 
 
 Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 
 
 Here the traditional " soul " and " abode where 
 the Eternal are " commands more attention than 
 Swinburne's posthumous abode of Orpheus, 
 Homer and Landor. We feel that Shelley was 
 not using these grand vague words only because 
 grand vague words are impressive : nor perhaps 
 was Swinburne when he described the swimmer's 
 rapture, " the love of his body and soul for the 
 
 198
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 darkling delight of the soundless lake," and 
 exclaimed : 
 
 Might life be as this and death be as life that casts off time 
 
 as a robej 
 The hkeness of infinite heaven were a symbol revealed of the 
 
 lake of Gaube. 
 
 This image sent him off thinking about "the 
 spirit that is not breath," only to find that " deep 
 silence answers," and to conclude : 
 
 But well shall it be with us ever 
 
 Who drive through the darkness here. 
 
 If the soul that we live by never, 
 For aught that a lie saith, fear. 
 
 The "lie" must be the lie of the priests about 
 life after death. 
 
 Swinburne was fond of the variation of that 
 " lie " which I began by quoting. He spoke of 
 the inexhaustible labour of Victor Hugo's spirit 
 ceasing "among us at least, for ever," and of 
 that poet joining "the company of his equals." 
 Sometimes he chose a different expression, 
 quoting, for example, when he spoke of Byron's 
 death : "He was a great man, good at many 
 things, and now he has attained this also, to be at 
 rest." But again and again he preferred to think 
 of a sensible existence in some sort of Elysian 
 fields rather than of horizontal peace. " If," he 
 said, " as some thinkers or dreamers might ven- 
 ture to hope, those two great poets of the grave, 
 
 199
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 John Webster and Victor Hugo, have now met in 
 a world beyond the grave ..." In liis poetry he 
 ventured to indulge this hope time after time. 
 He spoke of " shades of dead lords of music " ; 
 of Tennyson joining Shakespeare, of Trelawny 
 — "surely" — rejoining Shelley, "if," that is, 
 " hearts of the dead may hear " ; of Barry Corn- 
 wall, on October 4, 1874, entering the garden of 
 death, " where the singers whose names are 
 deathless one with another make music unknown 
 of men " ; of P. B. Marston after death " haply " 
 meeting Milton, who also was blind ; of Aurelio 
 Saffi being received by " the wider world of men 
 that is not ours," and standing "in Dante's 
 presence, by Mazzini's side": he bade Shakespeare, 
 on June 27, 1901, "be glad in heaven above all 
 souls ensphered " and " rejoice that still thy 
 Stratford bears thy sign." 
 
 On the other hand, saluting Baudelaire, he 
 asked the dead if it were well, and were there 
 flowers or fruit where he was, but concluded by 
 bidding him be content : 
 
 For whom all winds are quiet as the sun. 
 All water as the shore. 
 
 So also James Lorimer Graham, when he died, 
 " went to the dark where all is done." This is not 
 less impressive than the idea of an Elysian re- 
 union. Consequently it is not surprising that 
 
 200
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 the poet should sometimes combine the two, as 
 in the lines In Memory of Barry Cornwall, where 
 he spoke of the " soft long sleep " on the " broad 
 sweet bosom of death " as well as of " the world 
 of the dead men," rationalizing his belief or fancy 
 by the reflection that the living may keep alive 
 the powers of the dead. He liked to think of 
 the departed reaching a " painless place." Once 
 at least he admitted the love that desired to 
 have the dead friend, P. B. Marston, alive, yet 
 did not really desire it : 
 
 Would not love him so worse than ill. 
 Would not clothe him again with care ; 
 
 Death had given him "at last good day," pain 
 had "fallen on rest"; his friends knew that "the 
 worst was his on earth " ; nevertheless in this set 
 of poems also he could not refrain from the 
 fancy that " haply " the dead looked down from 
 " afar above." 
 
 The words "if" and "haply" play a part in 
 scores of passages concerning the dead and what 
 happens to them. Once, in the dedication of 
 Astrophel to William Morris, he spoke with con- 
 fidence of learning when we die, " if death be or 
 life be a lie " ; which presumably means, whether 
 death be an end or not ; and he assumed that 
 Sir Richard Burton, being dead, had "sought 
 what world the light of death may show." He 
 himself was still uncertain "if aught beyond 
 
 201
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 sweet sleep lie hidden, and sleep be sealed not 
 fast on dead men's sight for ever," though he 
 beheved that the dead knew. Once he asked 
 Death to let the dead send word " that if they 
 wake their life is sweet as sleep " ; immediately 
 afterwards he expressed the belief that death 
 could not give this grace. He said to the dead, 
 " if ought thou knowest where now thou art," 
 or "yet haply may not — and haply may — no 
 sense abide of the dead sun's ray," or (in ad- 
 dressing a believer, Christina Rossetti) "If death 
 do its trust no wrong." He repeated, " if the 
 dead be alive," or " if ever a voice may be the 
 same in heaven," or " if hfe there be that flies 
 not " ; and in the dedication of A Channel 
 Passage to the memory of William Morris and 
 Burne-.Tones, he said, "if love do not utterly 
 die," but confessed that of their sleep : 
 
 We know not indeed if it be not 
 What no man hath known if it be. 
 
 Life quickened with Hght that we see not 
 If spirits may see. 
 
 When his father died in 1877 he had said simply 
 that he "knew not" if the dead one's life and 
 spirit and work " here are done." 
 
 Sometimes "vvhile saying that "peace, rest, 
 and sleep are all we know of death," he w^ould 
 add that " surely " the last sleep could not seal 
 up for ever the " keen swift light " of the eyes, 
 
 202
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 or that " perchance " some " loveHer hfe " was 
 theirs. Once at least, in thinking of a dead 
 man, he speaks of the " roses," " music," and 
 " angels " round the " shrine " of death, and 
 hears Death answer: 
 
 Night has given what day 
 
 Denied him : darkness hath unsealed his eyes. 
 
 At other times he speaks of death lying dead, 
 and takes refuge in phrases which seem to be 
 derived from the words of Webster : 
 
 We cease to grieve, cease to be fortune's slaves, 
 Nay, cease to die by dying. 
 
 The death of Sir Richard Burton, for example, 
 makes him speak of death delivering " from life 
 that dies." Browning, by his death, " awakened 
 out of life wherein we sleep." Theodore de 
 Banville's life " dies and casts off death." P. B. 
 Marston is " healed of life," no longer '* suffers 
 life " ; Death for him is the " healer of life " and 
 " sets the soul that love could set not free." 
 Writing in memory of Aurelio Saffi, he speaks 
 of " the deathless life of death which earth calls 
 heaven." But of WiUiam Bell Scott's death he 
 can only say that "Haply . . . not life but 
 death may indeed be dead." 
 
 In one class of poems he casts off doubt. 
 His love of children led him to pay them the 
 tribute of feigning certainty. To a " baby kins- 
 
 203
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 woman " lie spoke of her dead mother's eyes 
 watching her " from I'aradise," and imagines 
 her " perehanee " seeing them shine on her, 
 though he afterwards eonfesses that he ean 
 " but deem or dream or guess thee not wholly 
 motherless." One ehild, Olivia Madox Frances 
 Rossetti,was" new-born "on earth just after Oliver 
 Madox Brown was new-born in heaven. A Babys 
 Epitaph is spoken by the baby, whom " angels ' 
 have called " homeward," forbidding her " here 
 to rest beguiled." Another Babu's Death caused 
 him to speak of the " little soul " taking wing 
 *' with heaven again for goal " ; but in a third 
 poem he could only say that " perchance, though 
 love knows naught," "guiding angels" had caught 
 the little hands ; in a sixth he said that " heaven " 
 had " yearned " for the child " till angels hailed 
 him there angel by name." When one of twins 
 has died, he speaks of light breaking " haply . . . 
 into newborn spirit," which is obscure. Even a 
 living child he flatters with talk of angels ; say- 
 ing that a baby's feet might tempt an angel's lips 
 to kiss them : to one he speaks of the angels as 
 " your brothers " ; to another he cries: " O child, 
 what news from heaven ? " One child makes 
 him a believer to the point of exclaiming : 
 
 If of such be the kingdom of heaven. 
 It must be heaven indeed. 
 
 204.
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 and affirming that " we see the children above 
 us as they might angels above." 
 
 Writing of Blake's Auguries of Innocence, he 
 calls it a series of " such divine epigrams as 
 angels might be imagined to dictate, by way of 
 a lesson for repetition to little children." This 
 is a charming fancy, and confessed as such. 
 Whether the fancies quoted from his poems on 
 children are as charming may be a matter of 
 opinion. Expressed as many of them are in the 
 form of roundels question may be heavy-handed, 
 but to me at least they seem, even so, in- 
 sufficiently convinced, and not to be so readily 
 excusable as those which sorrow prompts and 
 the " monumentalist " more or less immortalizes 
 in country churchyards. I would not have a 
 poet disdain mythology, but if he shall handle 
 it and it remain mechanical, unentwined with 
 sincerity save of intention, he fails. In this 
 way Swinburne has failed. Too often, if not 
 always, his words are only words, involving 
 scarce even a wish, or a passionate inability, to 
 believe. For the poems on dead men there is 
 more excuse. The fancies, superstitions or old 
 beliefs were in part called up by the sorrow of 
 indignation, pity, or regret. Yet the variety 
 of solutions offisred, or entertained, or, in some 
 cases, accepted, is something too great, and it 
 may be felt that the poet too easily laid hold 
 
 205
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 of wliat was pathetic or in some otlier way 
 conventionally fit for poetry. Taken alone, the 
 confession of ignorance, as in the verses on his 
 fatlier, is dignified and suitable, and so might 
 any of the other attitudes have been ; but Swin- 
 burne had assumed the part of elegist, and too 
 often finding himself with little to say, or little 
 that would go into his verses, he fell into a sort 
 of professionalism in which he did merely better 
 than other professionals. 
 
 Swinburne was happier in writing of death 
 dramatically, and not upon a definite personal 
 occasion. He used an even greater freedom of 
 choice among the many states of bliss and pain, 
 rest and annihilation, which have been ftmcied 
 or believed to follow the stilling, stiffening, 
 chilling, and silencing of the body. It is, for 
 example, perfectly effective and natural when 
 Chastelard, in the pride of his life, deliberately 
 asking for death, reflects that he is to go "where 
 a man lies with all his loves put out and his lips 
 full of earth." Whatever his religion promised 
 him, he knew that as a lover the sum of his fate 
 was to be that. The lover's wish in The Triumph 
 of Time is equally to be accepted. He desires 
 to be dead and buried with his false mistress : 
 
 Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay 
 
 Out of the world's way, out of the \\(^\\t. . . . 
 
 and yet not wholly dead, but slumbering 
 
 206
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 dreamily, in a quiet where they would " laugh 
 low, live softly, murmur and muse," and even 
 something more. Or, he says, he will go down 
 to the sea, his " mother," and find a grave, and 
 "sleep and move with the moving ships," and 
 know of nothing. The lust of a miserable one 
 after an unimaginable tranquilHty, an unimagin- 
 able annihilation, stirs emotion without surprise ; 
 and the same can be said of the utterly satisfied 
 lover's feeling in the rondel, Kissing Her Hair, 
 that nothing could be added to him, save per- 
 haps death, which I suppose is regarded as in 
 some magnificent way dignifying and solemniz- 
 ing without destroying. Iseult, in Tristram of 
 Lyonesse, thinks of a Hell where she would be 
 happy if only she knew that her lover was with 
 God ; and, on the other hand, if he is to join 
 her in Hell he will not be disconsolate with 
 such love as hers. At another time she thinks 
 there would be some joy in death, to be made 
 one with Nature, and "lost in the sun's light 
 and the all-girdling sea," forgotten and forgetting 
 — nay, she would not forget all things. The 
 poet himself thinks of death for them otherwise. 
 He speaks of Tristram sailing home " to sleep 
 in home-born earth at last," and when the end 
 comes it will deliver them to " perpetual rest . . . 
 from bondage and the fear of time set free." 
 He imagines for them a kind of happiness and 
 
 207
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 distinction in lying dead at peace so near the 
 sea, troubled by nothin<^, whatever *' fear or 
 fancy saith/' Then he allows himself the plea- 
 sure of thinking what a "sublime sweet sepul- 
 chre" the sea would be, and forthwith he 
 supposes their grave swallowed up by the 
 waters : 
 
 But peace they have that none may gain who live. 
 And rest about them that no love can give, 
 And over them, while death and life shall he, 
 The light and sound and darkness of the sea. 
 
 Like the lover in The Tiivniph of Time, he thinks 
 of this as in some sort a noble peace. One of 
 his few solely and explicitly personal poems, Ex 
 f^oto, expresses the poet's own preference for 
 such a grave, if he might choose. In his last 
 hour, he says, he would pray for this one thing 
 fi-om " the birth-god of his day," that he should 
 not lie in the earth, but in "a bed of larger 
 girth, chaster and colder." For, he protests, he 
 was not earth's child, but the sea's, bred by her 
 and " the wind, her brother," having in his veins 
 like wine her " sharp salt blood " ; and he recalls 
 how once he was near drowned, and how he was 
 glad it was the sea that offered him " death to 
 drink." He compares the earth to the sea which 
 never even seems to be subject and not free. The 
 sea slakes all thirst for ever, and, rising to a 
 strange ecstasy at this thought, the poet begs 
 
 208
 
 LATER POEMS: RESULTS 
 
 the sea to take him, alive or dead, when his time 
 shall come. Though Shelley's fate and the 
 several verses where he seems to foretell it may- 
 have had some share in begetting Swinburne's 
 poem, which was ignored, as it fell out, both by 
 the sea and by his birth-god, Ex Voto has in 
 it something of an instinctive rapture, such as 
 cannot be felt in Swinburne's other thoughts on 
 death. It is not enough to forbid the conclusion 
 that neither divination nor meditation taught 
 him anything new, or revived in him with fresh 
 force anything old, on what is hereafter. 
 
 Swinburne's last volume of poems, A Channel 
 Passage and Other Poems, was made up of the 
 same elements as the former books, but having 
 a large proportion of pieces openly or obviously 
 connected with various occasions political or 
 private. The hand had not lost its cunning ; 
 here and there the grace was beautiful ; over 
 several poems like Tlie Altar of Righteousness, 
 lay a solemnity with a new shade of seriousness 
 in it ; the heroics of the prologues to a number 
 of Elizabethan plays were clear and strong. 
 But except in the dedication, the volume is 
 weaker as well as graver and more even in tone. 
 Perhaps no quality can be missed except that 
 which came of the happy combination of all the 
 others. The poet piped and the words danced ; 
 it had never been a matter of words only or the 
 o 209
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 last would now have been as the first. His 
 power had lasted for full thirty years, up to the 
 Talc of Balcn in 189G. It is even possible that 
 another subjeet like the story of Halen would 
 have helped his powers to eombine even later 
 than 18U6. 
 
 210
 
 IX 
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE: THE TALE 
 
 OF BALEN 
 
 Swinburne's two long verse narratives show his 
 powers at a height only excelled in a score of his 
 best short poems, since whatever the narrative 
 form refused to him which the lyric could not 
 have done — and that was little — the old tales of 
 Tristram and Balen made up for it, and he inter- 
 wove with them the richest of his own spirit-stufF. 
 Tristram of Lyonesse followed two years after 
 Songs of the Springtides, and with them repre- 
 sents a brilliant middle period in Swinburne's 
 art, when, in the earlier forties of his age, he was 
 able to combine the ardour of Songs Befoix 
 Sunrise with the richness of the first Poems and 
 Ballads. In undertaking to " rehandle the death- 
 less legend of Tristram," he says, his aim was 
 "simply to present that story, not diluted and 
 debased as it has been in our own time by other 
 hands, but undefaced by improvement and unde- 
 formed by transformation, as it was known to 
 the age of Dante wherever the chronicles of 
 
 211
 
 A. C. S VV I N H U U N K 
 
 romance found licarin^, i'rom Ercildoiine to 
 Florence ; and not in the epic or romantic form 
 / of sustained and continuous narrative, but mainly 
 through a succession of dramatic scenes or pic- 
 tures with descriptive settin<^s or backgrounds " 
 
 It is not, in fact, a fresh creative work upon 
 the foundation of the old tale, but a series of 
 lyrical studies from it which do in fact present 
 the main outlines in such a way as to make a 
 prior knowledge unnecessary, but yield all their 
 fullest savours to those who know and love the 
 tale like the poet. Those who do not thus know 
 and love it may think it buried deep under the 
 inessential magnificence of the poet's enthusiasm 
 and sympathy with each stage of the tale. He' 
 has given out of his life to make their dead 
 life live some days of his. Swinburne himself 
 seems to be in love with Iseult, to give her the 
 amorous adoration which had small outlet in the 
 books since Cliastclard and Poems and Bdllads. 
 He loves her before Tristram ; he pictures her 
 body when yet her love 
 
 Watched out its virprin vir^il in soft pride 
 And unkissed expectation 
 
 as if he were watching her as Lorenzo watched 
 Madeleine on St. Agnes' Eve. The narrative 
 core of the poem is sound and good, but the 
 whole is a praise of love that mingles the lofty 
 
 212
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 
 
 fervour of Epipsychidion with the sensual fer- 
 vour of Carew's Rapture. 
 
 In the first hne of the Prelude he sings of 
 
 Love that is first and last of all things made. 
 The light that has the living world for shade . . . 
 
 and how love brought these two lovers to death : 
 
 Through many and lovely days and much delight 
 Led those twain to the lifeless light of night. 
 
 " Yea, but what then ? " he asks, and in the 
 thought of the great love of famous lovers he is 
 rapt away and would believe, and have us agree, 
 that their fame 
 
 Till story and song and glory and all things sleep 
 
 is as it were a satisfying heaven in which 
 they re-enact their love before us to a glorious 
 amorous music. Tristram tells Iseult love-tales 
 before their love begins, and she compares her- 
 self with the women of the tales, in one beautiful 
 scene measuring her height against the mast, and 
 at the end exclaims : 
 
 What good is it to God that such should die ? 
 
 He sings her love songs and still she loves him 
 but " in holy girlish wise," until the love potion 
 makes their four lips "one burning mouth." 
 Thenceforward the poem is a frenzy of bodily 
 love either desirous or in mid-rapture, against a 
 background of keen air, wild lands, tempestuous 
 and rockbound sea, with crying of hunt and 
 
 213
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 battle, "and many a large delight of hawk and 
 hound. Alone together at night in summer, 
 
 Only with stress of soft fierce hands she prest 
 Between the throbbing blossoms of her breast 
 His ardent face, and through his hair her breath 
 Went quivering as when life is hard on death ; 
 And M'ith strong trembling fingers she strained fast 
 His head into her bosom ; till at last. 
 Satiate with sweetness of that burning bed 
 His e3'es afire with tears he raised his head 
 And laughed into her lips ; and all his heart 
 Filled hers ; then face from face fell, and apart 
 Each hung on each with panting lips, and felt 
 Sense into sense and spirit in spirit melt. 
 " Hast thou no sword ? I would not live till day ; 
 O love, this night and we must pass away. 
 It must die soon, and let not us die late." 
 
 Here echoes, " Ah God ! Ah, God 1 that day 
 should be so soon " from Poems and Ballads; 
 yet the poet and Tristram do not deny 
 
 Glory and grace and reverence and delight 
 To wedded woman by her bridal right. 
 
 Doubly splendid in contrast with all the soft 
 sweetness and bitterness of love, which is in its 
 turn all the softer for it, comes : 
 
 The breeze, the bloom, the splendour and the sound, 
 That stung like fire the hunter and the hound. 
 The pulse of wind, the passion of the sea, 
 The raj)ture of the woodland. . . . 
 
 This interchange of "the lovely fight of love and 
 
 214
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 
 
 sleep " with the open air makes up for the lack of 
 drama and continuous narrative. 
 
 As Tristram and Iseult are never anything 
 but passionate so nothing in Nature is loveless or 
 unrapturous. Thus, the hovering sea-gull turns : 
 
 With eyes wherein the keen heart ghttering yearns 
 
 Down toward the sweet green sea whereon the broad moon 
 
 burns. 
 And suddenly, soul-stricken with delight. 
 Drops, and the glad wave gladdens. . . . 
 
 Even drowned men are called " sleepers in the 
 soft green sea," as if they had some joy of it. 
 The wastes of Wales are " wild glad " wastes of 
 "glorious" Wales. The spear thirsts and the 
 sword is hungry. The sea takes the sun "on 
 her bare bright bosom as a bride." The arms of 
 Tristram swimming are "amorous," and the 
 touch of his lips and the wave is a " sharp sweet 
 minute's kiss." The leaves of Broceliande are 
 "full of sweet sound, full of sweet wind and 
 sun." 
 
 This alternation of Love and Nature, except 
 for one who persists in wanting a tale, is strong 
 enough almost to hide some of the few points 
 where Swinburne has kept the tale well in view, 
 as where he reminds us that the night when 
 Iseult of Ireland is praying to God, and at the 
 same time saying : 
 
 Blest am I beyond M-omen even herein. 
 
 That beyond all born women is my sin, 
 
 215
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 was the niglit when Iseiilt of Brittany married 
 Tristram, " a maiden in a marriage bower." 
 Nor are such points necessary. Swinburne's 
 love of Iseult and Iier lover, his joy to be witli 
 them in Northumberland, riding togetlier, the 
 rapture which he shares with Tristram in swim- 
 ming, his satisfaction when at last in death their 
 four lips make " one silent mouth " and he can 
 give them a "sublime sweet sepulchre" under 
 the sea, these sympathies make us well content 
 that he should merely give us the fragments of 
 the story and spend himself in magnii'ying them 
 and giving them a golden atmosphere. I should 
 have been glad to do without the methodical 
 nightly substitution of Bragwaine for Iseult in 
 the bed of Mark ; above all, without the letter, 
 found after his death, in which Tristram is 
 alleged to have explained that their love had 
 been " no choice of will, but chance and sorcer- 
 ous art " and to have prayed for pardon, which 
 was given by Mark with tears. 
 
 These things only speck the mighty lyric, 
 which sometimes swoons with its own extra- 
 vagance but never drops until it reaches 
 
 The light and sound and darkness of the sea. 
 
 Rightly does Swinburne call Iseult and Tristram 
 "my lovers," "my twain." Their love, their 
 youth, their beauty are equal in splendour 
 
 216
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 
 
 to the sun, the sea, the Hberty, which he so 
 loved. All his characteristic ways with words 
 help to enrich the poem, chiming of words, 
 repetition, duplication and balancing of words 
 and thoughts, abundance of full vowels and 
 especially of the vowel of "light" and "fire." 
 The lines are massive or rapid, often composed 
 of monosyllables, broken up in every possible 
 way and frequently extended to alexandrines, 
 while the rhymes are frequently in triplets 
 instead of pairs ; when he once adopts one or 
 both of these variations, he does so several times 
 in fairly close succession, just as when he once 
 begins a line with an important word, usually 
 accented on the first syllable, and often carried 
 over abruptly from the preceding line, he does 
 so two or three times, for example, here : 
 
 ... Shattered from his steed 
 
 Fell, as a mainmast ruining, Palamede, 
 
 Stunned. . . . 
 
 He uses a pair of lines similar but different, at 
 irregular intervals, to break in as a sea-burden 
 upon Iseult's prayer with a sound of storm, and 
 uses it effectively. 
 
 Doing without much action he inevitably falls 
 into excessive multiplication without variety. 
 When Tristram has said that Iseult's hands used 
 to be more to him than watersprings to shadeless 
 lands he says also what her hair, her mouth and 
 
 217
 
 A. C. SVVMNBURNE 
 
 her breast used to be, iind so ev^erywhere. 
 When Iseult hiis been Hstening to Tristram's 
 story and sighs and sees the sun at that moment 
 rise up, the sun's face burns against hers Uke a 
 lover's : but also the sea shone and shivered like 
 angels' wings ; a wind shook the foam flowers as 
 a rainfall of sea roses, for the foam was like 
 blossoms ; the moon withered as a face in a 
 swoon ; the air was moved with delight and 
 passion as of love, until air, light and wave 
 seemed full of beating rest like a new-mated 
 dove's heart, and liad a motion as of one Clod's 
 beating breast. 
 
 Everything is done which can make the poem 
 everywhere grand or sumptuous, and inevitably, 
 since all comes from Swinburne, it is at times 
 stiff and heavy laden. Every inch is Swin- 
 burne's. Compare it with Romeo and Juliet. 
 There the love and beauty is so much beyond 
 the sum of the details, that beautiful as they 
 often are the effect of the whole astonishes and 
 makes the words seem the servants of greater 
 spirits. No catalogue of beautiful things and 
 no cabinet of beautiful words can produce 
 beauty, and Swinburne's poem is far more than 
 a catalogue or a cabinet ; but the total result of 
 his expenditure is not astonishing or dispropor- 
 tionate. Shakespeare uses the breath of life, 
 Swinburne uses gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 
 
 218
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 
 
 But compare it with Laon and Cythna and 
 Endymion and it is at least as readable and 
 exuberant. Few poets have more gold, frank- 
 incense, and myrrh to offer, and having the 
 breath of life strong within himself he uses 
 them successfully to sweeten and to adorn. His 
 dangling sentences, his use of addition instead 
 of development, his abuse of some of his 
 favourite habits or devices of style, are not in 
 excess of what is to be expected in the work of 
 a man's hands. He undertook a lesser adven- 
 ture than Tennyson in the Idylls ; having made 
 no attempt to lift his hero and heroine out of an 
 " impossible age of an imaginary world " he 
 avoids Tennyson's failure. He creates nothing, 
 but his songs about these well-beloved shadows 
 constitute him one of their most perfect lovers, 
 and in English at least their most perfect poet. 
 
 The Tale of Bale?i, dedicated to his mother in 
 his fifty-ninth year, was the fine flower of 
 Swinburne's later work. By comparison with 
 Tristram it is naked narrative, and as near as 
 possible to the tale of Malory. From the Lady 
 of Shalott and the lovely fragment of Launcelot 
 and Guinevere he took the metre which made 
 entire nakedness of narrative impossible. Tenny- 
 son's own version of Balin and Balan, where 
 the story is moralized to death with (I believe) 
 
 219
 
 A. C. SVVINBUIINE 
 
 no gain to morality, helped him if at all only by 
 provocation. In Tennyson's poem the deaths of 
 the brothers were due to a fit of Halen's temper 
 which he had earnestly striven to correct. Swin- 
 burne retained the " custom of the castle " by 
 which Balan had to fight with every comer, and 
 at last with Balen who was concealed under 
 strange armour. This irrational, but not unlife- 
 like and certainly imposing, fate brings an end 
 not less symbolic in its beauty now than it 
 could have seemed in the fifteenth century, and 
 we are satisfied when Merlin writes the brothers' 
 names on the tomb and weeps : 
 
 For all his heart within him yearned 
 With pity like as fire that burned. 
 The fate his fateful eye discerned 
 Far off now dimmed it, ere he turned 
 
 His face toward Camelot, to tell 
 Arthur of all the storms that woke 
 Round Balen, and the dolorous stroke. 
 And how that last blind battle broke 
 
 The consummated spell. 
 "Alas," Kino; Arthur said, "this day 
 I have heard the worst that woe might say : 
 For in this world that wanes away 
 I know not two such knights as they." 
 
 This is the tale that memory writes 
 Of men whose names like stars shall stand, 
 Balen and Balan, sure of hand. 
 Two brethren of Northumbeiland, 
 
 In life and death good knights. 
 
 Swinburne himself hardly intervenes, yet Balen 
 
 220
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 
 
 is conspicuously tinged by his preferences. 
 Tennyson appears to translate " le sauvage " as 
 " bad-tempered " : Swinburne's hero is " called 
 the Wild by knights whom kings and courts 
 make tame. ..." He was, like the poet him- 
 self, " a northern child of earth and sea " ; and 
 often the knight's mood and Nature's have that 
 brightness which he loved to praise. Every- 
 where are " moors and woods that shone and 
 sang," a " sunbright wildwood side," " bright 
 snows," " wild bright " coasts, " storm bright " 
 lands, and pride of summer with " lordly 
 laughter in her eye " ; men " drink the golden 
 sunhght's wine with joy's thanksgiving that they 
 live " ; even Tristram is " bright and sad and 
 kind " ; and round Balen shines a brief " light of 
 joy and glory." Nothing could be more charac- 
 teristic of Swinburne out of doors, and away 
 from love and Victor Hugo, than this opening 
 of a Canto : 
 
 In Autumn, when the wind and sea 
 Rejoice to live and laugh to be. 
 And scarce the blast that curbs the tree 
 And bids before it quail and flee 
 
 The fiery foliage, where its brand 
 Is radiant as the seal of spring, 
 Sounds less delight, and waves a wing 
 Less lustrous, life's loud thanksgiving 
 
 Puts life in sea and land. 
 High hope in Balen's heart alight 
 Laughed. . . . 
 
 221
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 All this bri^litiiess is quenched once and for ever 
 in perfect gloom. 
 
 The story is clearly and fully told, with only 
 such praise and dalliance as is necessary to depict 
 the background of earth loved by knight and 
 poet, and to flatter the graces of the stanza. 
 Each Canto begins " In hawthorn time," or " In 
 linden time," " In autumn," " In winter," or the 
 like, without confounding or obscuring the tale. 
 The stanza causes a good deal of length and 
 roundaboutness, but seldom fails to be gracious. 
 It can be grand also, as where Balen knows that 
 he shall die : 
 
 Nor fate nor fear might overcast 
 The soul now near its peace at last. 
 Suddenly^ thence as forth he past, 
 A mighty and a deadly blast 
 
 Blown of a hunting horn he heard, 
 As when the chase hath nobly sped. 
 " That blast is blown for me," he said, 
 " The prize am I w ho am yet not dead,' 
 
 And smiled upon the word. 
 
 Thenceforward there is no delay ; all is knightly 
 act and speech, of a ballad dignity yet with no 
 mere simpleness. 
 
 Those who read the tale here for the first time 
 will never be in difficulty and rarely impatient. 
 Those who know it in Malory and have sought 
 it in Tennyson will go to The Tale of Baleii 
 for the lustrous background and for the con- 
 
 222
 
 TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE 
 
 tinuous but not monotonous pleasure of the 
 stanza, but also for the constant nobility of 
 temper ; for some tenderness like that where the 
 deadly-wounded Balan crawls on hands and knees 
 towards Balen, as when : 
 
 Beneath their mothex-'s eye had he, 
 A babe that laughed with joy to be. 
 Made toward him standing by her knee 
 For love's sake long ago. . . . 
 
 Sometimes the metrical form is allowed its 
 own way, to form perfect stanzas lovable for 
 their own sakes : as often the narrative sweeps 
 through the verses without submitting to them, 
 yet without shattering them. It becomes too 
 often abstract, even fantastically so, as here : 
 
 And seeing that shame and peril, fear 
 Bade wrath and grief awake and hear 
 What shame should say in fame's Avide ear 
 If she, by sorrow sealed more dear 
 
 Than joy might make her, so should die. . . . 
 
 but otherwise the style is less mannered and has 
 gained simplicity from its theme and from the 
 stanza perhaps some sweetness. The charac- 
 teristic play of words is not always happy, but 
 is only once as unhappy as in the Hne about the 
 wave bounding on the land and confounding 
 
 The bounding bulk whereon it bounds. 
 
 The success of this narrative, the failure of many 
 
 223
 
 A. C. SWINHURNE 
 
 of his lyric, descriptive and reflective poems 
 written before it, and of all written after it, 
 proves that Swinburne owed much to the tan- 
 gible substratum of an old tale and justifies a 
 regret that he did not more often trust it. 
 
 224
 
 X 
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 After Balen came a drama, Rosa7no7id, Queen 
 of' the Lombards, after that A Channel Passage, 
 but Swinburne's last book, The Duke of Gandia, 
 was another drama. He began with plays, Rosa- 
 mond, and The Qiieen Mothe7% and Chastelard ; 
 he ended with a play. The first had some 
 qualities of the lyrics belonging to the same 
 period, because the lovers who were their heroes 
 and heroines gave practice and excuse for 
 Swinburne's amorous extravagance before he 
 appeared himself as a lyric lord of love. When 
 once he had so appeared he seems to have neg- 
 lected drama for many years. It was not until 
 1874, three years after Songs Before Sunrise, 
 that Bothwell was published. He dedicated it 
 like Chastelard to Hugo, " as a river gives up to 
 the sea its soul." In this dedication he called it 
 an "epic drama," and years afterwards while 
 approving this title he spoke of it as less a 
 tragedy than a " chronicle history." It was 
 what he called it, an "ambitious, conscientious, 
 p 225
 
 A. C. SWINHURNE 
 
 and coiiiprehcnsive piece of work " ; yet for a 
 nineteenth-century lyric poet, in an age without 
 a poetic drama, to revive a form early discarded 
 by Elizabethan dramatists, was an adventure 
 more grim than serious. That he read it aloud 
 to his friends without causing any suffering that 
 has yet become famous is a superb testimony to 
 his voice, to his character, and to his friends. 
 For Bothzvell is four times as long as Ckastchird, 
 and contains four-hundred-line speeches. It is 
 a monstrous achievement, the most solemn proof 
 existing of Swinburne's power of fundamental 
 brainwork. The self-sacrifice was little short of 
 crucifixion. The style, for example, is allowed 
 to retain hardly more than the tricks of his 
 characteristic style, some chiming vowels, here 
 and there a phrase like " clothed and crowned 
 with force and fear," or " wiles and songs and 
 sins," or a passage of vowels like : 
 
 But I would not be weary, let that be 
 
 Part of my wish. I could be glad and good 
 
 Living so low, with little labours set 
 
 And little sleeps and watches, night and day 
 
 Falling and flowing as small waves in low sea 
 
 From shine to shadow and back and out and in 
 
 Among the firths and reaches of low life : 
 
 I would I were away and well. . . . 
 
 But it is a compromise between I lis lyric style 
 and a kind of average dramatic blank verse 
 which does not eschew dullness. Even the lyric 
 
 226
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 metre of Aniina Anceps is a little withered by 
 the shadow : 
 
 Lord Love went Maying 
 Where Time was playing. 
 In light hands weighing 
 
 Light hearts with sad ; 
 Crowned king with peasant. 
 Pale past with present. 
 Harsh hours with pleasant. 
 
 Good hopes with bad ; 
 Nor dreamed how fleeter 
 Than Time's swift metre. 
 O'er all things sweeter 
 
 How clothed with power. 
 The murderess maiden 
 Mistrust walks laden 
 
 With red fruit ruined and dead white 
 flower. . , . 
 
 Mary's speech after Rizzio's singing is pretty as 
 the speeches so often are after the songs : 
 
 What does Death i' the song ? 
 Can they not let love live, but must needs make 
 His grave with singing? 'Tis the trick of the song 
 That finds no end else. 
 
 Rizzio answers : 
 
 An old trick ; 
 Your merrier songs are mournfuller sometimes 
 Than very tears are. 
 
 At a hundred points INI ary's words show how 
 fondly and carefully the poet followed her, as 
 when she says : 
 
 227
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 Ay, we were fools, we Maries twain. . . . 
 
 I am not tired of that I see not here, 
 
 The sun and the large air, and the sweet earth. . . . 
 
 But the play, with Jill its conscientious study of 
 characters and events, its cliaste workmanship, 
 its many flowers, is intolerable when we think 
 what Swinburne could have done with this sub- 
 ject in narrativ^e, spending himself in rhyme and 
 rhythm and feeling directly upon Mary, instead 
 of indirectly. 
 
 Mary Stuart, dedicated, like the other two 
 portions of the trilogy, to Hugo, appeared be- 
 tween Songs of the Springtides and IVistram 
 of Lyo?iesse, a favourable time when Swin- 
 burne's genius was ripe and still ardent. There 
 is some unspoilt witness to its period, as when 
 INlary at Chartley cries : 
 
 That I were now in saddle . . . new-mounted now 
 I shall ride right through shine and shade of spring 
 With heart and habit of a bride, and bear 
 A brow more bright than fortune . . . ; 
 
 and when a little afterwards she sings : 
 
 "An ye maun braid your yellow hair," 
 
 and Mary Beaton remembers singing it after her 
 nurse, and weeping upon it " in France at six 
 years old to think of Scotland " ; or when the 
 Queen thinks of the moors in comparison with 
 the midlands : 
 
 228
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 There the wind and sun 
 Make madder mirth by midsummer, and fill 
 With broader breadth and lustier length of light 
 The heartier hours that clothe for even and dawn 
 Our bosom-belted billowy-blossoming hills 
 Where hearts break out in laughter like the sea 
 For miles of heaving heather . . . ; 
 
 or when Chastelard's song — which she thinks 
 
 Remy Belleau's — sung by Mary Beaton at 
 
 Fotheringay, makes her think of her French 
 
 years : 
 
 Laughter of love and lovely stress of lutesj 
 And in between the passion of them borne 
 Sounds of swords crossing ever^ as of feet 
 Dancing, and life and death still equally 
 Blithe and bright-eyed from battle . . . 
 
 or when Barbara describes the last minutes of 
 the Queen to Mary Beaton, until the very last 
 when the listener uncovers her eyes to see for 
 herself : 
 
 He strikes awry : she stirs not. Nay, but now 
 He strikes aright, and ends it. 
 
 But as a rule the speech is made roundabout or 
 dull by the blank verse and the Ehzabethan 
 influence ; the dangling relative clauses may be 
 true to the characters of Sir Amyas Faulet and 
 Sir Drew Drury, but even so are an unpardon- 
 able realism. The trick of repeating " all," here 
 and in several other places : 
 
 229
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 By minds not always all ignobly mad 
 
 Nor all made poisonous by false grain of faith, 
 
 She shall be a world's wonder to all time . . . 
 
 is a poor coinpenstition lor the loss of what 
 gives Hfe to Thdldssius, On the Cliff's, and 
 Tristram of Lyonesse, and cannot save the play 
 from being a conscientious versification of facts 
 and conjectures, in which only one half of the 
 poet was employed. Even into the prose of 
 the pseudonymous A Year's Letters he had 
 put as much of himself and at least as much 
 of his knowledge of men and women and old 
 women, and that in a form sufficient in itself 
 and never tedious. 
 
 Marino Faliero gave Swinburne an outlet 
 for his hate of God and king and priest, his 
 love of Man, Liberty, Tyrannicide, Italy, 
 Mazzini, and of the Sea. But it is hard to see 
 why Swinburne should thus deface speech with- 
 out making it poetry : 
 
 Sir, 
 For one wrong done you, being but man as we, 
 If wrath make lightning of your life, in us, 
 For all wrongs done of all our lords alive 
 Through all our years of living, doubt you not 
 But wrath shall climb as high toward heaven, and hang 
 As hot with hope of thunder. 
 
 It is not Swinburne, and it is not Shakespeare, 
 it is not speech, and it is not poetry ; it is the 
 product of an attempt to combine all four. 
 Often he puts noble words into the mouth of 
 
 230
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 a noble man, and the last speech has a prophetic 
 grandeur : 
 
 I go not as a base man goes to Death, 
 
 But great of hope : God cannot will that here 
 
 Some day shall spring not Freedom : nor perchance 
 
 May we, long dead, not know it, who died of love 
 
 For dreams that were and truths that were not. Come : 
 
 Bring me toward the landing whence my soul 
 
 Sets sail, and bid God speed her forth to sea. 
 
 Yet he could have signified his admiration of 
 Marino Faliero in a briefer or less mutilated 
 fashion, by enveloping him, like Tristram or 
 Balen, in a great love or wrath of verse. The 
 verse here is by no means negligible ; some of 
 the variations are original and definitely extend 
 blank verse. But though written " with a view 
 to being acted at the Globe, the Red Bull, or 
 the Black Friars " before audiences, " incredibly 
 intelligent " and " inconceivably tolerant," which 
 accepted Chapman's eloquence instead of study 
 of character and interest of action, it has to be 
 read in silence, and therefore with greater need 
 of intelligence and tolerance. It seems to me 
 to resurrect of an old form simply the archaism, 
 to make a tomb for eloquence. 
 
 Swinburne took more liberty in his next play. 
 Perhaps Greene's tragedy of Selimus, which 
 contains scenes in the verse forms of Don Juan 
 and Venus and Adonis, suggested the far more 
 
 231
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 cunning and far more various schemes of rhyme 
 in Locrine. It begins with couplets, but with 
 each scene the rliyming is changed, though the 
 hues remain decasyllabic, until the last restores 
 the couplets : in the first scene of the fifth 
 act the scheme is that of a Shakespearean 
 sonnet. The story of " Sabrina fair" was a 
 " wan legend " Hke that of Tristram and Balen, 
 and the poet did not think that any life or life- 
 likeness possessed by it had "suffered from the 
 bondage of rhyme or been sacrificed to the exi- 
 gence of metre." The rhyming in fact helps to 
 confine the " wan legend " within strait hmits 
 and to remind the reader of the fact. Only a 
 consummate artist could have made this choice 
 and so justified it. He tells the tale and he 
 finds abundant good excuse for such indulgence 
 as in her mother Estrild's speech to Sabrina : 
 
 . . . Thou hast seen the great sea never, nor canst dream 
 
 How fairer far than earth's most lordly stream 
 
 It rolls its royal waters here and there, 
 
 Most glorious born of all things anywhere, 
 
 Most fateful and most godlike : fit to make 
 
 Men love life better for the sweet sight's sake 
 
 And less fear death if death for them should be 
 
 Shrined in the sacred splendours of the sea 
 
 As God in heaven's raid mystery. . . . 
 
 Estrild's song, " Had I wist, quoth spring to 
 the swallow," calls forth still prettier speeches 
 from the child Sabrina : 
 
 232
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 . . . Methoughtj though one were king or queen 
 And had the world to play with, if one missed 
 What most were good to have, such joy, I ween. 
 Were woeful as a song with sobs between. 
 And well might wail for ever, " Had I wist ! " . . . 
 
 But rhyme, dramatic form, and the " wan 
 legend " bring about an extraordinary thinness 
 in Locrine, lightness and transparent thinness. 
 The deaths of Locrine, Estrild, and Sabrina, 
 and the sudden repentance of the Queen 
 Gwendolen, are neat and beauteous in accor- 
 dance with this light, thin manner. 
 
 " The tragedy of The Sisters" wrote Swin- 
 burne, " however defective it may be in theatri- 
 cal interest or progressive action, is the only 
 modern English play I know in which realism 
 in the reproduction of natural dialogue and 
 accuracy in the representation of natural inter- 
 course between men and women of gentle birth 
 and breeding have been found or made com- 
 patible with expression in genuine if simple 
 blank verse." It was an odd ambition to twist 
 and confine the very speech of ordinary modern 
 people within the limits of decasyllabic lines. 
 The result was that the descasyllabic lines were 
 usually decasyllabic lines and nothing more, 
 while the speech was made to look trivial or 
 weak, because it was without the concentration, 
 and that colouring from the inexpressible, which 
 are essential to dramatic poetry. By writing : 
 
 233
 
 A. C. SWINIUJRNE 
 
 But if she does 
 Love you — if you can win her — as I think 
 (There !) — you're the liappiest fellow ever born. . . . 
 
 he tried to prove that his class talked in blank 
 verse, and sometimes as here : 
 
 Woodlands too we have, 
 Have we not, Mabel ? beech, oak, aspen and pine. 
 And Rcdujie's old familiar friend, the birch, 
 W^ith all its blithe lithe bounty of buds and sprays 
 For hapless boys to wince at, and grow red. 
 And feel a tingling memory prick their skins — 
 Sting till their burning blood seems all one blush. . . . 
 
 to prove that they loved the chime and the birch 
 as well as he did. What he does prove, as in 
 Loves Cross Currents^ is that, in the flesh, men 
 of the Eton-and-Army and outdoor type, frank, 
 simple and chivalrous, and women to match, 
 appealed to him. \Vhen two of them, lovers, 
 are dying from poison accidentally taken, they 
 converse in this manner : 
 
 Reginald : Think we are going to see 
 
 Our mother, Mabel — Frank's and ours. 
 Mabel: I will. 
 
 But, Reginald, how hard it is to go ! 
 Reginald : We have been so happy, darling, let us die 
 
 Thinking of that, and thanking God. 
 Mabel: I will. 
 
 Kiss me. Ah, Redgie. (^Dies.) 
 Reginald: Mabel I I an) here. (Diex.) 
 
 -SVr Arthur : They could have lived no ha])pier than they die. 
 
 234
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 This can hardly be taken as a contribution to the 
 natural history of the upper classes, but rather 
 as a testimony to a poet's sentimental esteem 
 of them, and of the religion, the tradition and 
 the birch that make them, like those two breth- 
 ren of Northumberland, " in life and death good 
 knights." The jealous woman who causes the 
 tragedy is false to the type. She is allowed to 
 soliloquize in blank verse that is not common 
 speech, a concession that emphasizes the tame 
 and literal naturalism of the greater part. 
 
 Rosamond, Queen of the Lombards, written 
 when Swinburne was past sixty, is one of his 
 best plays. The revenge taken by Rosamond 
 upon the king for being asked to pledge the 
 health of his kingdom in a cup made of the 
 skull of her father, whom he had slain in battle, 
 forms a tragic story, simple and brief Its 
 brevity and simplicity help Swinburne to his 
 best compromise between his own style and that 
 of an EUzabethan dramatist. Enjambment 
 like this : 
 
 I 
 
 Love her. . . . 
 
 is too often used without any such effect as it 
 
 gave to Shelley in : 
 
 Is this the scene 
 Where the old earthquake demon taught her young 
 Rum ? 
 
 235
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE 
 
 the " spirit of sense " recurs twice ; God and 
 the priests are despitel'ully treated ; but the 
 mannerisms are no bar to force and rapidity. 
 The poet's most noticeable intervention is the 
 device of casting over the play, and cliieHy over 
 the deceit by which Rosamond turns the king's 
 favourite warrior into her seducer and her 
 avenger, the *' mad might of midsummer." The 
 warrior, Almachildes, when told that it was not 
 his mistress who had shared his bed, asks : 
 
 Art not thou — 
 Or am not I — sunsmitten through the brain 
 By this mad might of midsummer ? 
 
 The king himself, in a scene where Rosamond 
 plays with her avenger and her victim tragically 
 and ironically, cries : 
 
 I would tliis fierce Italian June were dead . . . ; 
 
 and again in the banqueting hall at his last hour : 
 
 This June makes babes of men . . . when the heat 
 Burns life half out of us. 
 
 He asks Almachildes if his memory is "burnt 
 out by stress of summer," putting down all that 
 is strange to that ; when he is about to take the 
 cup and drink to the queen he reflects that there 
 are " but two days more for June to burn and 
 live." " Queen," he says, " I drink to thee." 
 
 236
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 She thanks him and bids a counsellor give him 
 the cup, saying ; " Women slain by fire thirst 
 not as I to pledge thee." Almachildes rises 
 and stabs him, and with the words, " Thou, my 
 boy ? " he dies. Then says Rosamond : 
 
 I. But he hears not. Now, my warrior guests, 
 
 I drink to the onward passage of his soul 
 
 Death. Had my hand turned coward or played me false. 
 
 This man that is my hand, and less than I 
 
 And less than he bloodguilty, this my death 
 
 Had been my husband's : now he has left it me. 
 
 (Drinks.) 
 How innocent are all but he and I 
 No time is mine to tell you. Truth shall tell. 
 I pardon thee, my husband : pardon me. (Dies.) 
 
 and the old counsellor says : 
 
 Let none make moan. This doom is none of man's. 
 
 Swinburne had, in fact, written a play admirably 
 like those which he had been imitating since he 
 wrote The QueeJi Mother. Among his many 
 experiments in foreign languages and in archaic 
 forms, Rosamond^ Qiieen of the Lombards, is one 
 of the most perfect. 
 
 His last play, four brief scenes, in which 
 Csesar Borgia procures the death of his brother 
 Francesco, Duke of Gandia, must have been 
 written chiefly for the pleasure of blasphemous 
 laughter at the intricate relationships of the 
 Borgia family. When Vanozza, the Pope's 
 
 237
 
 A. c. svviniujunp: 
 
 mistress, tells her son Franccseo that he is over 
 
 fond, Cicsar says : 
 
 Nay, no whit. 
 Our heavenly lather on earth adores no Jess 
 Our mother than our sister : and I hold 
 His heart and eye^ his spirit and his sense. 
 Infallible. 
 
 The contrast between Caesar's licentiousness 
 and shrewdness and his father's heavier and 
 kindlier worldliness, Francesco going among the 
 assassins sinmnff : 
 
 Love and night are life and light : 
 
 Sleep and wine and song 
 Speed and slay the halting day 
 
 Ere it live too long : 
 
 lAicrezia being flattered by her father — the 
 father's dread, and then his grief at the news of 
 Francesco's murder — Ca?sar's scornful banter — 
 do not make a play. The excessively mannered 
 verses produce an effect something like one of 
 Lucian's Dialogues of the gods, though the 
 loose and lengthy method obscures the effect 
 and lessens the credit of it. With good speak- 
 ing, dresses and scenery, it might prove amusing, 
 but so might a tliousand other dialogues. It 
 was not a brilliant conclusion : it was more in 
 the nature of a posthumous indiscretion : but it 
 was a sally characteristic of the poet, the climber, 
 swimmer and rider, tlic lover of women and 
 
 238
 
 THE PLAYS 
 
 sunlight, of the Sea and Liberty, who died a 
 year afterwards, on April 10, 1909. He was 
 buried in the rocky cemetery at Bonchurch, 
 Isle of Wight, near the home and the sea of his 
 boyhood, of the days when he was chanting 
 Atalanta in Calydon, celebrated often in his 
 poetry and lastly in the dedication of The Sisters 
 to his aunt, the Lady Mary Gordon. The 
 garden of her house, The Orchard, near Vent- 
 nor, had been to him one of the sweetest corners 
 of the island, and recalling it in that dedication 
 he connected it for the generations of his lovers 
 with himself and the sea : 
 
 The springs of earth may slacken^ and the sun 
 Find no more laughing lustre to relume 
 
 Where once the sunlight and the spring seemed one ; 
 But not on heart or soul may time or doom 
 Cast aught of drought or lower with aught of gloom 
 
 If past and future, hope and memory, be 
 
 Ringed round about with love^ fast bound and free. 
 
 As all the world is girdled with the sea. 
 
 THE END
 
 NOTES AND REFERENCES 
 
 Swinburne : A Lecture by J. W. Mackail. 
 
 Oxford. 
 Edinburgh Review, October 1906. 
 Mrs. M. C. J. Leith in The Contemporary 
 
 Review, April 1910 
 Quarterly Review, October 1905. 
 The Contemporary Review, April 1910. 
 Poems and Ballads — Third Series. 
 Essays and Studies. 
 A Study of Shakespeare. 
 The Contemporary Review, April 1910, 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. 
 The Contemporary Review, April 1910. 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. 
 Astrophel. 
 Essays and Studies. 
 Contemporary Review, April 1910. 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. 
 A Study of Victor Hugo. 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. 
 Essays and Studies. 
 A Study of Victor Hugo. 
 Studies i7i Prose and Poetry. 
 Miscellanies. 
 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. 
 Miscellanies. 
 
 Memoirs of Burne-Jones. 
 Essays and Studies. 
 Memoirs of Burne-Jones. 
 The Contemporary Review, June 1907 — 
 
 Edmund Gosse. 
 54 10 Memoirs of Burne-Jones. 
 
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 The Contemporary Review, June 1907 — 
 
 Edmund (Josse. 
 The Times, April 12, 1909. 
 The Contemporary Review, June 1907 — 
 
 Edmund Gosse. 
 The Contemporary Review, April 1910. 
 The Spectator, September 6, 1862. 
 Les Cenci. Translated into French by Tola 
 
 Dorian, with Introduction by Swinburne. 
 Chustelard. 
 Quoted by Ernest Rhys. The Nineteenth 
 
 Century, July 1909. 
 The Contemporary Review, June 1909. 
 Studies in Prose and Poetry. 
 The Athenaeum, June 16, 1877. 
 Quarterly Review, July 1902. 
 The Spectator, May 31, 1873. 
 The Athenaeum, April 14, 1877. 
 Introduction to Shakespeare. (World's 
 
 Classics.) 
 The Contemporary Review, June 1909. 
 The Contemporary Review, June 1909. 
 Ernest Rhys in the Nineteenth Century, 
 
 June 1909. 
 
 
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