UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 
 / y 
 
 n..-^
 
 ATALANTA, 
 
 By ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 6s. 
 
 John Camden Hottex. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "He has produced a dramatic poem which abounds from the first pasre to 
 the last in the finest constituents of poetry— in iniattinatinn, fancy, fejling, 
 sentiment, passicm, and knowledge of the human heart and soul, combined 
 with a dominant mastery over every species of verse, from the stateliest pimp 
 of epic metre to the fluent sweetness of soncr. ... He has something of 
 that creative force which all great poets have Ind, whether they were Greek, 
 Italian, or Knglish — a native and inborn strength, v\hich scholarship may 
 mould, but can never originate. If, as we are given to undersiand, Jlr. Swin- 
 burne is a young writer, we do not hesit:ite to assert that his volume is extra- 
 ordinary, not simply for strength and vividness of imagination, but (what is 
 far more remarkable with inexperience) for maturity of power, for complete- 
 ness of self-control, for absolute mastery over the turbulent lorces of ado- 
 lescent genius. . . . That strange, sad, h ipeless mood in which the 
 ancient Greek regarded the mysteries of life and death— that austere setting 
 of the soul aurainst the iron will of destiny which is so full of an immense 
 dignity aid pathos— that divinely sorrowful desp ir of things which can 
 sutler to t e miserable end, and sees no after c 'mpensatiun, and yet goes 
 down to death in majesty, and beauty, and power — Ihe-e charuL-teristics of 
 the old Greek fiith, or want of faith, or whitsoever we may call it, are re- 
 flected by Mr. S.vinburne with amazing trutii and discrimination. There are 
 passages in his poem which seem to wring from the very roots of human 
 experience the sharpest extract of our griefs." — London KkviiiW, Sth April, 
 1865. 
 
 " .Mr. Swinburne has judged well in his choice of a sub'eet. The legend of 
 Calylon i-^ one of the most beautiful in the who!e compass of the dreek my- 
 thology; fresh, simple, romantic, solemn, and pathetic, yet without any of those 
 horrors which shock us in the stories of 1 hebes or Argos— ni Juca-ta, no 
 Thyestes, but figures full of heroic truth and nobleness, standing out in the 
 clear bright light of the early morning of Greece. ... A caretul study 
 of the Attic dramatists has enabled him to catch their mann t, and to reproduce 
 felicitously many of their turns of expression. The scholar is struck, every few
 
 lines, by some phrase which he can fancy a direct translation from the Greek, 
 while yd it is in its place both forcible anj unalfjcted. The matter, altboiitrh not 
 really (ircok in its esse ice, is tliro^vn with jrreat clcTcrness into a moulil which 
 almost bciruilcs us into f >r:.'etliii^ tlic author, and iina^^iiiin^ that we are Usteiiiuff 
 to one of the conieinpurarics of ICuripiJcs who soufflit to copy the manner of 
 yEsebylus. . . . He is, indeed, never more happy than in painliii;; nature, 
 knowing and lovin; her well, and inspired hy her beauty into a vivid force and 
 fulness of expression." — Saturday Kbvikw, 6th May, 1865. 
 
 " The pa-sion of Althaea is much the finest part of the play. The naturalism 
 of nialernal instinct stniir;;linir with the feeliiis; of what is due to the shade of 
 her mother and her brothers, g.)cs far beyond the stru^i^le in Anti;rone or 
 Orestes. Out of many no'.ile passages depicting this feeling we choose the last 
 and most pissimate — passionate beyond the limits of Greek passion, and too 
 little ingrained with the Greek awe, — but still exceedingly fine." — Spkctatou, 
 April loth, 18(35. 
 
 " He is gifted with no small portion of the all-important divine fire, without 
 which no man can hope to achieve poetic success ; he possesses considerable 
 poweis of description, a keen eye for natural scenery, and a copious vocabulary 
 of rich yet simple Kn:,'lish. . . . We must now part from our author with 
 c irdial congratulations on the success with which he has achieved so difficult a 
 task." — TiuKS, June 6th, 18fi5. 
 
 " ' Atalanta in Calydon ' is the work of a poet. . . . Let our readers say 
 whether they often meet with pictures lovelier in themselves or more truly Greek 
 than those in the following invocation to Artemis. . . . Many strains equal 
 to the al>ove in force, beauty and rhythmical flow might be cited from the 
 chorus. Those which set forth the brevity of man's life, and the darkness which 
 cnlolils it, though almost irreverent in their impeachment of the gods, are 
 singularly fine in expression. . . . We yet know not to what poet since Keats 
 we could turn for a representation at once so large in its design and so graphic in 
 its parti .ulars. In the noble hyperbole of description which raises the boar into 
 the veritable scuurge of Artemis, there is imagination of the high st kind. . . 
 .'V subject for many a painter to come— a grand word-picture, in which the 
 inlhiencc of no contemporary can be traced. ... In the fervour ami beauty 
 of his best p issagcs we find no rcHectidn of any modern wr.ter. . . . We 
 must not close without a reference to the Greek lines, plaintive and full of classic 
 grace, which ihe writer has prefixed to his work in honour of Walter Savage 
 Landor."— ATHBN.SCM, April lut, 1865. 
 
 " The choruses are so good, that it is difficult to praise them enouu'h. Were 
 our space unlimited, we would transfer them without abridgment to our columns; 
 as it is not, we can only give a few extracts ; but we may fairly assume that every 
 one who cares for poetry of a truly high order will make himself familiar with 
 Mr. Swinburne's drama. ... As we listen to them they seem to set them- 
 selves to a strange but grand music, which lingers long on the ear 
 
 Somitimes we are reminded of Shelley in the lyric passages, but it is more the 
 movement of the verse and its wonderful music, than anything else which
 
 sngerests a resemblance. . . . Mr. Swinburne has lived with the trreat 
 Athenian driniutists till his tone of thoua-ht has somewhat assimilated to theirs, 
 but he has learnt rather to sympathize with them as a contemporary artist, than 
 to copy them as a modern student." — Reader, April 22nd, 1865. 
 
 " Our extracts have shown that we mui'h prefer to let Mr. Swinburne present 
 his own marvellous earnestness and rich delivery of manner than to essay in this, 
 our necessarily brief review, a lengthened citieism or analysis of such a 
 remarkable work of promise. Apart from the serious endeavour and hiirh devoir 
 to which he has devoted him'-elf in his first appeal to public attent'on, we woull 
 remark the sensuousness, brilliancy, and fervour of the lyrics, which here and 
 there relieve the more sombre and sterner phases of the roem. . . . Assuredly 
 this is the choicest and most complete effort which has for a lon^ t'rae an- 
 nounced that a scholar and a poet has come amongst us."— Moe.\ing Hekalii, 
 April 27th, 1865. 
 
 " One grave error, which Mr. Swinburne has almost entirely avoided, is 
 the use of thoughts or expressions which, current now, would be out of place 
 in a tragedy of Greece. He has, with rare artistic feeling, let scarcely a tiace 
 appear of modern life. The Poem is all alive with the life of a classic past 
 . . . . The whole play is instinct with power of varied kinds." — Examinee, 
 Jul;/ \5th, 1865. 
 
 "We have before said Mr. Swinburne is a subtle analyst of human motive, 
 and possesses great tragic power. The present work shows him to have 
 imagination of the highest order, wonderful play of fancy, and a complete 
 command over every form of versification. ... He has command of imagery 
 as great as his control of language. He has power which rises to sublimity ; 
 passion which deepens into terror; daring which soars beyond reach or control 
 • . . . We have said enough to oonvince our readers that we regard this 
 poem as a worthy companion to ' Chastelard,' and loo'.c upon its author as per- 
 manently enrolled among great English poets."— Sunday Times, D^ce/rtiec 31s^, 
 1865. 
 
 "These lines are marked by that melancholy that always characterizes the 
 poetry in proportion to the absence of faith. . . . Could he have faith, of 
 which there is not a trace throughout the poem, except the miserable vacuum 
 created by its absence, he might do wonders as a poet."— The Tablet, August 
 Uth, 1865. 
 
 "As to the tragedy itself, we find in it everything to praise and nothing to 
 censure. It is one of the few really great poems that have been contributed 
 to English literature since the death of Shelley; and it entitles its autlior at once 
 to a place among the great poets of his country. ... A tragedy on the 
 Grecian model, which is remarkable for its intense emotional vitality, the richness 
 and reality of its imaginative images, the perfect precision and finish of its con- 
 struction, and the combined stateliness, severity, and music of its diction." — 
 Albion, November Wh, 1865. 
 
 " Not the least remarkable and interesting pages of this volume are those to
 
 which the author has consia-ncd a tribute of veneration to the memory of 
 AValter Savajre Landor, in two compnsilions of Greek elegiac verse. The lirst 
 is a fleilieal ion addressed to li'ndor while liviiisr, in the form of a valediction, 
 on the occasion of his last return to Italy; the second, much the longer of 
 the two, an eleary on his death. No one who has felt how the spirit of the 
 j'Ksi-hylean trasedy breathes through the English jwem, will have been sur- 
 prised t) find— ra'.her, every su di reader would have been disappointed if he 
 hid not f)nnd— tint Mr. Swinburne's thoufjhts move with scarcely less ease 
 and freedom on a moderm theme (if indeed I,andor may be properly said to 
 beliin'T to his own a^e so mu di as to tint of Pericles and Augustus) in the 
 lanLfuagre and measures of Callinus and .Mimmerus than in his native speech, 
 or the Greek we will oidy say that it is not that nf a Cambridge prize ode, 
 but something much better— even if more open to minute criticism— than the 
 best of such ; not in the least like a cento of dainty classical phrases, but the 
 fre-ih original gushing of a true poetical vein, nourislied by a mastery of the 
 foreign language, like that which Landor himself in his Latin poems .... 
 It is evidcnily the produce, not of the tender lyrical faculty which so often 
 waits on sensitive youth and afterwards fades into the light of common day, 
 nor even of tlie classical culture of which it is itself a signal illustration, but 
 of :m atllueut and apprehensive genius, which, with ordinary care and fair 
 fortune, will take a foremost place in Knglish literature. . . . His abstinence 
 from all overilrawn conceits is remarkable in a young poet of any time, and his 
 careful avoidance of the shadowy boriler land of metaphysics and poetry in 
 which so many ver>ificrs of our own day take refuge from the open scrutiny 
 of critical sunlight, deserve full praise and recognition." — Edinbuegh Hkview, 
 Juli/, 18G5. 
 
 C1IASTEL.\RD. 
 
 Br ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, clotb, 7s. 
 John Camden Hotten. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " TnE portraits of Mary and of Chastelard are exaggerated, but only as Michael 
 
 Amrclo's heroic statues are. The consistent steady madness of Cliastelard's 
 
 passion, which, mad as it is, lies deeper than madness, and, wild as it 
 
 ■is, burns always without fianie, is displayed in a way which is most masterly.
 
 As for the Queen, we are quite of opinion that Mr. Swinburne has brought 
 that woman to light again. It will not do, perhaps, to peer closely into 
 her portrait as it lies in these pasres ; if we do, we beeonie uneasily conscious 
 of blotchy workmanship, with lights too sutlden, and shades too deep, and 
 broken harmonies of colour. But close the book, and look at the portrait 
 reflected from it into the mind, and none was ever painted of her so true. 
 It is a portrait which painters and historians alike have only confused; it 
 awaited a poet's hand to this day. and now we have got it. So think we, at 
 any rate, and in sayin!» so we do not exhaust the praise which is due to the 
 author of ' Ch-istelard.' The dramatic force of the scenes in the latter half 
 of the poem remains to be applauded, but that, luckily for a critic who has 
 come to the end of his tether, is a thing which can oily be applauded and 
 cannot be described; we give it our homage. But it is very much to the 
 purpose of this article, that just when the poem becomes more dramatic its 
 faults begin to disappear; and before we come to the admirable scene between 
 Mary and Chastelard in prison, we are blinded to whatever remains. The 
 fact seems to be that Mr. Swinburne is less a poet than a dr-raatist; it is 
 certain that he is capable of writing in a way which entitles him to small con- 
 sideration as the one, and to great consideration as the other. . . . But in 
 any case it can never be denied that he is a true man of genius." — Pall Mall 
 Gazette, April 27th, 1866. 
 " The two principal figures stand out boldly, and on them the poet has 
 
 bestowed ail the riches of his genius The scene in which, having sent 
 
 for Chastelard, she talks to him in a strange wild mood between love and regretful- 
 
 ness, is extremely subtle and fine It will not be doubted by any one 
 
 who has the pulse of poetry in his blood that this is noble writing— writing 
 instinct wiih the highest spirit of the Elizabethan Muse. And in the speech of 
 Chastelard, when waiting for the Queen in her chamber, we have something of 
 the large, imperial style of Shakspeare himself. .... The scene between 
 Chastelavd and the Queen in prison is also pervaded with the highest inspirations 
 of impassioned poetry; and though the love-ravings of Chastelard almost pass 
 the bounds comnionh permilted to poets, the shadow of fate, lying dark and heavy 
 over all, seems to cool and moderate the glow. In passages such as these, Mr. 
 Swinburne again proves his right to take a permanent stand among our English 
 
 poets Of power, he has abundance; of passion, perhaps more than 
 
 enough ; of poetry, in its fierce, luminous, and fiery shapes, a wonderful and 
 
 prodigal richness Whatever his faults, however, he is a man of 
 
 genius of the most unmistakable mark. We do not know when it has fallen to the 
 lot of any poet to produce within one year two such plays as' Atalanta in Calydon' 
 and ' Chastelard '—dramas conceived and written in two totally distinct styles, 
 
 and with marked success in both He has earned a conspicuous name 
 
 with singular quickness, and we trust that even greater triumphs lie belore him 
 in his onward path." — London Review, December 9/i, 1865. 
 
 "The choruses in 'Atalanta' were astonishing for their imaginative insight 
 their richness of imagery, their depth of impassioned thought, the nervous supple- 
 ness of their language, and the lyrical flow of their versification ; and many of the
 
 speeches of the characters were full of poetry and dramatic truth. In ' Chastelard,' 
 ajrain, we have a splendid example ol tlie poetry that lies in vehement and 
 absorbing passion; but there is some --eason to fear that Mr. Swinburne is 
 wanting in the hiffher beauty of moral dignity and sweetness." — LoKsoir 
 Bevikw, December 30M, 1865. 
 
 " We can only say that it abounds in passages of great poetic merit, and the 
 passion of love is described with all that delicacy and vivid, less that can only be 
 found in the writings of a poet endowed with extraordinary genius. Mr. 
 Swinburne has well comprehended the character of Mary Stuart, and she is made 
 to stand before the reader a reality, her nature being wonderfully well exhibited. 
 OthL-r characters are represented with marvelluus distinctness, and give to the 
 tragedy interest and vitality."— Public Opinion, December \Gfh, 1865, 
 
 " The style is so forcible that there is little that would render the play unfit for 
 the stage, were it not for the great amount of amativeness which the parties have 
 to display before they are disposed of." — Coukt Circulah, December 23rJ, ls65. 
 
 "The picture with which this burst concludes, though too much ilaborateil, has 
 undeniable grandeur. We could point out passages which, in a dramatic point of 
 view, are yet finer. Tliose given to Mary Beaton — the only touching character in 
 the pby — often reach the height of tragic intensity. Nur is it to lie disputed 
 that Mr. Swinburne shows at times a keen insight into the subtleties of human 
 motive, but his chief characters are out of the pale of our sympathy; besid-s 
 being inherently vicious, the language will oifcnd not only those who have 
 roverence, but those who have taste." — .^thkn.sum, December 23rd, 1S65. 
 
 " A trage iy — in which we think he best develops his genius. Once before we 
 Slid wp thought his genius essentially lyric, but he himself has convint-ed us, not 
 of tlie contrary, but of the co-existence in him of the dramatic and lyric power." — 
 CouBT JoUBNAL, December 19th, 1865. 
 
 " The poem, in fact, is morally repulsive, and all its gilding of fancy and feeling 
 only makes the picture more revolting . . . The dramatic power, the grace of 
 the beauty of the tragedy no one ca^ deny. . . . His insight into hidden human 
 motives is marvellously indicated. Altogether, if the poem fails to please, that 
 must be attributed to the subject and the author's mind of it, not to any lai:k of 
 workmanship of the very highest and most delicate order." — Atlas, December 
 30lh, 1865. 
 
 " It is an unpleasant book, and one by all means to be kept out of the hands of 
 the young and pure-minded, for the licentiousness of many of the images and 
 profanity of not a few of the sentiments are sui'h as happily are not often found 
 in English poets. . . . We cannot doubt that the le-s sensuous brotherhood 
 of our Northern poets, would join us in denouncing with indignation and disgust 
 such a lamentable prostitution of the English muse." — Joh.v Uull, December 
 23rd, 1865. 
 
 " There are two parts of the play deserving of special praise — the second act, 
 and the closing scenes of the fifth. It is in these, and more particularly in the 
 latter, that Mr. Swinburne displays a combination of dramatic and poetic power 
 beyond what is seen in anything that his pen has yet produced. . . . Were it
 
 not for their exquisite elegance of expression, these constant exhibitions of passion 
 would deserve severe reprub .tion. . . . Regarding the work as a whole, we 
 must thank .Mr. Swinburne tor a dramatic poem ol' ?reat power, careful elabora- 
 tion of plot, artistic disposition of scenes; for admirable descriptions of human 
 emotion and passion ; for terse, forcible, yet swe> t expression, and a generally 
 scrupulous melody of rhythm." — EEiDER, December 2nd, 1865. 
 
 " Mr. Swinhurne has written a tragedy, which not only is one of the most 
 remarkable productions of modern days, but which in oriainality of conception 
 and boldness of treatment has ni-ver been surpas-ed. The triumph which Mr. 
 Swinburne has achi ved in 'Chastelard' is the more noteworthy, si ce the splendid 
 gifts of which its composition proclaims him the possessor are totally distinct 
 from those which in ' Atalanta inCalydon' gained him a foremost position among 
 modern poets. In the earlier production, amid all the sublime imagery and 
 lyrical sweetness, the grace truly classic, the boldness of thought and the ex- 
 quisite charm of versification which constituted it a work of accomplished and 
 all but uniivalled beauty, there was no foreshadowing of the dramatic fire and 
 the weird an<i almost unholy power which characterize its successor. 
 From this point, where the interest has already reached what appears a climax 
 each situation is more dramatic and more stirring than tne one preceding it. 
 The skill with which— the passions being already at white heat— the action is 
 heightened without anti-climax is absolutely wonderful. . . . The last few 
 words we give in their integrity ; no word of ours can add aught to their terrible 
 pathos and dramatic force. With them, and without an added word, we shall 
 conclude our notice of this most remarkable trageiy of modern time's." — Sunday 
 Times, December 3rd, 1865. 
 
 " Here, in his new poem of ' Chastelard,' is Mr. Algernon Swinburne writing 
 French chansons of which Chastelard himself or Honsard might have been proud. 
 So good are they that by many they are imagined to be merely quotations, tran- 
 scripts frotn the original French author. But there is no doubt they are Mr. 
 Swinburne's own composition. Here arc two which are exquisite in taste, feeling, 
 and spirit." — .Moening Sia^, December 25lh, 1865. 
 
 " Here and there occur passages which we unhesitatingly affirm are not sur- 
 passed in the language."— Livekpool Albiox, January 6th, 1866. 
 
 "The public to which Mr. Swinburne appeals will consist exclusively of those 
 readers who enjoy a work of art for its own sake, and who care more for the 
 power of the representation than for any worth in what is represented. . 
 Mr. Swinhurne has produced a poem which many may dislike but which none 
 can contemn, which many will lay down unread but which few wiil read once 
 only. It cannot be called an advance upon ' Atalanta," for it is something totally 
 different, except in its disregard of conventional proprieties, and its independence 
 of the poetical habits of the day. There is the same richness wittiout tawdri- 
 ness of lansrua^e, the same novelty without strauireuess of expression, the same 
 continual sense of the indispensable duty of m< lody iu verse, which some of our 
 most pretentious poets either forget or disown. . . . The scene in the Queen's 
 chamber ia very beautiful, but iugeniously wicked as the rest. . . . For dex-
 
 8 
 
 terily of fence, both in fueling and language, this scene may rank with tlie master- 
 pieces of our older drama. . . . The fiyrations are so unexpet-te'l, an i the 
 changes so numerous, tliat in less masterly liar.ds the etl'ect would be rather ihat 
 of a psycho ogical puzzle ihan of a dramatic evolution. . . . It is impossible 
 that this play should not highly raise Mr. Swinburne's reputation. Tlicre are 
 artistic delcits in it, but not to be mentioned beside the artistic merits. His 
 preface to Moxon's 'Selections fiom Byron' is another instance of the fact, too 
 often fiirgoltcn, that there is no education for the writing of superior prose like 
 the serious practice of poetry; and with this double power, Mr. Swinburne's 
 future career must be an olijeet of much interest to all who estimate arigiit the 
 worth and weight of British literature in the intellectual and moral history of 
 mankinl." — Fobtnightly Kevibw, April Xbth, 1866. 
 
 " He fills out this bold outline, and supplies missing links in the story, and 
 imparts li;'e and form and colour to the whole picture, and reprolu<f s cunte iii^o- 
 raneous pers iiages and scenery, and, with deep proliing of human nature and fine 
 play of im.igiiiation, unvf ils the pathetic tragedy th t has fo long sli pt hidden iu 
 the dry and trite historic page. I he result is a masterpiece of literary art, whether 
 contempl ted as t > eoneepti.in of character, ideals of love and heroism, treatment 
 of a grand and moving theme, majesty, beauty, and purity of style, or lesson to the 
 heart and mind." — I he Albion, December 'I'ird, I860. 
 
 "The story is vaguely and incllVctivcly presented. There is little to relieve 
 the repulsive character of the whole tone of the i)lay. It dwells pcrtioaci-usly 
 and too warmly upon scenes which are neither noble, edifying, nor decent." — 
 Boston Daily Alvkbtiskk, December ]4itk, 1865. 
 
 " We have but re-echoed the .judgment of all eompetent critics, in saving that 
 Swinburne rightfully ranks with the few great poets of this and of oilur ages. 
 His presi nt work is one 01 the finest arti--tie etVirts which we have ever eba eed 
 to encounter. It has more human interest than his ' Atalanta in Calydoii, while 
 it is couched in the same vigorous and spl. ndid diction a;ul ' is rielily diglii' with 
 melodious and sweetly magnificent songs. . . . His portraiture is one of the 
 amplest, most thoroughly elaborated, and most gorgeously coloured, in ttie wb.ole 
 wide rang-' of British p.ietry " — Nkw Youk ■ KtKi.Y Kkview, DecemberStk, 1865. 
 
 "The sustained and elastic strength of the fourth act, in which the turns and 
 windings of Mary's will as Chastelani's death are drawn out— hei perplexity, 
 ruthlessness, contempt for a weak man ami for a cruel unknigbtly m n, fear of 
 public scorn, remorse for her love, vindictive biiterness against U.irnley, all 
 chasing one another over her mind, with the subtlest changes— make one of the 
 most superb scenes for uhich a drama of i.harajier gives room. We teei that the 
 writer is rejoicing in his own skill in unravelling the changeful ffiy-tcr.es of a 
 highly eomplex character. He exults in hiS mastery over the t^ueen s rapid 
 passage from one mood to another, and in the magic b) which he can produce and 
 eontrol her Protean transformations." — Saiuhuay Uiivitw, May 26</i. 1166.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY.
 
 SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALGERNOX CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 T 5 1— J 'J J ' 3 > 1 
 
 )•> 33-> ^ *l>^^->-» 
 
 ) J ) J , ) ) ) 
 
 ' J ) , ' J J J 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1867,
 
 
 Cd 
 
 PR, 
 
 5^ 
 
 V 
 
 INSCRIBED, 
 
 u 
 
 o 
 
 WITH ALL DEVOTION AND REVERENCE, 
 
 TO 
 
 JOSEPH MAZZINI. 
 
 389781
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Upon a windy night of stars that fell 
 
 At the wind's spoken spell, 
 Swept with sharp strokes of agonizing light 
 
 From the clear gulf of night. 
 Between the fixed and fallen glories one 
 
 Against my vision shone. 
 More fair and fearful and divine than they 
 
 That measure night and day. 
 And worthier worship ; and within mine 
 eyes 
 
 The formless folded skies
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Took shape and were unfolded like as flowers. 
 
 And I beheld 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. 
 And over these living, and them that died. 
 
 From one to the other side 
 A lordlier light than comes of earth or air 
 
 Made the world's future fair. 
 A woman like to love in face, but not 
 
 A thing of transient lot — 
 And like to hope, but having hold on 
 truth — 
 
 And like to joy or youth. 
 Save that upon the rock her feet were set — 
 
 And like what men forget,
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Faith, innocence, high thought, laborious 
 peace — 
 
 And yet like none of these, 
 Being not as these are mortal, but with eyes 
 
 That sounded the deep skies 
 And clove like wings or arrows their clear 
 way 
 
 Through night and dawn and day — 
 So fair a presence over star and sun 
 
 Stood, making these as one. 
 For in the shadow of her shape were all 
 
 Darkened and held in thrall. 
 So mightier rose she past them ; and I felt 
 
 Whose form, whose likeness knelt 
 With covered hair and face and clasped her 
 knees ; 
 
 And knew the first of these 
 
 B 2
 
 lo A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Was Freedom, and the second Italy. 
 
 And what sad words said she 
 For mine own grief I knew not, nor had 
 heart 
 
 Therewith to bear my part 
 And set my songs to sorrow ; nor to hear 
 
 How tear by sacred tear 
 Fell from her eyes as flowers or notes that 
 fall 
 
 In some slain feaster's hall 
 Where in mid music and melodious breath 
 
 Men singing have seen death. 
 So fair, so lost, so sweet she knelt ; or so 
 
 In our lost eyes below 
 Seemed to us sorrowing ; and her speech being 
 said, 
 
 Fell, as one who falls dead.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. ii 
 
 And for a little she too wept, who stood 
 
 Above the dust and blood 
 And thrones and troubles of the world ; 
 then spake. 
 
 As who bids dead men wake. 
 
 " Because the years were heavy on thy head; 
 
 Because dead things are dead ; 
 Because thy chosen on hill-side, city and 
 plain 
 Are shed as drops of rain ; 
 Because all earth was black, all heaven was 
 blind. 
 And we cast out of mind ; 
 Because men wept, saying Freedom^ knowing 
 of thee. 
 Child, that thou wast not free ;
 
 12 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Because wherever blood was not shame was 
 
 Where thy pure foot did pass ; 
 Because on Promethean rocks distent 
 
 Thee fouler eagles rent ; 
 Because a serpent stains with slime and foam 
 
 This that is not thy Rome ; 
 Child of my womb, whose limbs were made in 
 me. 
 
 Have I forgotten thee ? 
 In all thy dreams through all these years on 
 wing, 
 
 Hast thou dreamed such a thing ? 
 The mortal mother-bird outsoars her nest. 
 
 The child outgrows the breast ; 
 But suns as stars shall fall from heaven and 
 cease. 
 
 Ere we twain be as these ;
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 13 
 
 Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost sun. 
 
 Ere we twain be not one. 
 My lesser jewels sewn on skirt and hem, 
 
 I have no heed of them 
 Obscured and flawed by sloth or craft or 
 power ; 
 
 But thou, that wast my flower. 
 The blossom bound between my brows and 
 worn 
 
 In sight of even and morn 
 From the last ember of the flameless west 
 
 To the dawn's baring breast — 
 I were not Freedom if thou wert not free. 
 
 Nor thou wert Italy. 
 O mystic rose ingrained with blood, im- 
 pearled 
 
 With tears of all the world !
 
 14 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 The torpor of their Wind brute-ridden 
 trance 
 Kills England and chills France ; 
 And Spain sobs hard through strangling blood ; 
 and snows 
 Hide the huge eastern woes. 
 But thou, twin-born with morning, nursed of 
 noon, 
 And blessed of star and moon ! 
 What shall avail to assail thee any more. 
 
 From sacred shore to shore ? 
 Have Time and Love not knelt down at thy 
 feet. 
 Thy sore, thy soiled, thy sweet, 
 Fresh from the flints and mire of murderous 
 ways 
 And dust of travelling days ?
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 15 
 
 Hath Time not kissed them. Love not washed 
 them fair, 
 
 And wiped with tears and hair ? 
 Though God forget thee, I will not forget ; 
 
 Though heaven and earth be set 
 Against thee, O unconquerable child. 
 
 Abused, abased, reviled. 
 Lift thou not less from no funereal bed 
 
 Thine undishonoured head ; 
 Love thou not less, by lips of thine once 
 prest. 
 
 This my now barren breast ; 
 Seek thou not less, being well assured 
 thereof, 
 
 O child, my latest love. 
 For now the barren bosom shall bear fruit. 
 
 Songs leap from lips long mute.
 
 1 6 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 And with my milk the mouths of nations fed 
 
 Again be glad and red 
 That were worn white with hunger and sor- 
 row and thirst ; 
 And thou, most fair and first, 
 Thou whose warm hands and sweet live lips I 
 feel 
 Upon me for a seal. 
 Thou whose least looks, -whose smiles and 
 little sighs, 
 Whose passionate pure eyes. 
 Whose dear fair limbs that neither bonds could 
 bruise 
 Nor hate of men misuse. 
 Whose flower-like breath and bosom, O my 
 child, 
 O mine and undefiled,
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 17 
 
 Fill with such tears as burn like bitter wine 
 
 These mother's eyes of mine. 
 Thrill with huge passions and primeval 
 pains 
 
 The fulness of my veins. 
 
 sweetest head seen higher than any stands, 
 I touch thee with mine hands, 
 
 1 lay my lips upon thee, O thou most sweet, 
 
 To lift thee on thy feet 
 And with the fire of mine to fill thine eyes ; 
 I say unto thee. Arise." 
 
 She ceased, and heaven was full of flame and 
 sound. 
 
 And earth's old limbs unbound 
 Shone and waxed warm with fiery dew and seed 
 
 Shed through her at this her need :
 
 i8 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 And highest in heaven, a mother and full of 
 grace, 
 
 With no more covered face. 
 With no more Hfted hands and bended knees. 
 
 Rose, as from sacred seas 
 Love, when old time was full of plenteous 
 springs. 
 
 That fairest-born of things. 
 The land that holds the rest in tender thrall 
 
 For love's sake in them all. 
 That binds with words and holds with eyes and 
 hands 
 
 All hearts in all men's lands. 
 So died the dream whence rose the live desire 
 
 That here takes form and fire, 
 A spirit from the splendid grave of sleep 
 
 Risen, that ye should not weep.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 19 
 
 Should not weep more nor ever, O ye that hear 
 
 And ever have held her dear, 
 Seeing now indeed she weeps not who wept 
 sore, 
 And sleeps not any more. 
 Hearken ye towards her, O people, exalt your 
 eyes ; 
 Is this a thing that dies ? 
 
 Italia ! by the passion of the pain 
 
 That bent and rent thy chain ; 
 Italia ! by the breaking of the bands. 
 
 The shaking of the lands ; 
 Beloved, O men's mother, O men's queen, 
 
 Arise, appear, be seen ! 
 Arise, array thyself in manifold 
 
 Queen's raiment of wrought gold ;
 
 20 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 With girdles of green freedom, and with 
 red 
 
 Roses, and white snow shed 
 Above the flush and frondage of the hills 
 
 That all thy deep dawn fills 
 And all thy clear night veils and warms with 
 wings 
 
 Spread till the morning sings ; 
 The rose of resurrection, and the bright 
 
 Breast lavish of the light. 
 The lady lily like the snowy sky 
 
 Ere the stars wholly die ; 
 As red as blood, and whiter than a wave, 
 
 Flowers grown as from thy grave. 
 From the green fruitful grass in Maytime 
 hot. 
 
 Thy grave, where thou art not.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 21 
 
 Gather the grass and weave, in sacred sign 
 
 Of the ancient earth divine. 
 The holy heart of things, the seed of birth. 
 
 The mystical warm earth. 
 O thou her flower of flowers, with treble 
 braid 
 
 Be thy sweet head arrayed. 
 In witness of her mighty motherhood 
 
 Who bore thee and found thee good. 
 Her fairest-born of children, on whose head 
 
 Her green and white and red 
 Are hope and light and life, inviolate 
 
 Of any latter fate. 
 Fly, O our flag, through deep Italian air. 
 
 Above the flags that were. 
 The dusty shreds of shameful battle-flags 
 
 Trampled and rent in rags.
 
 J SOXG OF ITALY. 
 
 As withering woods in autumn's bitterest 
 breath 
 Yellow, and black as death ; 
 Black as crushed worms that sicken in the 
 sense, 
 And yellow as pestilence. 
 Fly, green as summer and red as dawn and 
 white 
 As the live heart of light. 
 The blind bright womb of colour unborn, 
 that brings 
 Forth all fair forms of things, 
 As freedom all fair forms of nations dyed 
 
 In divers-coloured pride. 
 Fly fleet as wind on every wind that 
 blows 
 Between her seas and snows.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 23 
 
 From Alpine white, from Tuscan green, and 
 where 
 
 Vesuvius reddens air. 
 Fly ! and let all men see it, and all kings 
 wail. 
 
 And priests wax faint and pale. 
 And the cold hordes that moan in misty places 
 
 And the funereal races 
 And the sick serfs of lands that wait and wane 
 
 See thee and hate thee in vain. 
 In the clear laughter of all winds and waves. 
 
 In the blown grass of graves. 
 In the long sound of fluctuant boughs of 
 trees. 
 
 In the broad breath of seas. 
 Bid the sound of thy flying folds be heard ; 
 
 And as a spoken word
 
 24 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Full of that fair god and that merciless 
 
 Who rends the Pythoness, 
 So be the sound and so the fire that salth 
 
 She feels her ancient breath 
 And the old blood move in her immortal 
 veins. 
 
 Strange travail and strong pains, 
 Our mother, hast thou borne these many years, 
 
 While thy pure blood and tears 
 Mixed with the Tyrrhene and the Adrian 
 sea; 
 
 Light things were said of thee, 
 As of one buried deep among the dead ; 
 
 Yea, she hath been, they said, 
 She was when time was younger, and is not ; 
 
 The very cerecloths rot
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 25 
 
 That flutter in the dusty wind of death, 
 
 Not moving with her breath ; 
 Far seasons and forgotten years enfold 
 
 Her dead corpse old and cold 
 With many windy winters and pale springs ; 
 
 She is none of this world's things. 
 Though her dead head like a live garland wear 
 
 The golden-growing hair 
 That flows over her breast down to her feet, 
 
 Dead queens, whose life was sweet 
 In sight of all men living, have been found 
 
 So cold, so clad, so crowned. 
 With all things faded and with one thing fair. 
 
 Their old immortal hair. 
 When flesh and bone turned dust at touch of 
 day : 
 
 And she is dead as they. 
 
 c 2
 
 i6 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 So men said sadly, mocking ; so the slave. 
 
 Whose life was his soul's grave ; 
 So, pale or red with change of fast and feast. 
 
 The sanguine-sandalled priest ; 
 So the Austrian, when his fortune came to 
 flood. 
 
 And the warm wave was blood ; 
 With wings that widened and with beak that 
 smote. 
 
 So shrieked through either throat 
 From the hot horror of its northern nest 
 
 That double-headed pest ; 
 So, triple-crowned with fear and fraud and 
 shame. 
 
 He of whom treason came. 
 The herdsman of the Gadarean swine ; 
 
 So all his ravening kine.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 27 
 
 Made fat with poisonous pasture ; so not 
 we. 
 
 Mother, beholding thee. 
 Make answer, O the crown of all our slain. 
 
 Ye that were one, being twain. 
 Twain brethren, twin-born to the second 
 birth. 
 
 Chosen out of all our earth 
 To be the prophesying stars that say 
 
 How hard is night on day. 
 Stars in serene and sudden heaven re-risen 
 
 Before the sun break prison 
 And ere the moon be wasted ; fair first flowers 
 
 In that red wreath of ours. 
 Woven with the lives of all whose lives were 
 shed 
 
 To crown their mother's head
 
 2 8 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 With leaves of civic cypress and thick 
 yew. 
 
 Till the olive bind it too, 
 Olive and laurel and all loftier leaves 
 
 That victory wears or weaves 
 At her fair feet for her beloved brow ; 
 
 Hear, for she too hears now, 
 O Pisacane, from Calabrian sands ; 
 
 O all heroic hands 
 Close on the sword-hilt, hands of all her 
 dead; 
 
 O many a holy head, 
 Bowed for her sake even to her reddening 
 dust; 
 
 O chosen, O pure and just, 
 Who counted for a small thing life's estate. 
 
 And died, and made it great ;
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Ye whose names mix with all her memories ; ye 
 
 Who rather chose to see 
 Death, than our more intolerable things ; 
 
 Thou whose name withers kings, 
 Agesilao ; thou too, O chiefliest thou. 
 
 The slayer of splendid brow. 
 Laid where the lying lips of fear deride 
 
 The foiled tyrannicide. 
 Foiled, fallen, slain, scorned, and happy ; being 
 in fame, 
 
 Felice, like thy name. 
 Not like thy fortune ; father of the fight, 
 
 Having in hand our light. 
 Ah, happy ! for that sudden-swerving hand 
 
 Flung light on all thy land. 
 Yea, lit blind France with compulsory ray, 
 
 Driven down a righteous way ;
 
 30 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Ah, happiest ! for from thee the wars began, 
 
 From thee the fresh springs ran ; 
 From thee the lady land that queens the earth 
 
 Gat as she gave new birth. 
 O sweet mute mouths, O all fair dead of 
 ours. 
 
 Fair in her eyes as flowers. 
 Fair without feature, vocal without voice, 
 
 Strong without strength, rejoice ! 
 Hear it with ears that hear not, and on eyes 
 
 That see not let it rise. 
 Rise as a sundawn ; be it as dew that drips 
 
 On dumb and dusty lips ; 
 Eyes have ye not, and see it ; neither ears. 
 
 And there is none but hears. 
 This is the same for whom ye bled and wept ; 
 
 She was not dead, but slept.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 31 
 
 This is that very Italy which was 
 And is and shall not pass. 
 
 But thou, though all were not well done, O chief. 
 
 Must thou take shame or grief? 
 Because one man is not as thou or ten. 
 
 Must thou take shame for men ? 
 Because the supreme sunrise is not yet. 
 
 Is the young dew not wet ? 
 Wilt thou not yet abide a little while. 
 
 Soul without fear or guile, 
 Mazzini, — O our prophet, O our priest, 
 
 A little while at least ? 
 A little hour of doubt and of control. 
 
 Sustain thy sacred soul ; 
 Withhold thine heart, our father, but an hour ; 
 
 Is it not here, the flower.
 
 32 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Is it not blown and fragrant from the root. 
 
 And shall not be the fruit ? 
 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. 
 Art thou not father, O father, of all these ? 
 
 From thine 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. 
 The milk of life on death's unnatural brink 
 
 Thou gavest them to drink.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 33 
 
 The natural milk of freedom ; and again 
 
 They drank, and they were men. 
 The wine and honey of freedom and of 
 faith 
 They drank, and cast off death. 
 Bear with them now ; thou art holier : yet 
 endure. 
 Till they as thou be pure. 
 Their swords at least that stemmed half 
 Austria's tide 
 Bade all its bulk divide ; 
 Else, though fate bade them for a breath's 
 space fall, 
 She had not fallen at all. 
 Not by their hands they made time's promise 
 true ; 
 Not by their hands, but through.
 
 34 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Nor on Custozza ran their blood to waste, 
 
 Nor fell their fame defaced 
 Whom stormiest Adria with tumultuous tides 
 
 Whirls undersea and hides. 
 Not his, who from the sudden-settling deck 
 
 Looked over death and wreck 
 To where the mother's bosom shone, who 
 smiled 
 
 As he, so dying, her child ; 
 For he smiled surely, dying, to mix his death 
 
 With her memorial breath ; 
 Smiled, being most sure of her, that in no wise. 
 
 Die whoso will, she dies : 
 And she smiled surely, fair and far above. 
 
 Wept not, but smiled for love. 
 Thou too, O splendour of the sudden sword 
 
 That drove the crews abhorred
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 35 
 
 From Naples and the siren-footed strand. 
 
 Flash from thy master's hand. 
 Shine from the middle summer of the seas 
 
 To the old bolides. 
 Outshine their fiery fumes of burning night, 
 
 Sword, with thy midday light ; 
 Flame as a beacon from the Tyrrhene foam 
 
 To the rent heart of Rome, 
 From the island of her lover and thy lord, 
 
 Her saviour and her sword. 
 In the fierce year of failure and of fame, 
 
 Art thou not yet the same 
 That wert as lightning swifter than all 
 wings 
 
 In the blind face of kings ? 
 When priests took counsel to devise despair. 
 
 And princes to forswear.
 
 36 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 She clasped thee, O her sword and flag- 
 bearer 
 
 And staff and shield to her, 
 O Garibaldi ; need was hers and grief, 
 
 Of thee and of the chief. 
 And of another girt in arms to stand 
 
 As good of hope and hand. 
 As high of soul and happy, albeit indeed 
 
 The heart should burn and bleed. 
 So but the spirit shake not nor the breast 
 
 Swerve, but abide its rest. 
 As theirs did and as thine, though ruin 
 clomb 
 
 The highest wall of Rome, 
 Though treason stained and spilt her lustral 
 water, 
 
 And slaves led slaves to slaughter,
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 37 
 
 And priests, praying and slaying, watched them 
 pass 
 
 From a strange France, alas. 
 That was not freedom ; yet when these were 
 past. 
 
 Thy sword and thou stood fast, 
 Till new men seeing thee where Sicilian waves 
 
 Hear now no sound of slaves. 
 And where thy sacred blood is fragrant still 
 
 Upon the Bitter Hill, 
 Seeing by that blood one country saved and 
 stained. 
 
 Less loved thee crowned than chained, 
 And less now only than the chief : for he. 
 
 Father of Italy, 
 Upbore in holy hands the babe new-born 
 
 Through loss and sorrow and scorn, 
 
 389781
 
 38 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Of no man led, of many men reviled ; 
 
 Till lo, the new-born child 
 Gone from between his hands, and in its place, 
 
 Lo, the fair mother's face. 
 Blessed is he of all men, being in one 
 
 As father to her and son, 
 Blessed of all men living, that he found 
 
 Her weak limbs bared and bound. 
 And in his arms and in his bosom bore. 
 
 And as a garment wore 
 Her weight of want, and as a royal dress 
 
 Put on her weariness. 
 As in faith's hoariest histories men read. 
 
 The strong man bore at need 
 Through roaring rapids when all heaven was 
 wild 
 
 The likeness of a child
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 39 
 
 That still waxed greater and heavier as he 
 trod. 
 
 And altered, and was God. 
 Praise him, O winds that move the molten 
 air, 
 
 O light of days that were. 
 And light of days that shall be ; land and sea. 
 
 And heaven and Italy : 
 Praise him, O storm and summer, shore and 
 wave, 
 
 O skies and every grave ; 
 O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears, 
 
 O many and murmuring years, 
 O sounds far off in time and visions far, 
 
 O sorrow with thy star. 
 And joy with all thy beacons ; ye that mourn. 
 
 And ye whose light is born ; 
 
 D
 
 40 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 O fallen faces, and O souls arisen, 
 
 Praise him from tomb and prison. 
 Praise him from heaven and sunlight ; and ye 
 floods, 
 
 And windy waves of woods ; 
 Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes 
 
 And happier hillside brakes, 
 Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod 
 
 Fields golden from their god. 
 Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none 
 
 Sees his face in the sun. 
 Hears his voice from the floweriest wilder- 
 nesses ; 
 
 And, barren of his tresses. 
 Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined. 
 
 That no men break or bind, 
 And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, 
 
 And olives unadored.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 41 
 
 Wisdom and love, white hands that save and 
 slay. 
 Praise him ; and ye as they, 
 Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains 
 
 That feed the purple plains, 
 O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, 
 
 O cloud and fire and dawn ; 
 Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apen- 
 nines, 
 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 ; 
 
 D 2
 
 42 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Ye fields of yellow fulness, ye fresh fountains, 
 
 And mists of many mountains ; 
 Ye moons and seasons, and ye days and nights ; 
 
 Ye starry-headed heights. 
 And gorges melting sunward from the snow, 
 
 And all strong streams that flow 
 Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure 
 
 As hearts made sad and sure 
 At once by many sufferings and one love ; 
 
 O mystic deathless dove 
 Held to the heart of earth and in her hands 
 
 Cherished, O lily of lands. 
 White rose of time, dear dream of praises 
 past — 
 
 For such as these thou wast. 
 That art as eagles setting to the sun, 
 
 As fawns that leap and run,
 
 A SOXG OF ITALY. 43 
 
 As a sword carven with keen floral gold. 
 
 Sword for an armed god's hold. 
 Flower for a crowned god's forehead — O our 
 land. 
 
 Reach forth thine holiest hand, 
 O mother of many sons and memories. 
 
 Stretch out thine hand to his 
 That raised and gave thee life to run and 
 leap 
 
 When thou wast full of sleep. 
 That touched and stung thee with young blood 
 and breath 
 
 When thou wast hard on death. 
 Praise him, O all her cities and her crowns. 
 
 Her towers and thrones of towns ; 
 O noblest Brescia, scarred from foot to head 
 
 And breast-deep in the dead.
 
 44 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Praise him from all the glories of thy graves 
 
 That yellow Mela laves 
 With gentle and golden water, whose fair flood 
 
 Ran wider with thy blood ; 
 Praise him, O born of that heroic breast, 
 
 O nursed thereat and blest, 
 Verona, fairer than thy mother fair, 
 
 But not more brave to bear ; 
 Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial tread 
 
 Bruised once the German head ; 
 Whose might, by northern swords left desolate, 
 
 Set foot on fear and fate ; 
 Praise him, O long mute mouth of melodies, 
 
 Mantua, with louder keys. 
 With mightier chords of music even than 
 rolled 
 
 From the large harps of old.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 45 
 
 When thy sweet singer of golden throat and 
 tongue 
 
 Praising his tyrant sung ; 
 Though now thou sing not as of other days, 
 
 Learn late a better praise. 
 Not with the sick sweet lips of slaves that sing. 
 
 Praise thou no priest or king, 
 No brow-bound laurel of discoloured leaf, 
 
 But him, the crownless chief. 
 Praise him, O star of sun- forgotten times. 
 
 Among their creeds and crimes 
 That wast a fire of witness in the night, 
 
 Padua, the wise men's light ; 
 Praise him, O sacred Venice, and the sea 
 
 That now exults through thee. 
 Full of the mighty morning and the sun. 
 
 Free of things dead and done ;
 
 46 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Praise him from all the years of thy great 
 grief. 
 
 That shook thee like a leaf 
 With winds and snows of torment, rain that 
 fell 
 
 Red as the rains of hell, 
 Storms of black thunder and of yellow flame. 
 
 And all ill things but shame ; 
 Praise him with all thy holy heart and strength ; 
 
 Through thy walls' breadth and length 
 Praise him with all thy people, that their 
 voice 
 
 Bid the strong soul rejoice, 
 The fair clear supreme spirit beyond stain. 
 
 Pure as the depth of pain. 
 High as the head of suffering, and secure 
 
 As all things that endure.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 47 
 
 More than thy bhnd lord of an hundred 
 years, 
 
 Whose name our memory hears, 
 Home-bound from harbours of the Byzantine 
 
 Made tributary of thine. 
 Praise him who gave no gifts from oversea. 
 
 But gave thyself to thee. 
 O mother Genoa, through all years that run. 
 
 More than that other son. 
 Who first beyond the seals of sunset prest 
 
 Even to the unfooted west. 
 Whose back-blown flag scared from their 
 sheltering seas 
 
 The unknown Atlantides, 
 And as flame climbs through cloud and vapour 
 clomb 
 
 Through streams of storm and foam.
 
 48 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Till half in sight they saw land heave and 
 swim — 
 
 More than this man praise him. 
 One found a world new-born from virgin sea ; 
 
 And one found Italy. 
 O heavenliest Florence, from the mouths of 
 flowers 
 
 Fed by melodious hours, 
 From each sweet mouth that kisses light and 
 air. 
 
 Thou whom thy fate made fair. 
 As a bound vine or any flowering tree. 
 
 Praise him who made thee free. 
 For no grape-gatherers trampling out the wine 
 
 Tread thee, the fairest vine ; 
 For no man binds thee, no man bruises, none 
 
 Does with thee as these have done.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 49 
 
 From where spring hears loud through her 
 long-lit vales 
 
 Triumphant nightingales, 
 In many a fold of fiery foliage hidden. 
 
 Withheld as things forbidden. 
 But clamorous with innumerable delight 
 
 In May's red, green, and white, 
 In the far-floated standard of the spring. 
 
 That bids men also sing. 
 Our flower of flags, our witness that we are 
 free. 
 
 Our lamp for land and sea ; 
 From where Majano feels through corn and 
 vine 
 
 Spring move and melt as wine. 
 And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose 
 
 The immeasurable rose :
 
 50 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 From hill- sides plumed with pine, and heights 
 wind-worn 
 That feel the refluent morn. 
 Or where the moon's face warm and passionate 
 
 Burns, and men's hearts grow great, 
 And the swoln eyelids labour with sweet 
 tears. 
 And in their burning ears 
 Sound throbs like flame, and in their eyes new 
 
 light] 
 
 Kindles the trembling night ; 
 From faint illumined fields and starry valleys 
 
 Wherefrom the hill-wind sallies, 
 From Vallombrosa, from Valdarno raise 
 
 One Tuscan tune of praise. 
 O lordly city of the field of death. 
 
 Praise him with equal breath.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 51 
 
 From sleeping streets and gardens, and the 
 stream 
 That threads them as a dream 
 Threads without hght the untravelled ways of 
 sleep 
 With eyes that smile or weep ; 
 From the sweet sombre beauty of wave and 
 wall 
 That fades and does not fall ; 
 From coloured domes and cloisters fair with 
 fame. 
 Praise thou and thine his name. 
 Thou too, O little laurelled town of towers. 
 
 Clothed with the flame of flowers. 
 From windy ramparts girdled with young 
 gold. 
 From thy sweet hill-side fold
 
 52 A SONG OF irJLY. 
 
 Of wallflowers and the acacia's belted bloom 
 
 And every blowing plume, 
 Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapels fair 
 
 As the outer hills and air. 
 Praise him who feeds the fire that Dante 
 fed. 
 Our highest heroic head. 
 Whose eyes behold through floated cloud and 
 flame 
 The maiden face of fame 
 Like April in Valdelsa ; fair as flowers. 
 
 And patient as the hours ; 
 Sad with slow sense of time, and bright with 
 faith 
 That levels life and death ; 
 The final fame, that with a foot sublime 
 Treads down reluctant time ;
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 53 
 
 The fame that waits and watches and is wise, 
 
 A virgin with chaste eyes, 
 A goddess who takes hands with great men's 
 grief; 
 
 Praise her, and him, our chief. 
 Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green 
 spring, 
 
 O Fonte Branda, sing : 
 Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, 
 
 Shake out thy flying flags 
 In the long wind that streams from hill to hill ; 
 
 Bid thy full music fill 
 The desolate red waste of sunset air 
 
 And fields the old time saw fair. 
 But now the hours ring void through ruined 
 lands, 
 
 Wild work of mortal hands :
 
 54 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name 
 
 Take flight and pass in flame. 
 And the red ruin of disastrous hours 
 
 Shall quicken into flowers. 
 Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, 
 
 Naples, who bade thee be ; 
 For till he sent the swords that scourge and 
 save. 
 
 Thou wast not, but thy grave. 
 But more than all these praise him and give 
 thanks. 
 
 Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, 
 From all thine hills and from thy supreme 
 dome. 
 
 Praise him, O risen Rome. 
 Let all thy children cities at thy knee 
 
 Lift up their voice with thee.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 55 
 
 Saying " for thy love's sake and our perished 
 grief 
 We laud thee, O our chief;" 
 Saying " for thine hand and help when hope 
 was dead 
 We thank thee, O our head ;" 
 Saying "for thy voice and face within our 
 sight 
 We bless thee, O our light ; 
 For waters cleansing us from days defiled 
 We praise thee, O our child." 
 
 So with an hundred cities' mouths in one 
 
 Praising thy supreme son. 
 Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and 
 mother. 
 
 Our queen, who serve none other, 
 
 E
 
 56 A SONG OF IT.ILY 
 
 Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, 
 
 Turn otherwhere thy face, 
 Turn for a little and look what things are 
 these 
 
 Now fallen before thy knees ; 
 Turn upon them thine eyes who hated thee. 
 
 Behold what things they be, 
 Italia : these are stubble that were steel, 
 
 Dust, or a turning wheel ; 
 As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were so 
 strong ; 
 
 And howl, for all their song, 
 And wail, for all their wisdom ; they that were 
 
 So great, they are all stript bare, 
 They are all made empty of beauty, and all 
 abhorred ; 
 
 They are shivered, and their sword ;
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 57 
 
 They are slain who slew, they are heartless 
 who were wise ; 
 Yea, turn on these thine eyes, 
 O thou, soliciting with soul sublime 
 
 The obscure soul of time. 
 Thou, with the wounds thy holy body 
 bears 
 From broken swords of theirs. 
 Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have 
 bled 
 Tears for thy thousands dead. 
 And upon these, whose swords drank up like 
 dew 
 The sons of thine they slew. 
 These, whose each gun blasted with murdering 
 mouth 
 Live flowers of thy fair south, 
 
 E 3
 
 58 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 These, whose least evil told in alien ears 
 
 Turned men's whole blood to tears. 
 These, whose least sin remembered for pure 
 shame 
 
 Turned all those tears to flame. 
 Even upon these, when breaks the extreme blow 
 
 And all the world cries woe. 
 When heaven reluctant rains long-sufi^ering fire 
 
 On these and their desire. 
 When his wind shakes them and his waters 
 whelm 
 
 Who rent thy robe and realm. 
 When they that poured thy dear blood forth 
 as wine 
 
 Pour forth their own for thine. 
 On these, on these have mercy : not in hate, 
 
 But full of sacred fate.
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 59 
 
 Strong from the shrine and splendid from the 
 god. 
 Smite, with no second rod. 
 Because they spared not, do thou rather 
 spare : 
 Be not one thing they were. 
 Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee 
 say 
 That thou wast even as they. 
 Because their hands were bloody, be thine 
 white ; 
 Show light where they shed night : 
 Because they are foul, be thou the rather 
 pure ; 
 Because they are feeble, endure ; 
 Because they had no pity, have thou pity.
 
 6o A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 And thou, O supreme city, 
 O priestless Rome that shalt be, take in 
 trust 
 
 Their names, their deeds, their dust. 
 Who held life less than thou wert ; be the 
 least 
 
 To thee indeed a priest. 
 Priest and burnt-offering and blood-sacrifice 
 
 Given without prayer or price, 
 A holier immolation than men wist, 
 
 A costlier eucharist, 
 A sacrament more saving ; bend thine head 
 
 Above these many dead 
 Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes 
 
 Their lowest head that lies. 
 Speak from thy lips of immemorial speech 
 
 If but one word for each.
 
 A SOXG OF ITALY. 6i 
 
 Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead son's mouth 
 
 Fallen dumb or north or south. 
 And laying but once thine hand on brow and 
 breast. 
 Bless them, through whom thou art blest. 
 And saying in ears of these thy dead '* Well 
 done," 
 Shall they not hear " O son" ? 
 And bowing thy face to theirs made pale for 
 thee, 
 Shall the sliut eyes not see ? 
 Yea, through the hollow-hearted world of 
 death, 
 As light, as blood, as breath. 
 Shall there not flash and flow the fiery 
 sense. 
 The pulse of prescience ?
 
 62 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 Shall not these know as in times overpast 
 
 Thee loftiest to the last ? 
 For times and wars shall change, kingdoms 
 and creeds. 
 
 And dreams of men, and deeds ; 
 Earth shall grow grey with all her golden 
 things. 
 
 Pale peoples and hoar kings ; 
 But though her thrones and towers of nations 
 fall, 
 
 Death has no part in all ; 
 In the air, nor in the imperishable sea. 
 
 Nor heaven, nor truth, nor thee. 
 Yea, let all sceptre-stricken nations lie. 
 
 But live thou though they die ; 
 Let their flags fade as flowers that storm can mar. 
 
 But thine be like a star ;
 
 A SONG OF ITALY. 63 
 
 Let England's, if it float not for men free, 
 
 Fall, and forget the sea ; 
 Let France's, if it shadow a hateful head. 
 
 Drop as a leaf drops dead ; 
 Thine let what storm soever smite the rest 
 
 Smite as it seems him best ; 
 Thine let the wind that can, by sea or land. 
 
 Wrest from thy banner-hand. 
 Die they in whom dies freedom, die and 
 cease, 
 
 Though the world weep for these ; 
 Live thou and love and lift when these lie 
 dead 
 
 The green and white and red. 
 
 O our Republic that shalt bind in bands 
 The kingdomless far lands
 
 64 A SONG OF ITALY. 
 
 And link the chainless ages ; thou that wast 
 
 With England ere she past 
 Among the faded nations, and shalt be 
 
 Again, when sea to sea 
 Calls through the wind and light of morning 
 time. 
 
 And throneless clime to clime 
 Makes antiphonal answer ; thou that art 
 
 Where one man's perfect heart 
 Burns, one man's brow is brightened for thy 
 sake, 
 
 Thine, strong to make or break ; 
 O fair Republic hallowing with stretched hands 
 
 The limitless free lands, 
 When all men's heads for love, not fear, bow 
 down 
 
 To thy sole royal crown.
 
 A SOXG OF ITALY. 6c; 
 
 As thou to freedom ; when man's hfe smells 
 sweet. 
 
 And at thy bright swift feet 
 A bloodless and a bondless world is laid ; 
 
 Then, when thy men are made. 
 Let these indeed as we in dreams behold 
 
 One chosen of all thy fold, 
 One of all fair things fairest, one exalt 
 
 Above all fear or fault. 
 One unforgetful of unhappier men 
 
 And us who loved her then ; 
 With eyes that outlook suns and dream on 
 graves ; 
 
 With voice like quiring waves ; 
 With heart the holier for their memories' 
 sake 
 
 Who slept that she might wake ;
 
 66 A SONG OF ITALY 
 
 With breast the sweeter for that sweet blood 
 lost. 
 
 And all the mllkless cost ; 
 Lady of earth, whose large equality 
 
 Bends but to her and thee ; 
 Equal with heaven, and infinite of years, 
 
 And splendid from quenched tears ; 
 Strong with old strength of great things fallen 
 and fled, 
 
 Diviner for her dead ; 
 Chaste of all stains and perfect from all scars. 
 
 Above all storms and stars. 
 All winds that blow through time, all waves 
 that foam. 
 
 Our Capitolian Rome. 
 
 THE END.
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Bt ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, pp. 350, cloth, 93. 
 John Camden Hotten. 
 
 Selections from the vert numerods 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 
 (English and American), 
 
 " Wherever there is any kind of true genius, we have no right to drive it mad 
 by ridicule or invective; we must deal with it wisely, justly, fairly. Some of the 
 passages which have been selected as evidence of (the poet's) plain speaking, have 
 been wantonly misunderstood. The volume, as a whole, is neither profane nor 
 indecent. A little more clothing in our uncertain climate might perhaps have 
 been attended with advantage To us this volume, for the first time, con- 
 clusively settles that Mr. Swinburne is not a mere brilliant rhetorician or melodious 
 twanger of another man's lyre, but authenticaUy a poet." — Fkasee's ilAGAzixE, 
 Nov. 1866. 
 
 " There is enough in the volume to have made the fortune of most members 
 of his craft." — The Scoisman. 
 
 " The outcry that has been made over his last published volume of ' Poems and 
 Ballads' is not very creditable to his critics. . . . Old Testament Poetry has 
 fastened upon his imagination qvute as strongly as the sublime fatalism of the old 
 Greek dramatists. . . . There is a terrible earnestness about these books. . . . 
 That a book thus dealing with the desire of the flesh should have been denounced 
 as profligate because it does not paint the outside of the Sodom's apple of like 
 colour of the ashes that it shows within, says little indeed for the thoroughness of 
 current criticism." — Exami.neb. 
 
 " Coarse animalism, draped with the most seductive hues of art and romance. 
 We will not analyze the poems ; we will not even pretend to give the reasons upon 
 which our opinion is based." For sale by Newcomb J^ Co., Broadway. — Axbant 
 
 JOCENAL.
 
 " The critics seem to be agreed in seizing npon what deserves reprobation 
 without noticins wliat deserves respect. In this way he has been either very 
 blindly or very unfairly dealt with." — Pall Mall Gazbite. 
 
 " The theatre of Mr. Swinburne is co-extensive with this knowledge and ex- 
 perience. It will expand, and there is no fear of liis being denied an audience, or 
 crushed by a critique. He is more likely to realize the boast of Nelson, who, 
 finding himself uiinientioned in the ' Gazette,' declared a day would c-omc when he 
 should have one for himself. We arc not in the secret of his own defence, or his 
 reappearance. He may or may not withdraw poems which have been impreg- 
 nated by designuig criticism with a pruriency which was not their own." — Beaseb. 
 
 " In every page of these poems we meet with evidences of the fire, the fulness, 
 and the licence of youth. Swinburne is a genuine bard : he sneers at proprieties, 
 he never splits hairs ; but gives full veut to his love and hate — his contempt and 
 seoni. He laughs at what other people revere. He would dance in a cathedral." — 
 
 SlIBLIKG JOVENAL. 
 
 " It will be a sad day for English poetry when such volumes as this get read and 
 praised by the better critics, yet the merit of some of the pieces— though by no 
 means high— is greater than of anything heretofore published by this admiring 
 friend of Mr. Jones, Mr. Whistler, and poor old Landor." For sale hy Nichvh 
 ^ iVb^eji.— Boston Common-wealth. 
 
 " This is a collection of miscellaneous pieces of poetry, &e., by that young and 
 promising writer, Mr. Algernon Charles Swinburne. The work, originally brought 
 out by Moxon & Co., has been reprinted by Carleton of this city in a very 
 superior and tasteful style. Of the poems themselves, they are written in all the 
 ardency of youth, but many of the pieces breathe forth a love of freedom, truth 
 and justice in strong but truly poetic language." — New Yobk Watchman. 
 
 " This is a famous book. The critics are not by any means unanimous in their 
 estimate of Swinburne. Some laud him for ' outspoken honesty, earnestness, 
 poetic insight, truth and beauty of expression,' while others regard his poems as 
 even of doubtful morality. That he is a true poet, a master of nervous English, 
 and very bold, no one ought to deny. Whether his poetry is likely to do harm is 
 another question. The ballad commencing 
 
 " K love were what the rose is. 
 And I were like the leaf," 
 
 which has lately gone the rounds of the papers, is in this volume, and many others 
 of extraordinary merit as compositions." — Bichmond Dispatch, Va. 
 
 " Swinburne is undoubtedly a true poet, having a fine power of expression, which 
 is felicitous and ever appropriate. His muse is fired with the stirruig fantasies of 
 youth, and his warm desires are told in language which by beauty of expression 
 veils somewhat their grossness." — Philabelphla Dispatch.
 
 " No writer of modem times has excited so much interest as Algernon Qiarles 
 Swinburne. Although a very young man, he has esliibited a maturity of intellect 
 that has almost entirely disarmed the critics. The striking originality of his 
 productions has astonished the literary world, and placed him unquestionably in 
 the front rank of English poets. A recent edition of his poems, entitled ' Laus 
 Veneris, and other Poems and Ballads,' however, has subjected him to a more 
 severe ordeal than he has yet met with, and has called forth from his own pen 
 a defence which will be published in the second edition of his new volume. 
 
 " There is a music of strength in these poems, outspoken honesty, a sturdy love 
 of freedom, earnestness, poetic insight, truth and beauty of expression, beyond 
 anything attained to by other of the young poets of the day. In some of the 
 poems are the passions of youth fearlessly expressed, and stirring depths that 
 have been stirred hitherto by no poet in his youth." — Philabelphia Age. 
 
 " As car modem critics are very sensitive, the volume of poems was rather 
 warmly denounced. The Moxons were alarmed, and copies were called in as fast 
 as possible. Fortunately one fell in our way, and we read it through, with the 
 light which the virtuous reviewers had flashed upon the book. We found scarcely 
 a poem deserving the eensm-es of the hyper-prudish press. Much was in the 
 manly style in which Landor would write about old Greek stories, much in the 
 bold and nervous style in which any but an emasculated laureate would write 
 about some of the middle age legends and romances. The poems seemed to be 
 bold, manly, vigorous — with none of the effeminacies of Moore, the profanities of 
 Shelley, oi the suggestive pruriencies of many modern novelists. We could not 
 help exclaiming, ' Where's the harm ?' ' Why decry such poems ?' They may 
 have the faults of fulness, the errors of youth, the warmth of passion, but are in 
 no way worse than scores of the poems of half a century ago, and not half so bad 
 as many of the novels of to-day. However, the censors prevailed, and the volume 
 was withdrawn— only to be republished by Mr. J. Camden Hotten, who, as he 
 — unhke Messrs. Moxon— does not sell Shelley's Works, has undertaken to give 
 the present volume to the world." — Biemisghaji JouKifAi. 
 
 " All his poems are remarkable for their rhythmic beauty and wondrous wealth 
 of language and exquisite imagery. Even when he has but little to say, his 
 manner of saying that little is so musical, that the melody charms us and lingers 
 in the memory like some sweet strain of music." — New Haven Palladium. 
 
 " Any father who finds it in his household, should at once consign it to the 
 flames. For sale by Nemcomh l( Co., Broadway/." — Albaut: Joubnai. 
 
 " It is difiicult to imagine what could have been the impelling motive of Mr. 
 Swinburne in offering this collection of his writings to the pubUc. He ought to 
 have been aware that it could in no way enhance his reputation as a writer worthy 
 of his age and time. But indeed it may very safely be said that if he had stopped 
 short after the publication of the ' Atalanta in Calydon,' he would have stood much 
 higher as a poet than he now does. Everything which he has since given us, 
 
 b
 
 ' Chastclard,' ' Rosamond,' and now the volume before us, lias been a step down- 
 ward. This, it is true, is a literary history not sufficiently uncommon to excite 
 our surprise, but it is none the less a matter of regret. Unfortunately he possesses 
 an oxtiaordiiiary grace and power of expression, and a melodious felicity in the 
 use of language and of poetic imagery, wliich sometimes invests his worst verses 
 with a charm tliat half veils their vileuess." For sale by Dacis and brothers. — 
 
 FOBILAND PbESS. 
 
 " Let us hope that the kingdom on earth which the poets help advance, and 
 which already owns the constant service of such men as Tennyson, Longfellow, 
 Bryant, Lowell, may not miss the brilliant and subtle power of Swinburne's verse." 
 — ISbookltn Union. 
 
 " Probably no poet has brought to the simply sensuous delights of love, to the 
 subtle relation by wbieli passion is kindled iu heart of man and woman, by whiL-h 
 the soul is subdued and disgraced and overwhelmed in intervals of licrce, untam- 
 able joy, to its unutterable anguish following, more of the graces and allurements 
 and bold, unconcealed delineation of passion, than Mr. Swinburne. Byron is 
 coarse and cold beside him. Tom Moore is a wayward, supcrlicial chatterer com- 
 pared to Swinburne We have no sympathy with the criticism which 
 
 denounces Mr. Swinburne and his poetry as hopelessly bad." — Bbooklyn' 
 Union. 
 
 " It is time that such works should cease to be palmed off on the public under 
 the names of authors of good repute, and with the imprint of respectable pub- 
 lishers on their title-pages." "lu our review of 'Chastelard' we formed so low 
 an estimate of his ability as to deem him an utterly over-estimated young man." — 
 
 WASHINaiON TELEeEAPH. 
 
 " The poems are all strongly characteristic, musical, and graccfidly versified. 
 The fatal fault in the eyes of the English critics is the sensual tone of some of the 
 poems, which they exaggerate beyond reason and common sense." — Habtfobd 
 
 COUBANT. 
 
 "The book seems to be written, like Charles Roadc's 'Griffith Gaunt' and 
 Walt Whitman's ' Leaves of Grass,' in a spirit of protest to what Keade terms the 
 ' prurient prudishness' of the age." — Washington Stab. 
 
 {Translation.) 
 
 " There is no form of verse which Swinburne does not handle with mastery. 
 Many of his poems are the most lovely melodies in words. The English language 
 can hardly boast greater triumphs than in some of Swinburne's lyrics. Wo should 
 like to sec whether he will overcome the present pouting of criticism and the 
 public : it is to be hoped that he will overcome if., and as soon as possible." — 
 ^EiLAQE ZOE ZuKUNFl, 14 February, 1867. (Berlin.)
 
 5 
 
 THE AUTHOR OP " POEMS AND BALLADS" AND HIS CRITICS. 
 
 NOTES ON 
 
 " POEMS AND ballads;' 
 
 Br ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. 
 
 8vo, Is. 
 John Camden Hotten. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " Mr. Swinburne here speaks for himself without personality of any kind, but 
 with much general expression of scorn, wliich the small critics have fairly brought 
 down on themselves. It is to be regretted that a young poet, from whom much 
 is to be hoped, should be thus forced into explanations that can only humiliate 
 those by whom they were required." — Examiner. 
 
 " We have no space to dwell any further upon Mr. Swinburne's defects and ex- 
 cellences. They are both very great and remarkable." — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " He writes ably and eloquently, in prose worthy of the pen which wrote the 
 lines in ' Atalanta' and ' Chastelard ' — earnest, graphic, musical. He asserts with 
 singular force that a poet is not bound to write even for reviewers, that he has 
 his own thoughts to utter, his own taste to please, and while he admits the right 
 of the critic to complain, he only demands that the standard of judgment shall 
 be sound and true. He takes his questioned poems, and shows from what point 
 of view they were written, and how they should be looked at— a point of view that 
 of a thorough English poet, trained in the classics, and unable to see why the 
 grand old stories learned at school and colleges should be mere dry and dusty 
 myths." — Biemingham Journal. 
 
 " He pens some doggrel lines, of which we give a verse, addressed to the re- 
 viewers who have condemned liis blasphemy and obscenity — 
 
 Lie still in kennel, sleek in stable. 
 
 Good creatures of the stall or sty; 
 Shove snouts for crumbs below the table ; 
 
 Lie still, and rise not up to lie. 
 
 It is a degradation to dissect such trash as this. Messrs. Moxon and Co. liave 
 been blamed for the part they have played in relation to the ' Poems and Ballads,
 
 The Kxamhter falls fonl of these frentlcmen, and declares that they are only fit to 
 keep ' a milk-walk for the use of babes." "— Su^DAY Gazette. 
 
 " We hiffhly approve of the defence made by Mr. Swinburne of the liberty of 
 writers, and willingly indorse his sentiments :— ' Literature, to be worthy of men, 
 must be larifc, lIlxTal, sincere, and cannot be chaste it she l)e prudish. Purity 
 and prudishncss cannot keep hout>e together. Wlicre free speceh and fair play 
 are interdicted, loul hints and evil sugjfestions are hatched into fa'lid life.' " — 
 Stirling Adtebtiseb. 
 
 " Terrified by the clamour of a literary clique, Mr. Swinburne's jmblishcrs have 
 withdrawn their name from the title-page of his book. . . . We cannot blame 
 a tradesman for declining to carry on the sale of certain goods which may not be 
 to the taste of his best customers or supporters. . . . What we tind fault with 
 is that the public are not allowed to form an opinion for themselves on the matter. 
 The function of journalism is to sift the wheat, but not to burn what it conceives 
 to be chaff with unquenchable lire."— The Reader. 
 
 "In France, as ii) Germany, such a misrepresentation as even the foremost 
 journals have given of Mr. Swinburne's Poems would have been impossible. With 
 such abundance of imagination, such plethora of language, such substance of 
 passion, as these volumes contain, there is ample food for literary and philoso- 
 phical criticism, without resorting to the methods that strove to crush Leigh Hunt, 
 Hazlitt, and Shelley and Keats, that found proiiigacy in ' Kimuii ' and blasphemy 
 in ' Adonais.' " — Examines. 
 
 " Under the title of ' Notes on Poems and Reviews,' Mr. Algernon Charles 
 Swinburne has just published, with Mr. Hottcn, of Piccadilly, what he apparently 
 designs to be a crushing reply to the whole body of his critics, and a triumphant 
 vindication of his own poetic reputation. We, the Sun, however, think the task 
 thus undertaken with so much audacity, was in itself too flagrantly outrageous to 
 prove otherwise than an inevitable^usfo.' " — The Sun. 
 
 " That his genius is dramatic — finely dramatic— we have taken the liberty to ob- 
 serve on other occasions; it is certain, too, that whatever this dramatic genius 
 ■writes, is dramatically written ; and it is past all dispute, that what a man writes 
 jn that way is not to be taken as ' the assertion of its author's own feeling and 
 faith.' "—Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " Swinburne — like Byron — has replied to his critics, not in a poem, but in a prose 
 pamphlet, entitled ' Notes on Poems and Reviews.' He takes up his poems one 
 by one, tells why he wrote them and what he meant, defends himself from the 
 charge of vulgarity, and cites classical authority without stint. Mr. Swinburne 
 declares he has never written for the purblind or tiie prurient." — Wm. Cullen 
 Bbyani's N. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 " Mr. Swinburne's defence of his poems is well timed. Attacks so intemperate as 
 those to which his recent volume of Poems and Ballads was subjected lead almost 
 of necessity to a reaction . . . Gradually this reaction has set in with strong and
 
 what might easily become dangerous force. Men whose opinions carry the highest 
 weight ill England have pronounced in favour of the victim of so brutal an attack, 
 and the most respected organs of public opinion are attempting the rehabilitation 
 of the clever — if too daring young poet. Like all Mr. Swinburne's prose compo- 
 sitions, it has the advantage of a splendid style ... a specimen of English prose. 
 We have a high worship of morality, but have no respect whatever for Philistin- 
 ism, and English prudery is the worst and least worthy form of philistinisni in 
 existence. Mr. Swinbm-ne's merits are so great that when, indiguaut at the piti- 
 fiiluess of English society, and the littleness of English art, he kicks over the 
 traces, he should obtain indulgence rather than misrepresentation." — Sundax 
 Times. 
 
 "These [just quoted] passages contain Mr. Swinburne's answer to his detractors. 
 The rest of the pamphlet has in it the scorn that a warm-blooded young poet must 
 fieel for that which produced the need of such an explanation." — Examineb. 
 
 UE'W WORK BY MR. SWINBURIJE. 
 
 ESSAYS ON THE LIFE AND WOKKS 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE, 
 
 POET AND ARTIST. 
 
 Will be shortly published, in 8vo, 
 
 with illustrations in coloured fac simile. 
 
 John Camden Hotten. 
 
 " He is known to have in the press an elaborate study upon the poet and painter 
 Blake — a subject than which none requires more delicate or sharp manipulation, 
 more keenness or speciality of sympathy, or more boldness of estimate and state- 
 ment. To judge from his own powers in the poetic art, and from his Essay on 
 Byron, Mr. Swinburne will supply all these requisites in a measure hardly to be 
 rivalled," — Eossetii's " Ceiticism."
 
 8 
 
 EOSSETTI'S CRITICISM. 
 
 SWINBUKNE'S 
 
 POEMS AND BALLADS. 
 
 %. Critrnsm. 
 
 By WILLIAM MICHAEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. 
 
 John Camden Hotten. 
 
 [" Let us for a moment stoop to the arbitration of popular breath. Let ns 
 assume that Homer was a drunkard, that Virfril was a flatterer, that Horace was 
 a coward, tliat Tasso was a madman, observe in what a ludicrous chaos the impu- 
 tations of real or ficiitious crime have been confused in the contemporary calum- 
 nies asrainst poetry and poets." — Shellet.] 
 
 " For a criticism friendly by bias, as the author freely admits, as well as by the 
 force of sincere critical admiration, this essay of IVIr. Rossetli's on Mr. Swinburne's 
 recent volume is a very candid one, and also one of true critical insipht. . . On 
 the whole the criticism of this essay is true criticism and good criticism, how- 
 ever inadequately it estimates some of Mr. Swinburne's greatest faults." — 
 Spectator. 
 
 "Subtle criticism, gracefully and temperately expressed. This volume is an 
 exhaustive essay ou all Mr. Swinburne's published works." — -The Globe. 
 
 " An accomplished and gifted critic has undertaken the defence. . . A more diffi- 
 cult thing has seldom been better done. . . He writes about poets and poetry with a 
 subtle apprehensiveness and discrimination which gives to his remarks a real 
 critical value. The poems of Mr. Swinburne are a fact in English literature. 
 As an able and well-weighed effort to assist and hasten the calm judgment of the 
 future, we think Mr. Rossctti's criticism deserves praise. Mr. Swinburne is a re- 
 markable and original poet. . . his position as an artist is beyond dispute or even 
 attack." — Satuedat Review, 17fh SoremLei; 1866. 
 
 " Mr. Rossetti has had a difficult task to perform, but he has performed it in 
 the very best spirit. The critic writes with great candour and fairness; he 
 has not written in the manner of a partisan. We cordially agree with all the 
 author says, on literary grounds, of the power of Mr. Swinburne's genius." — 
 London Review, lut jDecember, 18()6.
 
 NEW BOOKS NOW READY. 
 
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 London Directory for 1677. The Earliest Known List of 
 
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 BEST FRENCH LESSON BOOK EVER PUBLISHED 
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 "I
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 APR 8'? 1980 
 
 Form L-0 
 l.lJfH-1, '42(8519)
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 376 396 
 
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