MR. PALGRAVE'S NATIONAL LYRICS.*

IN an interesting and highly suggestive preface, Mr. Palgrave observes that the scheme which he has endeavoured to execute in this volume has not the advantage of a direct precedent in any literature. And with reference to our own history, he observes that though many eminent writers have endeavoured to "tell the noble deeds of England" in chronicle fashion, or with the music of poetical narrative, no national epic which • The Visions of England. By Francis T. Palgrave. London: Macmillan and Co. 1881.

as a whole really touched the country has been left us. That a history cannot be put into verse, Mr. Palgrave admits, and where the attempt has been made, as it was made in the sixteenth century by Drayton and by Daniel, the result has invariably proved a failure. The purpose of these Visions is more reasonable. "It is," the author writes, "to offer not a continuous narrative, not poems on every critical moment or conspicuous man in our long annals, but single lyrical pictures of such leading or typical characters and scenes in English history, and only such, as have seemed to me amenable to a strictly poetical treatment. Poetry, not History, has hence been my first and last aim ; or, perhaps, I might define it, History for Poetry's sake."

Mr. Palgrave lays more claim to novelty in his choice of subject than he can fairly plead. It may be true that we have no series of poetical visions ranging from the time of Caesar to that of Victoria, such as he presents to us in this volume, but almost every English poet of note from Shakespeare to Mr. Tennyson has sung of those noble deeds and fine his- torical incidents that live in the memory of Englishmen. Even of the events selected for treatment by Mr. Palgrave, several have been already poetically treated under other forms. The novelty of his volume is that it presents a series of pictures inspired by English history, a series varied in range and possessing a great variety of poetic form. The author, indeed, hints that every subject that may be chosen by the poet has a metre especially fitted for it. It may be so, just as for every man an ideal woman may exist somewhere, but neither wife nor metre can always be found when wanted, and some of Mr. Palgrave's metrical efforts fail to harmonize with his themes. The construction may be elaborate, may even be excellent, but the music does not so fill the ear as to satisfy us that the measures chosen are the only forms fitted for the subjects.

This book, the labour of several years, has, it is evident, given great delight to the writer, and remembering how much Mr. Palgrave has done for English literature, and his justly high position as a poetical critic, it is with regret we have to state that, in our judgment, it will not, and ought not, to satisfy the reader. That it is the product of much thought and much reading will not be disputed. There are signs of elaborate painstaking upon every page, signs, too, very frequently of some- thing better, of poetic feeling, and of that generous sympathy with splendid actions or pathetic incidents that belongs to what Lander calls the " poetical heart." What we miss is that nameless something, not always to be de- scribed, but always to be felt, that separates the accomplished versifier from the lyrical poet who sings because he cannot help singing. Mr. Palgrave chooses fine subjects, but his treatment of them fails to satisfy either the ear or the mind. He sees, as so true a critic needs must, their fitness for purposes of art ; what he lacks is the spontaneity, the vividness of imagination, and the instinctive choice of lovely words, which give vitality to lyrical poetry. Let the reader compare these somewhat painfully constructed effusions with such poems about England or English deeds as Drayton's " Agincourt," Collins's " Ode on the Last Sleep of the Brave," Cowper's " Loss of the ' Royal George,' " Campbell's " Battle of the Baltic," Wolfe's " Death of Sir John Moore," and Mr. Tennyson's historical ballads—poems the music of which rings in the ear and lives in the memory—and he will at once discern the difference between the poetic heat that glows through these pieces, and the pale, fitful light of Mr. Palgrave's Visions.

As a fair illustration of the writer's craft in narrating the incidents of a great battle, we quote the following :-

" At Crecy, by Somme in Ponthiev, High up on a windy hill, A mill stands out like a tower—

King Edward stands on the mill. The plain is seething below, As Vesuvius seethes with flame ; Bat 0 ! not with fire, but gore, Earth incarnadined o'er, Crimson with shame and with fame.

To the King ran the messengers crying, Thy son is hard-press'd to the dying!' Let alone; for to-day will be written in story, To the great world's end, and for ever !

So let the boy have the glory.'

Erin and Gwalia there With England are ranked against France ; Outpacing the orifiamme red The red dragons of Merlin advance,— As a harvest in autumn renew'd The lances bend o'er the fields; Snow-thick our arrow-heads white Level the foe as they light; Knighthood to yeomanry yields ; Proud heart, the King watches, as higher Goes the blaze of the battle and nigher,- 'To-day is a day will be written in story, To the great world's end, and for ever !

Let the boy alone have the glory.'

Pride of Liguria's shore, Genoa wrestles in vain; Vainly Bohemia's King, King-like is laid with the slain.

The Blood-lake is wiped oat in blood, The shame of the centuries o'er ; Where the pride of the Norman had sway The lions lord over the fray, The legions of France are no more; —The Prince to his father kneels lowly ; —His is the battle! his wholly !

For to-day is a day will be written in story To the great world's end, and for ever! So let him have the spurs, and the glory !"

The Blood-lake, we read in a note, is Senlac, and the meauing is obvious, but the metaphor is scarcely a happy one, and to say that the blaze of the battle goes nigher is a rather unfor- tunate expression ; but, indeed, these pages contain many in- felicities that clash with one's sense of fitness.

" 0 Queen! 0 woman ! does thy-rage delouse me one caress ?"

jars painfully on the ear ; so also, for more reasons than one, do such lines as the following :—

" And triple sword-thrusts meet his sword,

And thrice the charge be foils Though now in threefold flood the foe Round those devoted boils."

And it is difficult to believe that so accomplished a writer can have deliberately written such weak and sing-song stanzas as the following, describing the wreck of the ' Admiral,' " A Tale of Prince Rupert" :—

" Seventy leagues from Terceira they lay, In the mid-Atlantic straining ;

And inch upon inch as she settles, they know The leak on the 'Admiral' gaining.

0 gap that greedily sacks in death ! 0 signal-waft idly waving !

0 shouts by their billow-rock'd consort unheard, Overnoised in the tempest's raving !

Unheeded the boat, for none care from their mates To steal off while the Prince is beside them ; And he will share all with his comrades true Till the death-plunge at last shall divide them.

The seas break over, the seas press in, With a pale phosphoric streaming ; And a ripple runs over the vanishing deck, A blue-cold witch-fire gleaming."

These lines are, in our judgment, utterly worthless as poetry, for they show an inability to grasp the situation. The writer states, in the preface, that throughout these Visions he has endeavoured to be penetrated by the passion of the moment. The moment in this poem is the death agony of brave sailors, but what sign is there in these stanzas that the poet feels the supreme emotion of the event ? Often as we read these poems we are struck with what seems a curious inappropriateness of phraseology. England, for instance, has generally done her duty, and sometimes perhaps more than her duty, in upholding the balance of States ; yet it can scarcely be truly said that she has undertaken this serious office with glee. So, however, we read in the opening lines of " Blenheim :"— " Oft bast thou acted thy part,

My country, worthily thee !

Lifted up often thy load Atlantean, enormous, with glee ; For on thee the burden is laid to uphold

World-justice, to keep the balance of States,"

—a burden that seems to have oppressed Mr. Palgrave's Muse in these lines as with a weight of lead. The writer's love of compound words and of alliteration leads him frequently to join together what would be better asunder. When he describes Wellington as knowing the " crisis-instant " and glancing over the field with " eagle-keener ken," or writes, in " Grocyn at Oxford," of the sky as being,-

" topaz-clear with hope, and life-blood—red

With thoughts of mighty poets,"

or describes man's " impalpable soul " as fixed on the " trivialest transiencies," one is disposed to think that the art of the verse- manufacturer is somewhat too apparent. Faults such as these

would not deserve noticing, if they were rare, but there are com- paratively few pages free from defects which the true poet instinctively shuns. As a writer of verse, Mr. Palgrave has more than once struck a note, especially when children were the theme, that we have listened to with pleasure ; but the elaborate effort he has made in these " Visions" will, we fear, have been expended in vain. It would be unjust to say that the seventy poems which form this volume are with- out merit. An author so able cannot produce inanities. Knowledge and thought, the spirit of the historian, and the patriotism of a man who warmly loves his country, these are noble qualities, which every intelligent reader must recognise. All the more, therefore, is he likely to regret, as we do, that the ample framework of a careful builder of verse is not animated with the soul of poetry. We do not wish to lay down the work in a spirit of fault-finding. There is much in the book that will be read with pleasure, and if the reader would see the author at his best, let him turn to the " Visions" entitled " London Bridge," " A Danish Barrow," and " Death in the Forest." The last-men- tioned poem, which relates, it is scarcely necessary to say, to the murder of William Rufus, we will transfer, in an abridged form, to our columns. The omissions, which are forced on us by want of space, will not destroy the spirit of the poem :- " Where the greenwood is greenest

At gloaming of day, Where the twelve-antler'd stag Faces boldest at bay ; Where the solitude deepens, Till almost you hear The blood-beat of the heart As the quarry slips near ; His comrades outridden With scorn in the race, The Red King is hallooing His hounds to the chase.

What though the Wild Hunt, Like a whirlwind of hell, Yestereve ran the forest,

With baying and yell;—

In his cups the Red heathen Mocks God to the face.

In the Devil's name, shoot, Tyrrell, ho ! to the chase !'- -Now, with worms for his courtiers, Ho lies in the narrow, Cold couch of the chancel !

But whence was the arrow ?

His sin goes before him, The lust and the pride ; And the curses of England Breathe hot at his side.

And the Evil-wood walls, That in ashes were laid, For his jest and his pleasure, Frown black o'er the glade :- -Now, with worms for his courtiers, He lies in the narrow, Cold couch of the chancel !

But whence was the arrow ?

Then a shudder of death Flickered fast through the wood ; And they found the Red King, Red-gilt in his blood.

What wells up in his throat ?

Is it cursing or prayer ?

Was it Henry or Tyrrell, Or demon, who there Has dyed the fell tyrant Twice crimson in gore While the soul, disembodied, Hunts on to hell-door ?

Ah ! friendless in death !

Rude forest heads fling On the charcoaler's wain What but now was the King!

And through the long Minster The carcass they bear, And huddle it down, Without priest, without prayer :- Now, with worms for his courtiers, He lies in the narrow, Cold couch of the chancel!

But whence was the arrow ?