The Odes in Contribution to the Song of French History,
by rge Meredith (Archibald Constable), which have been ap- aring in are now published in book form. One the poems--“ France "—is a republication. It was written in December of 1870, printed in the Fortnightly Review, and pub- lied the volume, " Ballads and Poems." This earlier ode we are inclined to think, as a whole, the finest in the book. Thirty years ago Mr. Meredith desired to prophesy rather than to speak with tongues, and true Meredithians, if they are not already familiar with the poem, will be quite disappointed by its simplicity. In a fine passage " France," after her defeat, is described as is agony calling upon the gods :— " Bat she, inveterate of brain, discerns
That Pity has as little place as Joy
Among their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns, For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy.
Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born Strength shall ye gain be service, prove in scorn, Train by endurance, by devotion shape. Strength is not won by miracle or rape. It is the offspring of the modest years."
And, again, France is exhorted to learn of her dead and bleeding sons " the lesson of the flesh " :-
" The lesson writ in red since first Time ran A hunter bunting down the beast in man: That till the chasing out of its last vice, The fiebh was fashioned but for sacrifice."
The newer odes contain many fine lines, but they are so obscure that acne but the most devoted students can hope to understand them in their entirety. Their titles are a great help to finding out their general drift, but even when this is accomplished there remain many lines in each poem which have, so far as we can judge, no meaning at all. To take an instance at random, what is a " nerveless well amongst stagnant pools of the dry" ? A stagnant pool of the dry might be a dust-heap, but that does not help us to the well. Is it not hard to have to accept such a sentence as this from a man who can write the following lines about Napoleon?— "Who heard of him heard shaken hills, An earth at quake, to quiet stamped ; Who looked on him beheld the will of wills, The driver of wild flocks where lions ramped."
Could anything be finer? But if we (the public) are worthy of the one, ought we to be affronted by the other ? Thirty years ago Mr. Meredith could write a fine historical ode. Now he can write finer lines than anything in that ode, but his respect for his readers has not increased with his years, and he throws them snatches of splendid song intermingled, to use his own words, with the "last weak echoes off (sic) a giant's bawl."
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