BOOKS.

COVENTRY PATMORE'S POEMS.*

Ma. BASIL CHAMPNEYS has followed up his biography of Coventry Patmore by a complete edition of the poems in a single handy volume; and the question irresistibly presents itself whether Patmore is finally to take his place among the poets whose "complete works" must stand on the shelf of all lovers of literature, or whether he is among those who' con- tribute a few perfect pieces to our anthologies. On behalf of Patmore's work it might be pleaded that no poet ever took more pains. All his writing was as good as he could make it; and "style," it has been often repeated, "is the antiseptic of poetry." But if we think for a moment of Dryden or Pope, who might be put forward by a hasty arguer as two con- spicuous examples of immortality secured by style, we shall see that behind the style in each case, and informing it, were great human qualities present to a superhuman degree, whereas in Patmore there was nothing that could be called great; neither great passion, nor great wisdom, nor great imagination. He was an example of a man possessed by a single idea, concerned with the relations of the sexes, to various sides of which he succeeded in giving some- times an epigrammatic, sometimes a pathetic, expression ; and the best of these poems are very good indeed. But the idea, as years went on, became with him an obsession; he construed everything, in heaven as well as in earth, in terms of it; until, in consequence, his writings became, except to a few illuminati, either unintelligible or repugnant. A great poet, therefore, in our judgment, Coventry Patmore was not ; but be was beyond doubt a fine poet, and there is no poet among the lesser Victorians whom the anthologist will find so well suited for his selective purpose. " The Angel in the House " is, if ever poem was, the poem of an age; but the spirit of that poem, with a wise prevision, the poet himself condensed into certain " Preludes," some of which, for the perfection of their workmanship, should be for all time. Mr. Ruskin once quoted in a lecture, with admirable effect, one of these, the stanza called "Unthrift," lavishing upon it the praise which be generally reserved for the great masters of poetry ; but two which precede Canto VIII. are even finer They are these :—

"THE REVELATION.

An idle poet, here and there,

Looks round him; but, for all the rest, The world, anfathomably fair, Is duller than a witling's jest. Love wakes men, once a lifetime each; They lift their heavy lids and look ; And, k, what one sweet page can teach They read with joy, then shut the book. And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget ; but, either way, That and the Child's unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day."

"LIE SPIRIT'S EPOCHS.

Not in the crises of events, Of compaas'd hopes, or fears fulfill'd, Or acts of gravest consequence,

Are life's delight and depth reveard.

• Poems by Coventry Patmore. With an Introduction by Basil Champneys. London G. Bell and bons. pa net.]

The day of days was not the day ; That went before, or was postponed ; The night Death took our lamp away Was not the night on which we groaned. I drew my bride, beneath the moon, Across my threshold; happy hour ! But, ah, the walk that afternoon We saw the waterdags in flower!"

Possibly most people will feel about even those stanzas that they are the poetry of the head rather than of the heart; that they are the -writings of a man for whom "the golden cadence of poesy" was not something in the blood that bad to find its outward form somehow, but the accomplished work of a practised craftsman. They will note the two caustic phrases in the first piece—violent, like so much of Patmore's reported conversation—and in the second the difficulty with which logical phrases like "compassed hopes" or "gravest con- sequence" are fitted into metre. Still, when all exceptions are taken, how good they are, and bow they echo in the chambers of memory ! Indeed, the memorableness of Patmore's lines is one of their remarkable qualities. No one who has read the prelude called "The Wife's Tragedy" can forget at least the concluding quatrain with its last line of mordant simile :— " She loves with love that cannot tire ;

And when, ah woe, she loves alone, Through passionate duty love springs higher, As grass grows taller round a stone."

This is as magically effective in its way as, in another way, the sudden metaphor in the lines that begin " Bright through the valley gallops the brooklet " :—

" Two little children, seeing and hearing,

Hand in band wander, shout, laugh and sing, Lo in their bosoms, wild with the marvel,

Love, like the crocus, is come ere the Spring."

Later in life Patmore abandoned the octosyLlabic metre, which suited the sententious and epigrammatic side of his mind, and adopted. from Drummond of Hawthornden an irregular form, which gave more scope to the argumentative way of writing, enabling him at the same time to deal with a greater variety of moods. The best known of these later pieces, for anthologists have already popularised it, is "The Toys " ; and about that it should be allowed without cavil that nothing could possibly make it better, except a greater correspondence between the things compared; for it will hardly be maintained that men fly to their earthly joys to console themselves for God's punishments, as the "little son" consoled himself, when seat to bed for disobedience, with that delightful collection of treasures :— "A box of counters and a red-veined stone,

A piece of glees abraded. by the beach, And six or seven shells; A bottle with blue bells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart."

"Departure" is another favourite, though some may find it too plain-spoken in its poignancy ; but there are not a few besides these which ought to be known to all who care for modern poetry,—" Let be," " Victory in Defeat," "Remembered Grace," "Magna est veritas," the fine ode to spring called "St. Valentine's Day," and the still finer ode to "Autumn." Perhaps the best of all, both in idea and execution, is the piece called "A Farewell," which is short enough to quote :— " With all my will, but much against my heart,

We two now part.

My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.

It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a fear, In our opposed paths to persevere.

Go thou to East, I West.

We will not say There's any hope, it is so far away.

But 0, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, 'The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet ; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content

With tears of recognition never dry." Had Patmore been able more often to compass the passion and imagination of this masterpiece, be would have taken a far higher place on the slopes of our English Parnassus than his actual achievement can now secure for him.