MR. HENLEY'S POETRY.t THAT is an arid and ungracious criticism

which judges a poet rather by his faults than by his merits. True poetry is so rare and so precious a possession, and does so much for the spirit of man, that he who adds even a few grains of pure gold to the store may be forgiven almost anything in

• Copyrighted in the United States Of America by John Lane. t Poems. By W..E. Henley. London : David Nutt.

the matter of taste or temperament. Shouting and swear- ing and roaring and stamping may be defects, and may be worthy the censure of those whose business it is to censure, but as faults they are nothing when compared with the virtues of the water of Castaly. Mr. Henley bas grave faults and marked deficiencies as a poet, but when their sum is computed, what is it in compari- son to the achievement of having brought us a certain quantity of verse which is true poetry P One word on Mr. Henley's faults as a poet and we may pass to the pleasanter and easier task of pointing out the benefits be has conferred on those who love "the authentic airs" of song. Mr. Henley inclines too much to the robustious." In order to make his poems seem strong be salts them liberally with such words as "lust," "harlot," "obscene," "impure," "lewd," "shame- less." Now these are all, of course, excellent words in their way, words to which per se no one can reasonably take objection. When, however, they are lugged in by the heels as it were, and merely to give a general air of vigour and "you-be-damned- mess," they are apt to injure a poet's verse. They are just as much signs of weakness and affectation as the "loves and doves " and other simpering catchwords of the Laura Matilda school. Vehemence is not strength, nor does a man plant his foot the firmer by stamping it down with a good round oath.

But one must take a poet as one finds him, and not waste breath in wishing him other than he is. Mr. Henley is happiest when he is writing about London or describing some direct personal experience, as in his hospital sonnets. In both instances he has written verse that will keep its head above oblivion's waters. No poet has ever so magnificently and so truthfully transferred to his pages the strength and the sombre splendour of London and all the glories of her river. Whether he paints the great city lying clear and smokeless beneath the dawn of a May morning, or slows her suffused with the golden sunlight of October, he contrives to call up "the extreme characteristic impression" of the nation of streets and houses of which he writes. There is a passion in all he writes of London that proclaims to us how the genius of the place has entered and possessed his soul. The autumn pic- ture is filled with the glory of sunshine and of the soft west wind that blows away the smoke :—

" For earth and sky and air

Are golden everywhere, And golden with a gold so suave and fine The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.

Trafalgar Square (The fountains volleying golden glaze) Shines like an angel-market. High aloft Over his couchant Lions in a haze Shimmering and bland and soft, A dust of chrysoprase, Our Sailor takes the golden gaze Of the saluting sun, and flames superb As once he flamed it on his ocean round.

The dingy dreariness of the picture-place, Turned very nearly bright, Takes on a luminous transiency of grace, And shows no more a scandal to the ground.

The very blind man pottering oil the kerb, Among the posies and the ostrich feathers And the rude voices touched with all the weathers

Of the long, varying year,

Shares in the universal alms of light.

The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires, The height and spread of frontage shining sheer, The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires- 'Tis El Dorado—El Dorado plain, The Golden City! And when a girl goes by, Look ! as she turns her glancing head, A call of gold is floated from her ear !

Golden, all golden ! In a golden glory, Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky, The day not dies but seems Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed Upon a past of golden song and story And memories of gold and golden dreams."

Better known is the almost perfect piece of descriptive verse which tells how suddenly the dawn comes up in Loudon and surprises the lighted streets with clean, bright sunlight :—

"What miracle is happening in the air, Charging the very texture of the gray With something luminous and rare ? The night goes out like an illparcelled fire, And, as one lights a candle, it is day. The extinguisher, that perks it like a spire On the little formal church, is not yet green Across the water : but the house-tops nigher, The corner lines, the chimneys—look how clean,

How new, how naked ! See the batch of boats,

Here at the stairs, washed in the fresh-sprung beam!

And those are barges that were goblin floats, Black, hag-steered, fraught with devilry and dream!

And in the piles the water frolics clear, The ripples into loose rings wander and flee, And we—we can behold that could but hear The ancient River singing as he goes New-mailed in morning to the ancient Sea."

In these two passages it is not too much to say that the workmanship is as masterly as the thought is thrilling and august. The verse flows with the "might, majesty, and dominion" that only belongs to those to whom "the celestial patroness" at some time or other has deigned-

" Her nightly visitations unimplored."

There is no pumped-up emotion here, no sitting down to write something about London, but an inspiration in every word and line. We have alluded above to the hospital sonnets, and would fain quote from them, but they are, perhaps, better read as a whole. Instead, we will extract a poem called Romance," out of the "In Hospital" section of the book, partly because the poem has an excellent lilt, and partly because it shows how well Mr. Henley can tell a story in little, With what dramatic power does he call up his scene before us :—

"‘ Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,

Set at euchre on his elbow, 'I was on the wharf at Charleston, Just ashore from off the runner.

It was grey and dirty weather, And I heard a drum go rolling, Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, Awful dour-like and defiant.

'In and out among the cotton, Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows— Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar !

Some had shoes, but all had rifles, Them that wasn't bald was beardless, And the drum was rolling Dixie, And they stepped to it like men, sir !

Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, On they swung, the drum a-rolling, Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, And they meant it too, by thunder!'"

Before we leave Mr. Henley's volume of collected verse we must say a word as to his splendid handling of unrhymed verse. It is the duty of every English poet to do something to enlarge the scope of our English measures. It is easier and pleasanter, safer and more popular, to keep to the road or the well-beaten footpath, but it is not loyal to the Republic of Letters. He who can frame a new measure or improve an old one is a benefactor to his race and country. Mr. Henley has taken up many of Matthew Arnold's suggestions in unrhymed verse, and perhaps still more of Milton's, and has used them with great success. He knows what is wanted in un- rhymed verse, how it differs from rhythmical prose, and bow the weakness of the ear for the clang of rhyme may be met and conquered. Take it altogether, Mr. Henley's volume of collected verse is one which will give intense pleasure to all lovers of true poetry. Even those who are most annoyed by an occasional touch of " robustiousness" will not fail to recognise that they are reading verse which is scholarly in the best sense, which is eloquent, which is fall of passion and inspiration.