THE EARL OF ROSSLYN'S POEMS.*

IT has been said, and not untruly, that the sonnet is one of the most difficult forms in which a poet can express his art. Not only do the exacting rhymes demand poetic pains, but it is no slight task so to curb, and at the same time stimulate, the imagination as to confine it within the allotted space, while making each part assist in the perfection of the whole. A sonnet must be strong throughout—a feeble or superfluous phrase is a deadly fault—and its strength, however essential, must be subservient to its beauty. There must be life in every line, and such life in the central thought as only a noble imagination can create. This is the sonnet ideal which is to be found only in the greatest masters of the art, and they frequently fail to attain it. No English poet has written so many sonnets of the first order of excellence as Words- worth, yet the number meriting this praise is extremely limited ; and Shakespeare's affluence of imagination and con- summate craft did not suffice, although he wrote more than one hundred and fifty sonnets, to rank more than twenty, or at the most thirty of them, with the finest in the language. And yet the Shakespearian sonnet is far easier to write than the more difficult and more perfect type, the Petrarchan.

Although the sonnet, even in its construction, presents such difficulties, it has been a highly popular form of verse with modern poets. Of late years, as in the Elizabethan age, a score of writers have made it a medium for the ex- pression of their aspirations, and more frequently of their despondency. For, as it was in the days of Byron, so is it now the disease of small poets to despair, and the rhyming pessimist who finds, or affects to find, life hopeless, vents his sorrows in the sonnet. But without faith and hope imagina- tion fails, and readers who have the misfortune to be familiar with the minor poets of the day know how, while the accom- plishment displayed is often considerable, the inspiration is lacking and the note of joy rarely struck.

Lord Rosalyn affords a striking contrast to sonnet-writers

• Sonnets and Poems. By the Earl orn:Wyo. London : Remington and Co.

of this class. His verse is the expression of a trustful nature that accepts the sorrows of life as discipline and its joys with gratitude. He discovers the soul of beauty in things evil, looks at things in a healthy, courageous spirit, and has no sympathy with the philosophy that lands a man in despair. His wings, therefore, as a poet, if he have the good fortune to possess them, are not crippled at the outset. If he can sing, his way to the empyrean is unobstructed. That Lord Roselyn should be a master of his instrument, is not perhaps remarkable. The most superficial reader will see at once that he is an accomplished writer of verse. So smoothly and gracefully do his lines glide, that we notice few traces of the labour that must have produced them. His sonnets are readable, and always pleasant to read. The heart of the writer speaks in them, and it does so in unimpeachable English. There is no slovenly work here, no false imagery, no lack of taste. Although in the "Domestic Sonnets" the reader is brought into the poet's home-circle, he is only admitted, as it were, into the outer court, and its privacy is not too much unveiled. We catch bright glimpses of a happy English home, and that is all. Here is one addressed to his wife :—

"Oh, blame me not because my verse is rare ! Deem not my heart is idle as my song ! Thou know'st to thee such melodies belong, As my poor pen can haltingly prepare ; But my full heart of no such blame takes share, And to blame that would do it grievous wrong, For still its stream flows passionate and strong, And pays no tribute but to thee, my Fair ! If then I sing not, 'tis because, too full, The river of my heart o'erleaps its banks, And to one ocean, thine, pours out its tide ; And mocking spirits might proclaim me dull, And even thou would'st give me meagre thanks If, while I praised thee, others should deride."

Lord Rosslyn describes the familiar occurrences of home life with a great deal of grace. His boys at cricket, his little girl standing on the great park roller, his daughter of seventeen passing from the parents' care to the husband's, old letters reminding him of a dear one gone, slight incidents as well as sad memories, suggest sonnets that are wholly free from the namby-pamby from which such themes might suffer in weaker hands. The following poem affords a good illustration of the skill with which the writer treats a simple event of baby-life. It is such a sonnet as Tennyson-Turner might have written :—

"Tis bed-time; say your hymn, and bid 'Good-night; God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones all ;' Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids fall, Another minute you will shut them quite.

Yes, I will carry you, put out the light, And tuck you up, although you are so tall !

What will you give me, sleepy one, and call My wages if I settle you all right?

I laid her golden curls upon my arm, I drew her little feet within my hand, Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss, Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and warm, She nestled to me, and by Love's command Paid me my precious wages—' Baby's kiss.' "

Lord Rosslyn is not content with writing what he terms "domestic sonnets," although he can write them well. He aims often at a higher mark, and is sometimes successful in giving a clearly defined and harmonious picture of what he sees with the mind's eye or with the natural organ. There is some imagination and considerable force of expression in the following, entitled " Chislehurst :"—

" Dead ! my one Boy—my only one, and Dead.

Sirs, do not mock me—say it is not so.

He was the hope of France—nay, let me go, I am his mother; life cannot be fled From those young eyes and that beloved head That should have worn a Crown ; a Crown of woe Truly I wear for him—though fallen so low, An Empress still, dethroned and banished.

I crave your pardon ; now I cannot weep, Henceforth I weep for ever ; gone ! all gone!

Throne, Husband, Child, all snatched away from me.

A childless widow prays you, Sirs, to keep Some kind thoughts for her. She is all alone.

Her heart is broken by much misery."

We will give two further specimens of Lord Rosslyn's craft as a writer of sonnets, a kind of verse which is happily well suited to the exigencies of the reviewer. To describe a storm at sea is perhaps as difficult as to paint it. The measure of the poet's success may be judged from the following :— "Great clouds, like war-ships, speed athwart the sky; On the white drift a close-reefed mainsail gleams ; The savage blast through the taut cordage screams,

Or fitful moans with melancholy cry ; Around, the raging waters foaming lie In frenzied wrath, and not a sun-ray beams.

The mother, in her broken slumber, dreams Of her dear sailor, shuddering lest he die !

Ocean runs riot ! and the bruised waves Are blue and green with overmastering blows ; The tangled weeds, disturbed, torn from their bed A hundred fathoms down 'mid sailors' graves, Toss here and there, as light as fresh-fall'n snows, And dismal caves disgorge their prisoned dead."

Our last and final quotation is a poem called "Dead Love," a theme which recalls the magnificent sonnet of Drayton, one

of the finest in the language :—

" In the hot South a little fleecy cloud

In summer sky unfelt a tempest makes; So in a sunny life some Demon takes Fierce hold, and shattered Love lies in her shroud ; Love, in Death's arms, faint, pitiful, and cowed.

Au! cruel sight ! my sick heart well-nigh breaks; The trustful smile her pallid lip forsakes ; Her robe is torn, her beauty disallowed!

Is there no Philtre that can bid her live ?

No unguent that can heal her present pain ?

No charm to fan once more her fragrant breath ?

Ask if the winds and waves their foes forgive.

They may—but I can never love again, And leave my lost love in the arms of Death."

It is needless to raise the question as to whether Lord Rosalyn is in the highest sense of the word a poet, or, like so many writers nowadays, a man of high culture whose familiarity with the notes of great singers enables him to express himself in verse. That he can write lines musical in utterance, refined in feeling, and not wholly unaided by imagination, will be evident to every careful reader of these sonnets. More decisive praise than this it is unnecessary to give ; but it may be observed that the strength he undoubtedly has, appears to fail him when he attempts the lyric. Lord Rosalyn states, indeed, that his lyrics are unworthy of serious consideration, and we entirely agree with him.