BOOKS.

MR. BUTLER'S "HAROLD, AND OTHER POEMS."* As a very considerable number of Mr. Butler's minor poems have appeared in these columns, our readers must be aware that our verdict upon them has virtually been already given, and they will hardly expect a criticism of the kind that implies a newly formed and unprepossessed judgment. In our opinion, Mr. Butler is a poet of no mean order. He has the first qualifica- tion of a poet, the power to throw life into almost everything with which he deals, and to bring out the ideal under- currents of life as well as the vivid superficial appearances. In his brief preface to Harold, Mr. Butler owns " an almost nplimited obligation" to the well-known novel by the first ", Harold : a Drawl in Four Acts: and other Poems. By Arthur Grey Butler, Fellow and Tutor of Oriel College, Oxford. London : Henry Frowde.

Lord Lytton. We venture to say that he vastly overatat his debt. Lord Lytton's ingenious, vain, showy, and generally meretricious imagination, never conceived anything so true and poetical as this drama, which,—barring its rather con- ventional comic scenes,—seems to us a true drama as well as a fine poem. It is true that we cannot lay it down without feeling that the Conqueror shows from the opening to the close a greater foresight, a greater breadth, a greater con- tinuity, a greater tenacity of purpose, than the hero of the play. Harold's is a nobler character, but not nearly so strong and statesmanlike as William's, and that to some extent lessens the imaginative passion of regret with which we watch Harold's fall. But that is the fault of history, not of the poet (unless it be for choosing such a theme) ; and all that could be done to excite sympathy and admira- tion for the magnanimity, the generosity, the patriotism, and the courage of Harold, Mr. Butler has achieved. lie shows Harold, in his manly simplicity, falling into the snares of the Duke of Normandy, and then, under the pressure of patriotic despair, and the eager advice of his brother Haco, reluc- tantly and against his own will, but under the ardent per- suasion of every one whom he loves, seeking to disentangle him- self by a half-hearted imitation of the Norman policy, though this only adds to the moral fetters in which he is already involved, without securing the worldly ends aimed at. Desti- tute of the Norman ambition and the Norman worldliness, none of his politic measures have any kind of effect except to throw into relief his own utter disqualification for arts like these. He meets wile with wile, and finds his own wile only an additional burden on his conscience, while the Norman's wile achieves its end. He sacrifices love to the policy of a great English alliance, and finds the alliance worthless, and the collapse of his own self-confidence ruinous. And yet in all these false steps pressed upon him by those whom he most deeply trusts and loves, he remains so much himself that one feels that he yields to patriotism what he would never have yielded to ambition, or even to persuasion. What weakness there is in Harold is of the true tragic kind, weakness resulting from the paralysing effect of the higher nature on a policy which had been almost forced upon him by the arts and frauds of an unscrupulous enemy. The following passage, in which Harold faces the sentence of the Pope on England for his breaking of the oath wrested from him by the Norman treachery, and then exhorts his men to accept the great struggle heroically, gives us a powerful picture of the hero of this play :—

" Monk. Since thou bast no fear To break that oath by saint and martyr witnessed, Hear now the sovereign Pontiff, ho who bears The awful keys, that shut and open heaven, Mightier than kings ! Thou art accursed, Harold, Thou and thy people, all. No lawful issue Spring from your loins ! Sky, earth, and air your foes, Mildew and mouldworm gnaw and blast your plains !

What famine leaves diseases swallow after !

Cursed in life, then, life's long trouble over,

Death shovel down your unblest carrion !

St. Peter's blessing marches with the Norman ; Go on ! Ye move like Judas to your doom.

(Murmurs from the Soldiers `The Interdict.') Har. (striding forward with uplifted arm). Darest thou, blasphemer?

Gurth. Harold !

Har. Shall he live Who mocks me thus ?

G. He cannot hurt thee.

Har. Here, Before my soldiers !

G. (interposing). Brother, nay ! And thou, Whose papal airs and maledictions shock The ear of heaven, go, frighten timid dupes, Scare softer climes ! you madden Englishmen. How, Sirs, has Rome in matters temporal Authority in England ?

Voices. Never ! Never !

Thane. There never was, or shall be, in this realm

Authority to enforce us choose our king ; Hence with the monk ! " We'll hear no more of him.

G. Hence, pallid, hueless, wandering shape of evil!

Hence, miscreant mischief, prophet of illwill!

Hence to the shades, unfit for light of day !

Hat. Thanks, Gurth ! I was not master of myself.

When ministers of mercy so forget Their holier task, we men of flesh and blood May stand excused for thoughts of violence.

But you, De Graville, you! I loved you once, And do not hate you now. Go, tell your Duke, There is one thing in England that we prize More than fantastic high discourse of honour, An honest man. That he should covet England, I blame him not : but thus his greed to cover With saintliest gloss, and, like the pious villain,

Throw over all the mantle of religion—

Begone ! I sicken of your specious words. De G. Farewell, Sir King! We soon shall meet again.

Har. Aye, on the field of battle ! (To an officer) See them safe !

I would not any harm befell them here In this our camp.

(Exeunt De Graville and Monk, guarded.)"—(pp. 110-111.)

. . . . ..... . . .

" Her. Spring you to arms ! Come all and stand with me, Your swords yet bloody from the vanquished Dane, Here on this height ; and, where I set you, stand Rooted and steadfast. Steadfast is your name ; Steadfast your boast down a long line of glory. England no other fortress has, nor needs, Save the stout heart, the strong arm, of her sons ; Your bosoms are her bulwark. Come then all, Swear, she shall not be poorer for this day !

For, if we live, she shall have fame enough ; And, if we die, we will enrich her so With seeds of noblest valour, that her soil Shall native grow to feats of hardihood : And on the name of England never stain Shall briefly rest, but shall grow clear again : And they who conquer her shall conquered be By her unconquerable constancy. And now, no more of wassail ! Go, and sleep!!

Fear not ! You fight for England, and her King. (Exeunt soldiers with shouts, ' God save the King !') Har. Haco, see all is quiet in the camp! Hae. (kneeling). Forgive me ! Har. I forgive thee ? Hac. All the ill I did thee, thy true love's down-trampled flower, A stinging-nettle planted in its stead, With perilous suggestions, downward ways Commended, not the eagle's track and thine : And yet, believe, I swear it on this sword, In love I did it.

Her. And that covers all.

Oh, Haco, 'tis the plague and curse of life, Where we would bless to bring calamity On those we love ; and still, the more we cherish, The more we smooth the pathway, and avoid The natural steep, the difficult way of things, Purblind, impersonating Providence, The more we make the misery of their lives.

I too have known this. Go ! Farewell ! To-morrow !

(Exit Haco.)"—(pp. 111-112.)

The sketch of Edith, Harold's fiancee, who gives him up that he may make the alliance on which his counsellors depend for the concentration of the Saxon power, is extremely beauti- ful. Her nature is never more perfectly mirrored than in the following exquisite song, in which, after her great sacrifice, she expresses the irresistible yearning of her heart to see him again. It is a song that may stand by the most perfect of Goethe's little lyrics of a similar kind, and not seem poor in

the comparison :— " I know it will not ease the smart; I know it will increase the pain ; 'Tis torture to a wounded heart ; Yet, oh ! to see him once again.

Tho' other lips be pressed to his, And other arms about him twine, And tho' another reign in bliss In that true heart that once was mine ; Yet, oh ! I cry it in my grief, I cry it blindly in my pain, I know it will not bring relief, Yet, oh ! to see him once again."

But., as we have said before, the picture of the Conqueror in some respects throws into the shade the picture of the con- quered. William's great force, greater unscrupulousness, still greater statecraft, and indomitable will, are most powerfully presented. Take, for instance, the following Ode. Yon sun goes fairly down.

To-morrow it will see a conquered land.

Duke. Will, brother ?—does ! 'Twas conquer'd while they slept : 'Twas conquered when they left the unguarded waves, And threw away like thriftless prodigals Their one sole treasure, Nature's muniment, Those sea walls, built of old by Titan hands, And moated round with the inviolate sea, The unfathom'd ocean. Lo ! I set my foot On England's pride; nor ever England's strength, Awaked too late, like Samson self-betrayed, Shall make it budge. Their day of grace is over, Our voyage is past, our step is on the shore : Who lands in England is its conqueror." (p. 81) . . . . . . . . . . . . "(Flying Normans seen in the nearforeground: shouts of 'All is lost !" The Duke is down : I saw it : he is dead !')

Duke (rushing in, helmet in hand).

Dead ! Nay, he lives to make a ghost of him Who dares fly further. What? Buy one hour's life With shame for ever ? You, old Rollo's seed, Degenerate ! You, of those tremendous sires Bastards, not heirs ! How say you, All is lost ' ?

Fools, not to know I never won a fight But first I lost it, and my proudest triumphs, Like hard-earned feast of starving mariners, Were seasoned with sweet relish of despair : So desperate seemed my fortune, till she turned And granted all her favours. Ah, and see !

She grants them now. By heaven, they break, they conic They quit their stronghold. Oh, I shall call you girls, Not men but girls, if e'er those madmen gain Their fences more. And now, my countrymen, Remettled to your task with courage new, Where honour calls, bright honour, with old fame, Reaped on a hundred fields in Normandy, Give me this day ! But this one effort more !

'Tis the last arrow brings the eagle down ; 'Tis the last billow wafts you to the shore; Swear not to fail ! No protestations now!

Deeds, I want deeds. From yonder armed height Bring me a crown! Then shall ye reap reward Richer than Alexander grasped in dreams, Or Caesar sighed for : but this one last day : Life is not given except for noble deeds : Then rest for ever ! then fortune, all, is yours, And England mine. On, on to victory !

(Rushes out, followed by soldiers.)"—(pp. 129-130.)

We believe that this play would act as finely as it reads. It would stand comparison with the finest of Sir Henry Taylor's dramas.

Of the shorter poems, so many of which we have had the privilege of publishing in these columns, our readers will hardly expect us to say much. Of the admirable soliloquies of Hodge, we observe only a few. The later ones are, we suppose, reserved for another volume. Certainly that wonder- fully humorous soliloquy, "Hodge on Free Education," ought some day to be given to the world. Great as is Mr. Butler's humour, it fails him, we think, in the attempt to ridicule the ape-theory of the origin of man, in the piece called " In the Beginning," which is, to our mind, by no means effective, little as we appreciate Mr. Darwin's futile attempt to explain the origin of the human conscience out of the tribal impulses of apes. Mr. Butler is a true humorist, but his humour has certainly failed him here ; we felt more melancholy after we had finished his skit than we felt when we began it. But he is a considerable lyric poet. Very many of these shorter pieces seem to us of exquisite workmanship as well as of exquisite design. Take this very short one as a fair specimen :

"PEACE.

Winds and wild waves in headlong huge commotion Scud, dark with tempest, o'er the Atlantic's breast : While, underneath, few fathoms deep in Ocean, Lie peace, and rest.

Storms in mid-air, the rack before them sweeping, Hurry, and hiss, like furies bate-possessed : While, over all, white cloudlets pure are sleeping In peace, in rest.

Heart, 0 wild heart ! why, in the storm-world ranging, Flit'st thou thus midway, passion's slave and jest, When, all so near, above, below, unchanging Are heaven, and rest ? "

In many respects, the most remarkable of these poems

are the three headed "Religio Academici." But why does the poet leave the subject with the weak rejoinder of the xstbetic sceptic? Does he wish to imply that the religion of the student will always be a sort of see-saw between faith and doubt P We extract the final passage, as it seems to us one of the most characteristic of the poems in this little volume:— "Stern is the warrior's sword when a foe is writhing beneath him ; Justice is stern ; but Love, love is the sternest of all;

Love is too great for pity. A moan is hoard on the moun- tains ;— Infinite dirge—one race dying is passing away : Life for a moment passes : the stream is slack at the fountain : Earth, as a breast grown old, cannot its sources supply : Listless the people sit ; and the womb is barren, the altar Cold; and a shuddering race creep to their caverns and dis ; Die, and bequeath but an echo that haunts that cavernous chamber, `Ours was the Paradise once : lost, it is never regained.'

Only a pause ! Life's winter ! A glacial age ! And a seed-time Big with humanity's hope pointing to better beyond! Only a pause ! Then Nature awakes, and—torrent gigantic— Fresh with Niagara force rushes again to the sea.

Love is too great for pity. Be loved them, e'en when he smote them ; But love is stern. Elsewhere planted the wicked may mend ; Broken the evil trammel, the bad tradition of elders, Lust as a poisonous dream passed with the body away : Or, as a sixth strong sense, millenniums' horror of evil Burnt in the soul, so long separate living from God. Mystery ail ! We know not. We shoot a shaft at a venture Into the void. Perchance there we may find it again: It, or a something better, or something different wholly : Leave it to Love. With Love there we shall find it again. And meanwhile this faith I hold, and srry about me, Small as a taper's spark lighting the infinite gloom : What is good for the whole will be also good for the unit : Law is beneficent love : love is benevolent law. Vast is the whole wide world, but Love enfolding it vaster : Leave it to Love ! Outside Love there is nothing at all. And what of me,' he murmured, my friend with the delicate features, Over his sad, worn face flitting a shadow of scorn, Me, to whom life is dreary, and faith is dark, and the problem Higher than Teneriffe's height, deeper than Africa's sand ; If He but care for the many, the good of the general ant-hill, Not for the separate ant drawing its separate load ; If I, a millionth, get but a millionth part of a millionth Fraction of love, then what—what is this blessing to me ? ' " But the millionth part of a millionth fraction of infinite love is surely itself an infinite quantity. Indeed, the arithmetical treatment of such a subject as that, is itself a confession of intellectual imbecility. The truth is, of course, that the sceptic only reveals in this weak rejoinder his total want of faith in the true infinitude of divine love. And, indeed, it is a faith which only springs into being under the immediate inspiration or revelation of the divine mind, and could not otherwise spring into being at all.