But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd, Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon: he flow'd Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunje, Brimming, and bright, and large: then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles-- Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, A foil'd, circuitous wanderer:--till at last The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bath'd stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. (MATTHEW ARNOLD: _Sohrab and Rustum_. 1853.) Here is the place: but read it low and sweet. Put out the lamp! --The glimmering page is clear. "Now on that day it chanced that Launcelot, Thinking to find the King, found Guenevere Alone; and when he saw her whom he loved, Whom he had met too late, yet loved the more; Such was the tumult at his heart that he Could speak not, for her husband was his friend, His dear familiar friend: and they two held No secret from each other until now; But were like brothers born"--my voice breaks off. Read you a little on. --"And Guenevere, Turning, beheld him suddenly whom she Loved in her thought, and even from that hour When first she saw him; for by day, by night, Though lying by her husband's side, did she Weary for Launcelot, and knew full well How ill that love, and yet that love how deep!" I cannot see--the page is dim: read you. --"Now they two were alone, yet could not speak; But heard the beating of each other's hearts. He knew himself a traitor but to stay, Yet could not stir: she pale and yet more pale Grew till she could no more, but smiled on him. Then when he saw that wished smile, he came Near to her and still near, and trembled; then Her lips all trembling kissed." --Ah, Launcelot! (STEPHEN PHILLIPS: _Paolo and Francesca_, III. iii. 1901.) The blank verse of Stephen Phillips is the most important--one may say perhaps the only important--that has been written since Tennyson's; and it is of especial interest as forming an actual revival of the form on the English stage. Aside from the dramas, it is seen at its best in _Marpessa_. Imitating Milton, and at the same time handling the measure with original force, Mr. Phillips introduces unusual cadences, for which he has been severely reproached by the critics. Such lines as the following are typical of these variations from the normal rhythm: