Next--and this is a more serious point--the poems have been praised for their frequent references to nature and the fidelity of their imagery; after careful study of the Christian Year one is compelled to say that this praise is not deserved: the imagery is of a purely conventional character, and the observation employed of the most general kind. Dean Stanley said, in praise of Keble's descriptive passages, that his local and topographical details, whenever he spoke of the Holy Land, were marvellously clear and accurate. But this is not really a compliment. It shows that Keble was content to describe without his eye on the object, and relying on the observation of others; and if the pictures of landscapes that he had not seen are among his most felicitous passages, we may well be excused for mistrusting his powers of observation when dealing with the features of his own native country. The fact is that he did not seize upon salient features; Matthew Arnold, in such a poem as the "Scholar Gypsy," brings the Oxford atmosphere, the high gravelly hills, the deep water-meadows, before the eye; but Keble's landscape is the conventional English landscape, and has no precise definition, no native air. For instance, in the poem for "Trinity Sunday" he says: As travellers on some woodland height, When wintry suns are gleaming bright, Lose in arch'd glades their tangled sight; By glimpses such as dreamers love, Through her grey veil the leafless grove Shows where the distant shadows rove. Will any one say that there is the least precision about this picture? What kind of a place is he describing? How different it is from such verses as are found on every page of Tennyson, as A full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain. Again, when Keble is describing the source of the moorland spring, some of which is beautifully delineated, he says ("Monday in Easter Week"): Perchance that little brook shall flow The bulwark of some mighty realm, Bear navies to and fro With monarchs at their helm. Or canst thou guess how far away Some sister nymph, beside her urn Reclining night and day, 'Mid reeds and mountain fern, Nurses her store, with thine to blend? This is pure conventionalism: the mixture of the reclining nymph and the mountain fern is not felicitous. Constitutional monarchs do not steer their own ironclads, and it is not picturesque even to pretend that they do. The following may stand as instances of his failure in precise delineation. In the very first stanza of the book we have: Hues of the rich unfolding morn, That ere the glorious sun be born, * * * Around his path are taught to swell. "Swell" is a property of bulk or sound, surely not of light? Again, addressing the breeze, he says: Wakenest each little leaf to _sing_.