English literature -- 19th century -- History and criticism; French literature -- 19th century -- History and criticism
But when the blue snow-shadows grew intenser
Across the peaks against the golden sky,
And on the hills the knots of deer grew denser,
And raised their tender cry,
[111]
And wandered downward to the Lap-men's dwelling,
We knew our long sweet day was nearly spent,
And slowly, with our hearts within us swelling,
Our homeward steps we bent.
"Sunshine before Sunrise!" There's a novelty in that, for poetic use
at least, so far as we know, though we remember one fine paragraph
about it in Sartor Resartus. The grim poetic sage of Chelsea, however,
had never seen what he describes: not so Mr. Gosse, whose acquaintance
with northern lands and northern literature is special. We have indeed
picked out those stanzas from a quiet personal record of certain
amorous hours of early youth in that quaint arctic land, Mr. Gosse's
description of which, like his pretty poem on Luebeck, made one think
that what the accomplished group of poets to which he belongs requires
is, above all, novelty of motive, of subject.
He takes, indeed, the old themes, and manages them better than their
old masters, with more delicate cadences, more delicate transitions of
thought, through long dwelling on earlier practice. He seems to
possess complete command of the technique of poetry--every form of what
may be called skill of hand in it; and what marks in [112] him the
final achievement of poetic scholarship is the perfect balance his work
presents of so many and varied effects, as regards both matter and
form. The memories of a large range of poetic reading are blent into
one methodical music so perfectly that at times the notes seem almost
simple. Sounding almost all the harmonies of the modern lyre, he has,
perhaps as a matter of course, some of the faults also, the "spasmodic"
and other lapses, which from age to age, in successive changes of
taste, have been the "defects" of excellent good "qualities." He is
certainly not the--
Pathetic singer, with no strength to sing,
as he says of the white-throat on the tulip-tree,
Whose leaves unfinished ape her faulty song.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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