I think we have here a Henley manque. In robustious assertion you will not find anything to equal it in the Hospital Rhymes of that author. I was so much struck by the poem that I obtained permission to correspond with the poet. I discovered that another Sappho might have adorned our literature; that a mute inglorious Elizabeth Barrett was kept silent in Darien--for the asylum was in the immediate vicinity of the Peak in Derbyshire. Of the correspondence which ensued I venture to quote only one sentence: 'I was brought up to love beauty; my home was more than cultured; it was refined; we took in the _Art Journal_ regularly.' Of all modern artists, I suppose that Sir Edward Burne-Jones has inspired more poetry than any other. A whole school of Oxford poets emerged from his fascinating palette, and he is the subject of perhaps the most exquisite of all the _Poems and Ballads_--the '_Dedication_'--which forms the colophon to that revel of rhymes. I sometimes think that is why his art is out of fashion with modern painters, who may inspire dealers, but would never inspire poets. For who could write a sonnet on some uncompromising pieces of realism by Mr. Rothenstein, Mr. John, or Mr. Orpen? Theirs is an art which speaks for itself. But Sir Edward Burne- Jones seems to have dazzled the undergrowth of Parnassus no less than the higher slopes. In a long and serious epic called 'The Pageant of Life,' dealing with every conceivable subject, I found:-- With some the mention of Burne-Jones Elicits merely howls and groans; But those who know each inch of art Believe that he can bear his part. I don't remember what he could bear. Perhaps it referred to his election at the Royal Academy. Then, again, in a 'Vision' of the next world, a poet described how-- Byron, Burne-Jones, and Beethoven, Charlotte Bronte and Chopin are there. I wonder if this has escaped the eagle eye of Mr. Clement Shorter. Though perhaps the most delightful nonsense, for which, I fear, this great painter is partly responsible, may be found in a recent poem addressed to the memory of my old friend, Simeon Solomon:-- More of Rossetti? Yes: You follow'd than Burne-Jones, Your depth of colour his than that of monochromes! Yes; amber lilies poured, I say, A joy for thee, than poet's bay. But while true art refines and often stimulates, ART does, at times, I say, sit grief within our gates! Art causes men to weep at times-- If you may heed these falt'ring rhymes. A small volume of lyrics once sent to me for review afforded another flower for my garland:-- Where in the spring-time leaves are wet, Oh, lay my love beneath the shades, Where men remember to forget, And are forgot in Hades. But I have given enough examples for what would form Part I. of the English anthology. Part II. would consist of really bad verses from really great poetry.