On the other hand, in _Requiescat_ there is not a false note, unless it be the dubious word "vasty" in the last line; and even that may shelter itself under the royal mantle of Shakespeare. The poet has here achieved what he too often fails in, the triple union of simplicity, pathos, and (in the best sense) elegance. The dangerous repetitions of "roses, roses," "tired, tired," &c., come all right; and above all he has the flexibility and quiver of metre that he too often lacks. His trisyllabic interspersions--the leap in the vein that makes iambic verse alive and passionate--are as happy as they can be, and the relapse into the uniform dissyllabic gives just the right contrast. He must be [Greek: e therion e theos]--and whichever he be, he is not to be envied--who can read _Requiescat_ for the first or the fiftieth time without mist in the eyes and without a catch in the voice. But the greatest of these--the greatest by far--is _The Scholar-Gipsy_. I have read--and that not once only, nor only in the works of unlettered and negligible persons--expressions of irritation at the local Oxonian colour. This is surely amazing. One may not be an Athenian, and never have been at Athens, yet be able to enjoy the local colour of the _Phaedrus_. One may not be an Italian, and never have been in Italy, yet find the _Divina Commedia_ made not teasing but infinitely vivid and agreeable by Dante's innumerable references to his country, Florentine and general. That some keener thrill, some nobler gust, may arise in the reading of the poem to those who have actually watched "The line of festal light in Christ Church Hall" from above Hinksey, who know the Fyfield elm in May, and have "trailed their fingers in the stripling Thames" at Bablockhithe,--may be granted. But in the name of Bandusia and of Gargarus, what offence can these things give to any worthy wight who by his ill luck has not seen them with eyes? The objection is so apt to suggest a suspicion, as illiberal almost as itself, that one had better not dwell on it.