William Watson has thus formed a style which is almost perfect. I say "almost," not quite. There are some few mannerisms which we might wish away. He speaks of "greatly inert," "greatly lost in thee," "greatly slain," "doomed splendidly to die," "loudly weak," "immutably prevail," and "vainly great," till we are forced to recognize what looks very much like a trick. He has occasional moments of tautology, which may possibly be deliberate, but is none the better for that, as when he says:-- Not mine the rich and showering hand, that strews The facile largess of a stintless muse. And The retrospect in Time's reverted eyes. And worst of all-- "Fair clouds of gulls that _wheel_ and _swerve_ In unanimity divine, With _undulation serpentine_, And wondrous consentaneous _curve_." He sometimes falls into lines which ring of the mint of Pope-- No guile may capture and no force surprise. Or-- Defames the sunlight and deflowers the morn. Or-- Towers to a lily, reddens to a rose. In one passage only do I find him falling, falling, falling into the flattest style of the _Excursion_:-- "I overheard a kind-eyed girl relate To her companions how a favouring chance By some few shillings weekly had increased The earnings of her household." But as I read this, I murmur to myself those lines from Wordsworth-- "And I have travelled far as Hull to see What clothes he might have left, or other property," and wonder how it is that such aberrations can befal even the very man who seems most determined to avoid them. Watson's second endowment is still one of taste and intellect. It is the gift of literary criticism. The special charm of the great poets is so subtly apprehended by him, and so exquisitely expressed, that it will be a source of much surprise if many of his concise verdicts do not become the household words of students of literature. Let me quote a passage from his poem on _Wordsworth's Grave_:-- You who have loved, like me, his simple themes, Loved his sincere large accent nobly plain, And loved the land whose mountains and whose streams Are lovelier for his strain. It may be that his manly chant, beside More dainty numbers, seems a rustic tune; It may be, thought has broadened, since he died, Upon the century's noon; It may be that we can no longer share The faith which from his fathers he received; It may be that our doom is to despair Where he with joy believed;-- Enough that there is none since risen who sings A song so gotten of the immediate soul, So instant from the vital fount of things Which is our source and goal; And though at touch of later hands there float More artful tones than from his lyre he drew, Ages may pass e'er trills another note So sweet, so great, so true. Take again--