To speak in detail of the great range of subjects chosen by Swinburne is not possible within the limits of this lecture. I am going to make selections from every part of his production, except the dramatic, as well as I can, and the selections will be made with a view especially to show you the music of his verse and the brilliance of his language. Most of his poems are above the ordinary lyrical length rather than below it, and I hope that you will not be disappointed if I do not often give the whole of a poem, for the selections will contain, I am sure, the best part of the poem. Being a descendant of great seamen, Swinburne had every reason to sing of the sea; and he has sung of it better than any one else. A great number of his poems are sea-poems, or poems containing descriptions of the sea in all its moods, splendours, or terrors. Sun, sea, and wind are favourite subjects with him, and I know of nothing in the whole of his work finer than his description of the wind as the lover of the sea. The verses I am going to quote are from a great composition entitled "By the North Sea." The personal pronoun "he" in the first line means the wind personified. The delight that he takes but in living Is more than of all things that live: For the world that has all things for giving Has nothing so goodly to give: But more than delight his desire is, For the goal where his pinions would be Is immortal as air or as fire is, Immense as the sea. Though hence come the moan that he borrows From darkness and depth of the night, Though hence be the spring of his sorrows, Hence too is the joy of his might; The delight that his doom is for ever To seek and desire and rejoice, And the sense that eternity never Shall silence his voice. That satiety never may stifle Nor weariness ever estrange Nor time be so strong as to rifle Nor change be so great as to change His gift that renews in the giving, The joy that exalts him to be Alone of all elements living The lord of the sea. What is fire, that its flame should consume her? More fierce than all fires are her waves: What is earth, that its gulfs should entomb her? More deep are her own than their graves. Life shrinks from his pinions that cover The darkness by thunders bedinned; But she knows him, her lord and her lover, The godhead of wind.