The English Novel and the Principle of its Development - Sidney Lanier

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the siren, are being evolved, the Ode to St. Cecilia, the Essay on Man, Manfred, A man's a man for a' that, the Ode on Immortality, In Memoriam, the Ode to a Nightingale, The Psalm of Life, are being written. If indeed we go over into Germany, there is Goethe, at once pursuing science and poetry.

      Now, if we examine the course and progress of this poetry, born thus within the very grasp and maw of this terrible science, it seems to me that we find—as to the substance of poetry—a steadily increasing confidence and joy in the mission of the poet, in the sacredness of faith and love and duty and friendship and marriage, and in the sovereign fact of man's personality; while as to the form of the poetry, we find that just as science has pruned our faith (to make it more faithful), so it has pruned our poetic form and technic, cutting away much unproductive wood and efflorescence and creating finer reserves and richer yields. Since it would be simply impossible, in the space of these lectures, to illustrate this by any detailed view of all the poets mentioned, let us confine ourselves to one, Alfred Tennyson, and let us inquire how it fares with him. Certainly no more favorable selection could be made for those who believe in the destructiveness of science. Here is a man born in the midst of scientific activity, brought up and intimate with the freest thinkers of his time, himself a notable scientific pursuer of botany, and saturated by his reading with all the scientific conceptions of his age. If science is to sweep away the silliness of faith and love, to destroy the whole field of the imagination and make poetry folly, it is a miracle if Tennyson escape. But if we look into his own words, this miracle beautifully transacts itself before our eyes. Suppose we inquire, Has science cooled this poet's love? We are answered in No. 60 of In Memoriam:

      If in thy second state sublime,

       Thy ransomed reason change replies

       With all the circle of the wise,

       The perfect flower of human time;

      And if thou cast thine eyes below,

       How dimly character'd and slight,

       How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night,

       How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!

      Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,

       Where thy first form was made a man,

       I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can

       The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.

      Here is precisely the same loving gospel that Shakspeare himself used to preach, in that series of Sonnets which we may call his In Memoriam to his friend; the same loving tenacity, unchanged by three hundred years of science. It is interesting to compare this No. 60 of Tennyson's poem with Sonnet 32 of Shakspeare's series, and note how both preach the supremacy of love over style or fashion.

      If thou survive my well-contented day,

       When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,

       And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

       These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

       Compare them with the bettering of the time;

       And though they be outstripped by every pen,

       Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,

       Exceeded by the height of happier men.

       O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:

       "Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,

       A dearer birth than this his love had bought,

       To march in ranks of better equipage;

       But since he died, and poets better prove,

       Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."

      Returning to Tennyson: has science cooled his yearning for human friendship? We are answered in No. 90 of In Memoriam. Where was ever such an invocation to a dead friend to return!

      When rosy plumelets tuft the larch,

       And rarely pipes the mounted thrush;

       Or underneath the barren bush

       Flits by the sea-blue bird of March;

      Come, wear the form by which I know

       Thy spirit in time among thy peers;

       The hope of unaccomplish'd years

       Be large and lucid round thy brow.

      When summer's hourly mellowing change

       May breathe, with many roses sweet,

       Upon the thousand waves of wheat,

       That ripple round the lonely grange;

      Come; not in watches of the night,

       But where the sunbeam broodeth warm,

       Come, beauteous in thine after-form,

       And like a finer light in light.

      Or still more touchingly, in No. 49, for here he writes from the depths of a sick despondency, from all the darkness of a bad quarter of an hour.

      Be near me when my light is low,

       When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick

       And tingle; and the heart is sick,

       And all the wheels of being slow.

      Be near me when the sensuous frame

       Is racked with pains that conquer trust;

       And Time, a maniac scattering dust,

       And Life, a fury, slinging flame.

      Be near me when my faith is dry,

       And men the flies of latter spring,

       That lay their eggs, and sting and sing,

       And weave their petty cells and die.

      Be near me when I fade away,

       To point the term of human strife,

       And on the low dark verge of life

       The twilight of eternal day.

      Has it diminished his tender care for the weakness of others? We are wonderfully answered in No. 33.

      O thou that after toil and storm

       Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air,

       Whose faith has centre everywhere,

       Nor cares to fix itself to form.

      Leave thou thy sister when she prays,

       Her early Heaven, her happy views;

       Nor then with shadow'd hint confuse

       A life that leads melodious days.

      Her faith thro' form is pure as thine,

       Her hands are quicker unto good.

       Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood

       To which she links a truth divine!

      See thou, that countest reason ripe

       In holding by the law within,

       Thou fail not in a world of sin,

       And ev'n for want of such a type.

      Has it crushed out his pure sense of poetic beauty? Here in No. 84 we have a poem which, for what I can only call absolute beauty, is simply perfect.

      Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,

       That rollest from the gorgeous gloom

       Of evening over brake and bloom

       And meadow, slowly breathing bare

      The round of space, and rapt below

       Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood,

       And shadowing down the horned flood

       In ripples, fan my brows, and blow

      The fever from

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