rious junketing; and I am not surprised that Campbell's peculiar inspiration, which was born of war and of war only, failed him the instant he deserted his theme. Such shocking lines as
"The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,"
while quite in harmony with the poet's ordinary achievements, would have been simply impossible in those first three verses of "Ye Mariners," where he remains true to his one artistic impulse. He strikes a different and a finer note when, in "The Battle of the Baltic," he turns gravely away from feasting and jollity to remember the brave men who have died for England's glory:—
"Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!"
To go back to Mr. Rudyard Kipling, however, from whom I have wandered far, he is more in love with the "dear delights" of battle than with its dismal carnage, and he wins an easy forgiveness for a few horrors by showing us much brave and hearty fighting. Who can forget the little Gurkhas drawing a deep
