And in each of the two succeeding volumes there is, among all their other things of price, a lyric which may even yet be ranked with the highest subsequent work of its author for purity of perfection, for height and fulness of note, for music and movement and informing spirit of life. We ought to have in English, but I fear—or rather I am only too sure—we have not, a song in which the sound of the sea is rendered as in that translation of the trumpet-blast of the night-wind, with all its wails and pauses and fluctuations and returns, done for once into human speech and interpreted into spiritual sense forever. For instinctive mastery of its means and absolute attainment of its end, for majesty of living music and fidelity of sensitive imagination, there is no lyric poem in any language more wonderful or more delightful.
UNE NUIT QU'ON ENTENDAIT LA MER
SANS LA VOIR.
Quels sont ces bruits sourds?
Écoutez vers l'onde
Cette voix profonde
Qui pleure toujours
Et qui toujours gronde,
Quoiqu'un son plus clair
Parfois l'interrompe . . .—
Le vent de la mer
Souffle dans sa trompe.
Comme il pleut ce soir!
N'est-ce pas, mon hôte?
Là-bas, à la côte,
Le ciel est bien noir,
La mer est bien haute
