lightness of thought and radiance of imagery; above all, in that consummate sense of the music of words which makes the lyrist's eternal heritage, Aubrey de Vere was—save in supreme moments—deficient. There were indeed these moments. Here, for instance, is a little song, Shakespearian in its sweet and naïve inevitability:
When I was young, I said to Sorrow,
"Come, and I will play with thee":
He is near me now all day
And at night returns to say,
"I will come again to-morrow,
I will come and stay with thee."
Through the woods we walk together;
His soft footsteps rustle nigh me;
To shield an unregarded head,
He hath built a winter shed;
And all night in rainy weather,
I hear his gentle breathings by me.
Yet in the main, this poet's message was too closely reasoned to be sung: a Gregorian chant would seem the only possible or appropriate vehicle. Weakness of form, Matthew Arnold contended, is nearly always accompanied by weakness of matter and thought. Nevertheless, there are poets whose habitual merit lies in the enchanting beauty of their verse-effects; and others there are whose highest excellence lies in the soul rather than the body of their verse. So it was with Aubrey de Vere. Blank verse, the ode, the sonnet, and various simpler forms he has used with excellent effect: but one feels that in avoiding more ornate and intricate verse-schemes he was wisely aware of the lyrical deficiencies already noted.
"The Martyrdom," and others of the earlier devotional poems, betray the influence of South-
