Ionica | Page 6

the century. The verse is in its
general characteristics of the school of Tennyson, with its equable
progression, its honied epithets, its soft cadences, its gentle melody.
But the poems are deeply original, because they, combine a peculiar
classical quality, with a frank delight in the spirit of generous boyhood.
For all their wealth of idealised sentiment, they never lose sight of the
fuller life of the world that waits beyond the threshold of youth, the
wider issues, the glory of the battle, the hopes of the patriot, the
generous visions of manhood. They are full of the romance of boyish
friendships, the echoes of the river and the cricket field, the ingenuous
ambitions, the chivalry, the courage of youth and health, the brilliant
charm of the opening world. These things are but the prelude to, the
presage of, the energies of the larger stage; his young heroes are to
learn the lessons of patriotism, of manliness, of activity, of generosity,
that they may display them in a wider field. Thus he wrote in "A
Retrospect of School Life":--
"Much lost I; something stayed behind,
A snatch, maybe, of ancient
song.
Some breathings of a deathless mind,
Some love of truth,
some hate of wrong.
And to myself in games I said,
'What mean the books? can I win fame

I would be like the faithful dead,
A fearless man, and pure of
blame.'"
Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an
Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard.
In this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp
hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the
warm companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that
wave their shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and

dear, we must be courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley.
The book is full of the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the
intensity and the brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair
things must fade as surely as they bloom.
The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no
solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the
hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all
we hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and
noble and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the race.
Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief in
the ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to
remember and love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its
generous companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave
hopes and ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving
and generous and high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and
perhaps beyond.
ARTHUR C. BENSON.
DESIDERATO
Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,
Whose presence change and chance
deny;
If angels turn your soft proud eye
To lines your cynic
playmate penned,
Look on them, as you looked on me,
When both were young; when,
as we went
Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant
On him who
loved your staff to be;
And slouch your lazy length again
On cushions fit for aching brow

(Yours always ached, you know), and now
As dainty languishing as then,
Give them but one fastidious look,

And if you see a trace of him
Who humoured you in every whim,
Seek for his heart within his book:
For though there be enough to

mark
The man's divergence from the boy,
Yet shines my faith
without alloy
For him who led me through that park;
And though a stranger throw
aside
Such grains of common sentiment,
Yet let your haughty head
be bent
To take the jetsom of the tide;
Because this brackish turbid sea

Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore,
And though it wash
thy feet no more,
Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee."
The world may like, for all I
care,
The gentler voice, the cooler head,
That bows a rival to
despair,
And cheaply compliments the dead;
That smiles at all that's coarse
and rash,
Yet wins the trophies of the fight,
Unscathed, in honour's
wreck and crash,
Heartless, but always in the right;.
Thanked for good counsel by the
judge
Who tramples on the bleeding brave,
Thanked too by him
who will not budge
From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.
Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear
What to that noble breast
was due;
And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare
Go through the
homeless world with you.
MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
You promise heavens free from strife,
Pure truth, and perfect change
of will;
But sweet, sweet is this human life,
So sweet, I fain would
breathe it still;
Your chilly stars I can forego,
This warm kind world
is all I know.
You say there is no substance here,
One great reality above:
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