Primavera | Page 2

appear;_
The roses on the hill

Are fragrant as before;
Only thy face, of all that's dear,
I shall see
nevermore!"
Take, again, these two lines:
"Forget the shining of the stars, forget
The vernal visitation of the
rose."

There is but one piece of blank verse in the book. This prologue to
"Orestes," by Mr. Stephen Phillips, has strength, is firm in outline,
somewhat tardy in movement, fit for sonorous declamation. The
gravity which I have indicated as a ruling quality of all these youthful
compositions makes itself felt here in its proper place. We might have
wished, perhaps, for more of joyous accent in the ode to "Youth," by
Mr. Laurence Binyon, which dwells less on the rapture of youth than
on its sadness--the melancholy of Theognis over youth's decay:
"O bright new-comer, filled with thoughts of joy,
Joy to be thine
amid these pleasant plains,
Know'st thou not, child, what surely
coming pains
Await thee, for that eager heart's annoy?

Misunderstanding, disappointment, tears,
Wronged love, spoiled
hope, mistrust and ageing fears,
Eternal longing for one perfect friend,

And unavailing wishes without end?"
Mr. Cripps alone permits his Muse a gravely jocund note in his
"Seasons' Comfort." He, too, of the four fellow-versifiers shows the
greater aptitude for experiments, though it may perhaps be felt that his
touch is nowhere quite so sure, nor his artistic feeling so direct as
theirs.
It is difficult to lay the critic's hand lightly enough upon poems like
these, or to make it clear what particular attraction they possess. With
all the charm of rathe spring-flowers, they suggest the possibilities of
varied personality not yet
accentuated in the authors. Let us hope that
the four Muses of the four friends will not, like the primroses,
"die unmarried ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength,"
but that we shall profit by their summer-songs, while ever
remaining
grateful for their _Primavera_.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.
_August_, 1890.

PRIMAVERA
O Primavera, gioventù de l' anno,
Bella madre de' fiori,
D'erbe
novelle e di novelli amori,
Tu torni ben; ma teco
Non tornano i
sereni
E fortunati dì de le mie gioje:
Tu torni ben, tu torni,
Ma
teco altro non torna
Che del perduto mio caro tesoro
La
rimembranza misera e dolente:
Tu quella sei, tu quella,
Ch'era pur
dianzi si vezzosa e bella;
Ma non son io già quel ch'un tempo fui,
Sì
caro a gli occhi altrui.
GUARINI. _Pastor Fido_, Atto iii, Sc. I.
POEMS
No Muse will I invoke; for she is fled!
Lo! where she sits, breathing,
yet all but dead.
She loved the heavens of old, she thought them fair;

And dream'd of Gods in Tempe's golden air.
For her the wind had
voice, the sea its cry;
She deem'd heroic Greece could never die.

Breathless was she, to think what nymphs might play
In clear green
depths, deep-shaded from the day;
She thought the dim and
inarticulate god
Was beautiful, nor knew she man a sod;
But hoped
what seem'd might not be all untrue,
And feared to look beyond the
eternal blue.
But now the heavens are bared of dreams divine.
Still
murmurs she, like Autumn, _This was mine!_
How should she face
the ghastly, jarring Truth,
That questions all, and tramples without
ruth?
And still she clings to Ida of her dreams,
And sobs, _Ah! let
the world be what it seems!_
Then the shy nymph shall softly come
again;
The world, once more, make music for her pain.
For, sitting
in the dim and ghostly night,
She fain would stay the strong approach
of light;
While later bards cleave to her, and believe
That in her
sorrow she can still conceive!

Oh, let her dream; still lovely is her
sigh;
Oh, rouse her not, or she shall surely die.

STEPHEN PHILLIPS.
YOUTH
When life begins anew,
And Youth, from gathering flowers,
From
vague delights, rapt musings, twilight hours,
Turns restless, seeking
some great deed to do,
To sum his foster'd dreams; when that fresh
birth
Unveils the real, the throng'd and spacious Earth,
And he
awakes to those more ample skies,
By other aims and by new powers
possess'd:
How deeply, then, his breast
Is fill'd with pangs of
longing! how his eyes
Drink in the enchanted prospect! Fair it lies

Before him, with its plains expanding vast,
Peopled with visions, and
enrich'd with dreams;
Dim cities, ancient forests, winding streams,

Places resounding in the famous past,
A kingdom ready to his hand!

How like a bride Life seems to stand
In welcome, and with festal
robes array'd!
He feels her loveliness pervade
And pierce him with
inexplicable sweetness;
And, in her smiles delighting, and the fires

Of his own pulses, passionate soul!
Measures his strength by his
desires,
And the wide future by their fleetness,
As his thought leaps
to the long-distant goal.
So eagerly across that unknown span
Of years he gazes: what, to him,

Are bounds and barriers, tales of Destiny,
Death, and the fabled
impotence of man?
Already, in his marching dream,
Men at his
sun-like coming seem
As with an inspiration stirr'd, and he
To
kindle with new thoughts degenerate nations,
In sordid cares
immersed so long;
Thrill'd with ethereal exultations
And a
victorious expectancy,
Even such as swell'd the breasts of Bacchus'
throng,
When that triumphal burst of joy was hurl'd
Upon