Primavera | Page 2

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, giovent�� 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 d�� 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 gi�� quel ch'un tempo fui,?S�� 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 the wondering world;?When from the storied, sacred East afar,?Down Indian gorges clothed in green,?With flower-rein'd tigers and with ivory car?He came, the youthful god;?Beautiful Bacchus, ivy-crown'd, his hair?Blown on the wind, and flush'd limbs bare,?And lips apart, and radiant eyes,?And ears that caught the coming melodies,?As wave on wave of revellers swept abroad;?Wreathed with vine-leaves, shouting, trampling onwards,