prized.  We need not complain that it is for the tune rather than for the melody—if we must use those alien terms—that he is chiefly admired, and even for the jingle rather than for the tune: he gave his readers all three, and all three in perfection.  Nineteen out of twenty who take pleasure in this art of his will quote you first

When the hounds of Spring are on winter’s traces
The Mother of months, in meadow and plain,

and the rest of the buoyant familiar lines.  I confess there is something too obvious, insistent, emphatic, too dapper, to give me more than a slight pleasure; but it is possible that I am prejudiced by a dislike of English anapaests (I am aware that the classic terms are not really applicable to our English metres, but the reader will underhand that I mean the metre of the lines just quoted.)  I do not find these anapaests in the Elizabethan or in the seventeenth-century poets, or most rarely.  They were dear to the eighteenth century, and, much more than the heroic couplet, are the distinctive metre of that age.  They swagger—or, worse, they strut—in its lighter verse, from its first year to its last.  Swinburne’s anapaests are far too delicate for swagger or strut; but for all their dance, all their spring, all their flight, all their flutter, we are compelled to perceive that, as it were, they perform.  I love to see English poetry move to many measures, to many numbers, but chiefly with the simple iambic and the simple trochaic foot.  Those two are enough for the infinite variety, the epic, the drama, the lyric, of our poetry.  It is, accordingly, in these old traditional and proved metres that Swinburne’s music seems to me most worthy, most controlled, and most lovely.  There is his best dignity, and therefore his best beauty.  For even beauty is not to be thrust upon us; she is not to solicit us or offer herself thus to the first comer; and in the most admired of those flying lyrics she is thus immoderately lavish of herself.  “He lays himself out,” wrote Francis Thompson in an anonymous criticism, “to delight and seduce.  The great poets entice by a glorious accident . . . but allurement, in Mr. Swinburne’s poetry, is the alpha and omega.”  This is true of all that he has written, but it is true, in a more fatal sense, of these famous tunes of his “music.”  Nay, delicate as they are, we are convinced that it is the less delicate ear that most surely takes much pleasure in them, the dull ear that chiefly they delight.

Compare with such luxurious canterings the graver movement of this “Vision of Spring in Winter”:

Sunrise it sees not, neither set of star,
Large nightfall, nor imperial plenilune,
Nor strong sweet shape of the full-breasted noon;
But where the silver-sandalled shadows are,
Too soft for arrows of the sun to mar,
Moves with the mild gait of an ungrown moon.

Even more valuable than this exquisite rhymed stanza is the blank verse which Swinburne released into new energies, new liberties, and new movements.  Milton, it need hardly be said, is the master of those who know how to place and displace the stress and accent of the English heroic line in epic poetry.  His most majestic hand undid the mechanical bonds of the national line and made it obey the unwritten laws of his genius.  His blank verse marches, pauses, lingers, and charges.  It feels the strain, it yields, it resists; it is all-expressive.  But if the practice of some of the poets succeeding him had tended to make it rigid and tame again, Swinburne was a new liberator.  He writes, when he ought, with a finely appropriate regularity, as in the lovely line on the forest glades

That fear the faun’s and know the dryad’s foot,

in which the rule is completely kept, every step of the five stepping from the unaccented place to the accented without a tremor.  (I must again protest that I use the word “accent” in a sense that has come to be adapted to English prosody, because it is so used by all writers on English metre, and is therefore understood by the reader, but I think “stress” the better word.)  But having written this perfect English-iambic line so wonderfully fit for the sensitive quiet of the woods, he turns the page to the onslaught of such lines—heroic lines with a difference—as report the short-breathed messenger’s reply to Althea’s question by whose hands the boar of Calydon had died:

A maiden’s and a prophet’s and thy son’s.

It is lamentable that in his latest blank verse Swinburne should have made a trick and a manner of that most energetic device of his by which he leads the line at a rush from the first syllable to the tenth, and on to the first of the line succeeding, with a great recoil to follow, as though a rider brought a horse to his haunches.  It is in the same boar hunt:

And fiery with invasive eyes,
And bristling with intolerable hair,
Plunged;—

Sometimes we may be troubled with a misgiving that Swinburne’s fine narrative, as well as his descriptive writing of other kinds, has a counterpart in the programme-music of some now bygone composers.  It is even too descriptive, too imitative of things, and seems to out-run the province of words, somewhat as that did the province of notes.  But, though this hunting, and checking, and floating, and flying in metre may be to strain the arts of prosody and diction, with how masterly a hand is the straining accomplished!  The spear, the arrow, the attack, the charge, the footfall, the pinion, nay, the very stepping of the moon, the walk of the wind, are mimicked in this enchanting verse.  Like to programme-music we must call it, but I wish the concert-platform had ever justified this slight perversion of aim, this excess—almost corruption—of one kind of skill, thus miraculously well.

Now, if Swinburne’s exceptional faculty of diction led him to immoderate expressiveness, to immodest sweetness, to a jugglery, and prestidigitation, and conjuring of words, to transformations and transmutations of sound—if, I say, his extraordinary gift of diction brought him to this exaggeration of the manner, what a part does it not play in the matter of his poetry!  So overweening a place does it take in this man’s art that I believe the words to hold and use his meaning, rather than the meaning to compass and grasp and use the word.  I believe that Swinburne’s thoughts have their source, their home, their origin, their authority and mission in those two places—his own vocabulary and the passion of other men.  This is a grave charge.

First, then, in regard to the passion of other men.  I have given to his own emotion the puniest name I could find for it; I have no nobler name for his intellect.  But other men had thoughts, other men had passions; political, sexual, natural, noble, vile, ideal, gross, rebellious, agonising, imperial, republican, cruel, compassionate; and with these he fed his verses.  Upon these and their life he sustained, he fattened, he enriched his poetry.  Mazzini in Italy, Gautier and Baudelaire in France, Shelley in England, made for him a base of passionate and intellectual supplies.  With them he kept the all-necessary line of communication.  We cease, as we see their active hearts possess his active art, to think a question as to his sincerity seriously worth asking; what sincerity he has is so absorbed in the one excited act of receptivity.  That, indeed, he performs with all the will, all the precipitation, all the rush, all the surrender, all the wholehearted weakness of his subservient and impetuous nature.  I have not named the Greeks, nor the English Bible, nor Milton, as his inspirers.  These he would claim; they are not his.  He received too partial, too fragmentary, too arbitrary an inheritance of the Greek spirit, too