This Has A Fault That Doth Offend The Reader Of Modern Verse,
And There Are Many Of The Eighty Sonnets In The Book Which Do
Not Equal It In Merit.
He was manifestly an amateur; he
sometimes writes with labour, and he not infrequently ends
with the unpardonable weak line.
Nevertheless he had rightly
chosen this difficult form in which to express his inner self.
It suited his grave, concentrated thought, and each little
imperfect poem of fourteen lines gives us a glimpse into a
wise, beneficent mind. He had fought his fight and suffered
defeat, and had then withdrawn himself silently from the field
to die. But if he had been embittered he could have relieved
himself in this little book. There is no trace of such a
feeling. He only asks, in one sonnet, where can a balm be
found for the heart fretted and torn with eternal cares; when
we have thought and striven for some great and good purpose,
when all our striving has ended in disaster? His plan, he
concludes, is to go out in the quiet night-time and look at
the stars.
Here let me quote two more sonnets written in contemplative
mood, just to give the reader a fuller idea not of the verse,
as verse, but of the spirit in the old squire. There is no
title to these two: -
I like a fire of wood; there is a kind
Of artless poetry in all its ways:
When first 'tis lighted, how it roars and plays,
And sways to every breath its flames, refined
By fancy to some shape by life confined.
And then how touching are its latter days;
When, all its strength decayed, and spent the blaze
Of fiery youth, grey ash is all we find.
Perhaps we know the tree, of which the pile
Once formed a part, and oft beneath its shade
Have sported in our youth; or in quaint style
Have carved upon its rugged bark a name
Of which the memory doth alone remain
A memory doomed, alas!
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