VESPERTILIA. In the late autumn's dusky-golden prime, Who stayed and spake with me: Hard by the ancient barrow smooth and green, Ay, many a time as came the evening hour I found her straying by that barren bower, Her mouth was redder than the pimpernel, And all about her breast, around her head, A twisted clasp and pin Confined her long blue mantle's heavy fold Faded like some rich raiment worn of old, And all her talk was of some outland rare, "Long since," she sighed, "I sought this island grey- Once, as we stood, we heard the nightingale I took her chill hands gently in mine own, Weeping, she drew her veil about her face, Ah, hadst thou loved me but a little while, I might have lived again." Then slowly as a wave along the shore And now, alas, my true love's memory And all my thoughts are of the stranger still, I loved her not—and yet—I fain would see, Her dark veil fluttering in the autumn breeze; Ever the thought of her abides with me Unceasing as the murmur of the sea; When the round moon is low and night-birds flit, When sink the stubble-fires with smouldering flame, Over and o'er the sea-wind sighs her name, And the leaves whisper it. "Poor Vespertilia," sing the grasses sere, "Poor Vespertilia," moans the surf-beat shore; WILLIAM WATSON IN attempting an estimate of Mr. William Watson's talent, one is somewhat embarrassed by the fact that he has already formed the subject of a masterly and conclusive critical study. It is entitled Apologia; it appears in a book called The Father of the Forest; and it is written by Mr. William Watson. Apart from a phrase or two of obligatory self-depreciation, there is nothing in this poem that is not just, that is not right. I do not mean that the modesty with which it is written is conventional or insincere. It is not so much modesty, indeed, as modest pride: a totally different thing from "the pride that apes humility." At the same time, the mere exigences of rhetoric compel a little over-emphasis here and there, for which the candid reader will make allowance. This done, he will find the poem an admirably accurate piece of selfcriticism. It may be amplified, indeed; it can scarcely be amended. The very fact that Mr. Watson should criticise himself, and in doing so produce a really fine poem, abounding in memorable lines and passages, is in itself characteristic. The differentia of his talent is the intimate blending of logic with imagination. He would possibly have been a greater (certainly a more productive) poet, had the imaginative element in his composition been less exactly balanced by the logical element. But the imaginative element is in itself very strong; and there is one of his poems, not sufficiently appreciated, I think, even by his admirers, in which we find it without any admixture of the logical element, and can study it by itself. Need I add that it is his first poem ?" written in great part during his teens," says the Publishers' Note to the second edition. On its appearance in 1880, the Note proceeds, The Prince's Quest "attracted the attention of a few excellent judges," chief among whom was Dante Gabriel Rossetti. He must have been the reverse of an "excellent judge" who could read ten pages of this poem without feeling himself in the presence of a true poet. Rossetti's own Blessed Damozel gave no clearer prognostic of genius. The Prince's Quest is a romantic narrative, a fairy-tale, of something like two thousand lines. It is very immature, very wordy, very saccharine. There are passages. which flow idly on and on, like a thread of syrup dribbling from a spoon-nor is the syrup always "tinct with cinnamon." I cannot even agree with Rossetti that Mr. Watson "goes right back to Keats." The intermediary influence of William Morris seems to me unmistakable. None the less does one feel assured that this writer is an original poet in the truest sense of the word. There is scarcely a page in which individual inspiration does not break through the borrowed mannerism. Take, for instance, this picture: So hour by hour (thus ran the Prince's dream) Over the errant water wandering free, And Morn pale-haired with watery wide eyes |