The difficulty which has existed since Lord Tennyson's dramatic death, of choosing a successor to the Laureateship, has partly arisen from the presence of so many minor poets, and the absence, with one remarkable exception, of any monarch of song.
The exception is, of course, Mr. Swinburne, who stands alone as the greatest living master of English verse. The objections to his appointment may, in some eyes, have importance, but time has sobered his more erratic flights, leaving a large residuum of fine work, both in poetry and prose, which would make him a worthy successor to any of those gone before.
Of the smaller fry, it is difficult to prophesy which will hereafter come to the front, and what of their work may live.
As Oliver Wendell Holmes so pathetically says:—
"Deal gently with us, ye who read!
Our largest hope is unfulfilled;
The promise still outruns the deed;
The tower, but not the spire we build.