I think we have here a Henley manqué. In robustious assertion you will not find anything to equal it in the Hospital Rhymes of that author. I was so much struck by the poem that I obtained permission to correspond with the poet. I discovered that another Sappho might have adorned our literature; that a mute inglorious Elizabeth Barrett was kept silent in Darien—for the asylum was in
the immediate vicinity of the Peak in Derbyshire. Of the correspondence which ensued I venture to quote only one sentence:
‘I was brought up to love beauty; my home was more than cultured; it was refined; we took in the Art Journal regularly.’
Of all modern artists, I suppose that Sir Edward Burne-Jones has inspired more poetry than any other. A whole school of Oxford poets emerged from his fascinating palette, and he is the subject of perhaps the most exquisite of all the Poems and Ballads—the ‘Dedication’—which forms the colophon to that revel of rhymes. I sometimes think that is why his art is out of fashion with modern painters, who may inspire dealers, but would never inspire poets. For who could write a sonnet on some uncompromising pieces of realism by Mr. Rothenstein, Mr. John, or Mr. Orpen? Theirs is an art which speaks for itself. But Sir Edward Burne-Jones seems to have dazzled the undergrowth of Parnassus no less than the higher slopes. In a long and serious epic called ‘The Pageant of Life,’ dealing with every conceivable subject, I found:—
With some the mention of Burne-Jones
Elicits merely howls and groans;
But those who know each inch of art
Believe that he can bear his part.
I don’t remember what he could bear. Perhaps it referred to his election at the Royal Academy. Then, again, in a ‘Vision’ of the next world, a poet described how—
Byron, Burne-Jones, and Beethoven,
Charlotte Bronte and Chopin are there.
I wonder if this has escaped the eagle eye of Mr. Clement Shorter. Though perhaps the most delightful nonsense, for which, I fear, this great painter is partly responsible, may be found in a recent poem addressed to the memory of my old friend, Simeon Solomon:—
More of Rossetti? Yes:
You follow’d than Burne-Jones,
Your depth of colour his
than that of monochromes!
Yes; amber lilies poured, I say,
A joy for thee, than poet’s bay.But while true art refines
and often stimulates,
Art does, at times, I say,
sit grief within our gates!
Art causes men to weep at times—
If you may heed these falt’ring rhymes.
A small volume of lyrics once sent to me for review afforded another flower for my garland:—