It would be unbecoming and impertinent to point out to any one who has an ear for verse, the charm of such lines as—
"A murmur far and far, of those that stirred
Within the great encampment of the sea."
Or—
"A love-winged seraph glides in glory by,
Striking the tent of its mortality."
(An idea anticipated by the as yet unknown Omar Khayyam).
Or—
"Dost thou, in thy vigil, hail
Arcturus in his chariot pale,
Leading him with a fiery flight
Over the hollow hill of night?"
These are wonderful verses for a lad of twenty-one, living among anglers, undergraduates, and, if with some society of the lettered, apparently with none which could appreciate or applaud him.
For the matter of the poem, the wild voyage of the mad monkish lover with the dead Bride of Heaven, it strikes, of course, on the common reef of the Romantic—the ridiculous. But the recurring contrasts of a pure, clear peace in sea and sky, are of rare and atoning beauty. Such a passage is—
"And the great ocean, like a holy hall,
Where slept a seraph host maritimal,
Was gorgeous with wings of diamond."