"For in truth
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face,
Rough-reddened with a thousand winter-gales,
Not only to the market-cross were known,
But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely hall,
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering."
In this passage all the words are in common use, but in other parts of the same volume, and, indeed, in all which the laureate has published, we perceive a strong tendency to antique and grotesque forms of speech, derived from long and devoted attachment to the old writers. If they were introduced by design, simply because they are archaisms, the artifice would be apparent, and the pedantry complete. But when they form a genuine part of the author's inner life of thought and memory, the case is different, and what would have been formal and stiff becomes natural and easy. They comport well with the idea one forms of a great thinker, and indicate a thorough mastery over the mother tongue. They might, no doubt, easily degenerate into affectation, but when employed with judgment and skill, they are like fossils in a well-arranged cabinet, or old china in a well-furnished room. Resembling, as they do, the tough, tortuous olive-tree, they are valuable signs of a people's mental vigor; for as surely as the "soft bastard Latin" of the Apennines indicates a population less martial than the Romans of old—as surely as the soft and sibilant Romaic tells of a race fallen from the higher walks of Grecian philosophy, history, science, and song—so surely would Latinized English be a sign that the people writing and speaking it, were falling away from the marked character of their forefathers, and contrasting with them as strongly as the silken senators whom Chatham denounced contrasted with the iron barons of the days of King John.
Waiting.
Flame, rosy tapers, flame!
Though flushing day
Is mounting into heaven, it cannot shame
The weakest rush-light burning in his name
Who soon will say,
"Peace to this house!" Consoling word,
Which patient ones have heard,
Then meekly sighed,
"Now let thy servant, Lord, depart in peace!"
And, granted swift release,
Next moment died.
Flame, rosy tapers, flame!
No garish day can shame
Your ruddy wax a-light in Jesus' name!
Close, giddy honeysuckles, clambering free,
Close your moist petals to the wandering bee.
That with your cloistered dews you may adore
My Lord, when he shall enter at the door.
O blossoming sweet-brier!
Now flushing like a seraph with desire
To do him homage, send abroad
Your aromatic breath, and thus entice,
With innocent device,
His quickening steps unto my poor abode.
Calm lilies for his tabernacle sealed,
O spicy hyacinths! now yield
Your odors to the waiting air
His welcome to prepare;
Nor fear that by my haste
Your perfumes you will waste;
For each expectant sigh
Is dearer, to the Holy One so nigh,
Than all your honeyed nectaries exhale.
Young rose and lilac pale,
And every flow'ret fair,
Incense the blissful air,
And bid him, hail!
Flame, rosy tapers, flame!
No garish day can shame
Your ruddy wax a-light in Jesus' name!
Sing, lark and linnet, sing
The graces of this King,
Who, in such meek array,
Will visit me to-day:
Young swallows, twittering at my cottage eaves,
Shy wrens, close-nested in the woodbine leaves,
Blithe robins, chirping on the open gate,
Upon his coming wait:
Glad oriole, swinging with the linden bough,
I do entreat you, now
With gushing throat
Repeat your most ecstatic note.
Afar I hear,
With instinct quick and clear,
His step who bears, enshrined upon his breast,
The God who soon within my own will rest.
Angelic choirs
Are touching their exultant lyres:
Sing, lark and linnet, sing,
And with your artless jubilations bring
Their joy to earth; and you, melodious thrush,
While my glad soul keeps hush,
Attune your song
My silent rapture to prolong.
Flame, rosy tapers, flame!
No garish day can shame
Your ruddy wax a-light in Jesus' name!