Antar and Zara, with many shorter pieces, first appeared in the pages of The Catholic World. It was in those pages that the writer made Mr. De Vere’s acquaintance; and not a few of our readers, probably, are indebted to the same source for their introduction to the great Catholic poet of the day. To such it will be a welcome surprise, as it is to us, to find his cultured muse so prolific. The variety of themes, too, within these volumes affords a frequent ramble “to fresh fields and pastures new.” The poet himself has travelled. With Byron, he has “stood on the Alps,” and pondered in the “City of the Soul,” and basked in the “eternal summer” that “yet gilds the Isles of Greece.” At home, again, he has sung Erin’s glories and woes as though he had taken down the old Bardic harp from “Tara’s walls.”
As a poet, however, he shows the influence of two other great masters than Byron and Moore—though some of his Irish ballads remind us of the latter. He is chiefly a disciple of Wordsworth, while he has studied to good purpose the scholarly verse of Tennyson. With most imitators of Tennyson the classic perfections of the Laureate are turned to mere affectations. Not so with Mr. De Vere, who is equally a scholar himself. This scholarly taste, indeed, would have prevented him, we are sure, from adopting Wordsworth’s theory of poetic diction, even had Tennyson never arisen to recall English poetry from the loose, inaccurate style into which his great predecessors, with the exception of Coleridge, had thrown so much splendid thought.
This conviction of ours regarding the combined influence of Tennyson and Wordsworth on our author’s poetry is confirmed by the discovery that Antar and Zara is dedicated to the former by “his friend”; and, again, of the sonnet “Composed at Rydal, September, 1860,” with the two following sonnets “To Wordsworth, on Visiting the Duddon.” Antar and Zara, particularly in the shorter metre of Zara’s “song,” is eminently Tennysonian. For example:
“He culled me grapes—the vintager;
In turn, for song the old man prayed:
I glanced around; but none was near:
With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed.
“‘Were I a vine, and he were heaven,
That vine would spread a vernal leaf
To meet the beams of morn and even,