To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul aflame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face!
Made for the luring and the love of man!
With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting-place,
Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness,
My freedom and my life republican.

Lyric poetry is by its excellence the chief art of England, as music
is the art of Germany. A book of poetry is almost sure of fair
appreciation in the English press which does not trouble to notice a
"Sartor Resartus" or the first essays of an Emerson. The excessive
consideration given to Oscar's book by the critics showed that already
his personality and social success had affected the reporters.

_The Athenæum_ gave the book the place of honour in its number for the
23rd of July. The review was severe; but not unjust. "Mr. Wilde's
volume of poems," it says, "may be regarded as the evangel of a new
creed. From other gospels it differs in coming after, instead of
before, the cult it seeks to establish.... We fail to see, however,
that the apostle of the new worship has any distinct message."

The critic then took pains to prove that "nearly all the book is
imitative" ... and concluded: "Work of this nature has no element of
endurance."

_The Saturday Review_ dismissed the book at the end of an article on
"Recent Poetry" as "neither good nor bad." The reviewer objected in