I would not change for thine;"

and for doing so have encountered the anger rather than the
argument of those who cannot admire a pretty lyric but they must
hold reason itself to be in error rather than allow that a line of
it has chanced to get turned in the rhyming.


IN EARTH


"I ever saw anything," says Charles Lamb, "like this funeral dirge,
except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father in
the Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the
earth, earthy. Both have that intentness of feeling which seems to
resolve itself into the element which it contemplates."


SONG (Phoebus, arise!)


All Drummond's poems seem to be minor poems, even at their finest,
except only this. He must have known, for the creation of that
poem, some more impassioned and less restless hour. It is, from
the outset to the close, the sigh of a profound expectation. There
is no division into stanzas, because its metre is the breath of
life. One might wish that the English ode (roughly called
"Pindaric") had never been written but with passion, for so written
it is the most immediate of all metres; the shock of the heart and
the breath of elation or grief are the law of the lines. It has