Page:Essays and Studies - Swinburne (1875).pdf/133

 O sickle cutting harvest all day long, That the husbandman across his shoulder hangs, And going homeward about evensong, Dies the next morning, struck through by the fangs!"

—all these points and phases of passion are alike truly and nobly rendered. I have not read the poem for years, I have not the book at hand, and I cite from memory; but I think it would be safe to swear to the accuracy of my citation. Such verses are not forgetable. They are not, indeed,—as are the "Idylls of the King"—the work of a dexterous craftsman in full practice. Little beyond dexterity, a rare eloquence, and a laborious patience of hand, has been given to the one or denied to the other. These are good gifts and great; but it is better to want clothes than limbs.

The shortcomings of this first book are nowhere traceable in the second now lying before us. A nine