Page:The Poetry of Dante Rossetti by Hall Caine.pdf/2

 world-old harmonies in "The Song of the Bower," and "The Sea-Limits;" the pathos in "Jenny;" the tragic hold of truth and reality in "The Last Confession," and the exquisite ardour and utter union of sensuous love and spiritual passion in "The House of Life," could not fail of immediate recognition. But it is not at first that we get an ultimate analysis of the elements of Mr. Rossetti's poetry. The secret of the scheme of his genius does not reveal itself at once; it is known to us at the beginning, only through the pulsations of feeling which respond to its gracious abundance.

There are many ways in which a poet may be read; and of these the unpractised reader is always certain to adopt the worst. The channel through which usually we come to know a contemporary author is one that makes us peculiarly liable to misunderstand him, or fall short of full perception of his worth. First, we meet in periodical literature with some mention of his name; next, we see some allusion to his work; then we read some citation from his writings, such as touches our imagination with a gentle pressure; afterwards we revolve in our minds considerations of the market value to us of a full and complete acquaintance; and finally we determine to obtain the praise and the pudding that come of utter mastery of the man as soon as opportunity may allow. When then we come to the study of our author we bring with us certain special expectations, evolved by power and individual bias out of the citation we have seen. If by chance, rare and unmerited, we have had struck for us the key to the harmony of his mind it is well. If on the other hand we have caught up, as is most probable, only some stray notes in the fretting, disappointment or even disgust ensues. Poets suffer specially from this feeble and lifeless treatment, and the poets' poets most of all. They ask in their readers a sympathetic attitude of mind, an impulse that is fervent, an instinct that is right. When under other conditions and amidst other influences we mingle discordant tones with languid hand amongst the sonorous fluctuations of their harmonies we complain with peevish irritation that they do not sway the passions we have not got or touch, as with the point of a spear, the problems of life and joys of living we do not know and feel. Attention and intelligence may at any time enable us to grasp the broad meaning of "The Excursion;" but we need to wait the call of