Poems. Edward Dowden

the companionship of Jane Austen again and again. And amongst the books which he himself made, it was perhaps his Montaigne that gave him, in the process of making, the delicatest satisfaction—the satisfaction of witnessing and analysing the dexterous play of human intellect and character on low levels.

      His attraction to Goethe—very dominant with him in middle life—came, I imagine, from the fact that he saw in that mightiest of the Teutons two diverse qualities in operation—the measureless intellectual spirituality and the vast common-sense of mundane wisdom.

      In this attraction there was also the element of the magnetism which draws together opposites—not less forcible than the attraction between affinities.

      As regards the moral nature, his own was as far as the North Pole is from the South from that of the great sage of Weimar, whose serenely-wise beneficence contained no potentialities of sainthood, martyrdom or absolute human love. He sought gain from Goethe just because of that unlikeness to what was in himself.

      At one period of his literary work he was intending to make as his “opus magnus” a full study of Goethe’s life and works, and with that intent he carried on a course of reading, and laid in a great equipment of workman’s tools—Goethe books in German, French and English. From this project he was turned aside by a call to write the life of Shelley—a long and difficult task. But he never lost sight of Goethe. In one of the later years of his life, as recreation in a summer’s holiday in Cornwall, he translated the whole of the “West-Eastern Divan” into English verse, and previously, from time to time, isolated essays on Goethe themes appeared amongst his prose writings. And yet it is not unlikely that even if the task of Shelley’s biography had not intervened, no complete study, such as he had at first planned, might have been ever accomplished by him on Goethe, for with experience there came to him a growing conviction that his best work in criticism could only be done in dealing with what was written in his mother-tongue.

      Some of Edward Dowden’s friends, Nationalist and Unionist both, have felt regret that he, the gentle scholar, gave such large share of his energies to the strife of politics, as if force were subtracted thereby from his work in Literature. They are mistaken. The output of energy thus given came back to the giver, reinforcing his prose writing with a mundane vigour and virility, exceeding what it might have had if he had kept himself aloof from the affairs of the nation.

      Yet, strangely enough, between his politics and his poetry there was a water-tight wall of separation. Other men, to take scattered instances, Kipling, Wordsworth, Milton, fused in various ways their political feeling and their poetical. This Edward Dowden never attempted. I cannot analyse the “why.”

      Confining myself to some points which seem left out of sight in most of the admirably appreciative obituary notices in last April’s newspapers, I have tried to say here, in a fragmentary way, a few things about a man of whom many things—infinitely many—might be said without exhausting the total. He was himself at the same time many and one. He had multiform aspects—interests very diverse—and yet life was for him in no wise “patchy and scrappy,” but had unity throughout.

      In Shakespeare, whose faithful scholar he was, there are diversities: and yet, do we not image Shakespeare to our minds as one and a whole?

      In the volumes now issued by Messrs. J. M. Dent & Sons is contained all the verse that the author left available for publication, with the exception of a sequence of a hundred and one lyrics (which by desire is separately published under the somewhat transparent disguise of editorship). That little sequence, named A Woman’s Reliquary, is his latest work in verse. Much in it re-echoes sounds that can be heard in his old poems of the early seventies.

E. D. D.

      September 1913.

      THE WANDERER

      I cast my anchor nowhere (the waves whirled

      My anchor from me); East and West are one

      To me; against no winds are my sails furled;

      —Merely my planet anchors to the Sun.

      THE FOUNTAIN

      (An Introduction To the Sonnets)

      Hush, let the fountain murmur dim

      Melodious secrets; stir no limb,

      But lie along the marge and wait,

      Till deep and pregnant as with fate,

      Fine as a star-beam, crystal-clear,

      Each ripple grows upon the ear.

      This is that fountain seldom seen

      By mortal wanderer,—Hippocrene,—

      Where the virgins three times three,

      Thy singing brood, Mnemosyne,

      Loosen’d the girdle, and with grave

      Pure joy their faultless bodies gave

      To sacred pleasure of the wave.

      Listen! the lapsing waters tell

      The urgence uncontrollable

      Which makes the trouble of their breast,

      And bears them onward with no rest

      To ampler skies and some grey plain

      Sad with the tumbling of the main.

      But see, a sidelong eddy slips

      Back into the soft eclipse

      Of day, while careless fate allows,

      Darkling beneath still olive boughs;

      Then with chuckle liquid sweet

      Coils within its shy retreat;

      This is mine, no wave of might,

      But pure and live with glimmering light;

      I dare not follow that broad flood

      Of Poesy, whose lustihood

      Nourishes mighty lands, and makes

      Resounding music for their sakes;

      I lie beside the well-head clear

      With musing joy, with tender fear,

      And choose for half a day to lean

      Thus on my elbow where the green

      Margin-grass and silver-white

      Starry buds, the wind’s delight,

      Thirsting steer, nor goat-hoof rude

      Of the branch-sundering Satyr brood

      Has ever pashed; now, now, I stoop,

      And in hand-hollow dare to scoop

      This scantling from the delicate stream;

      It lies as quiet as a dream,

      And lustrous in my curvèd hand.

      Were it a crime if this were drain’d

      By lips which met the noonday blue

      Fiery and emptied of its dew?

      Crown me with small white marish-flowers!

      To the good Dæmon, and the Powers

      Of this fair haunt I offer up

      In unprofanèd lily-cup

      Libations; still remains for me

      A bird’s drink of clear Poesy;

      Yet not as light bird comes and dips

      A pert bill, but with reverent lips

      I drain this slender trembling tide;

      O sweet the coolness at my side,

      And, lying back, to slowly pry

      For spaces of the upper sky

      Radiant ’twixt woven olive leaves;

      And, last, while some fair show deceives

      The closing eyes, to find a sleep

      As full of healing and as deep

      As