As he himself said, "The life of the
people is such that in literature they require joy." But not only his
thought, his very style, is anti-popular. Much of his most elaborate
work is in blank verse, and that in itself is a heavy draw-back. Much
also is in exotic and unaccustomed metres, which to the great bulk of
English readers must always be more of a discipline than of a delight.
And, even when he wrote in our indigenous metres, his ear often played
him false. His rhymes are sometimes only true to the eye, and his lines
are over-crowded with jerking monosyllables. Let one glaring instance
suffice--
Calm not life's crown, though calm is well.
The sentiment is true and even profound; but the expression is surely
rugged and jolting to the last degree; and there are many lines nearly
as ineuphonious. Here are some samples, collected by that fastidious
critic, Mr. Frederic Harrison--
"The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes."
"Could'st thou no better keep, O Abbey old?"
"The strange-scrawl'd rocks, the lonely sky."
These Mr.
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