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"Ask Paxhorn he wrote the lyrics, and had the management; or better still Vermont, whom I'm going to see myself presently. But this will be a success, Mortimer, and I shall make a fortune." "Yes," said Shelton quietly, "for Paxhorn and Vermont. Well, it's no business of mine, of course." He turned to Ada, who had been tapping her foot angrily during this little conversation.
I conquered peoples, and organised nations and knit empires, and gave periods of peace to vast territories. And the arts of peace flourished, and you multiplied yourself in divers ways. You were priest and singer and dancer and musician. You expressed your fancies in colours and metals and marbles. You wrote epics and lyrics ay, as you to-day write lyrics, Dane Kempton. And I multiplied myself.
It was not toil. He was finding speech, and all the beauty and wonder that had been pent for years behind his inarticulate lips was now pouring forth in a wild and virile flood. He showed the "Sea Lyrics" to no one, not even to the editors. He had become distrustful of editors. But it was not distrust that prevented him from submitting the "Lyrics."
"My dear madam, excuse me," said Theophilus; "but I cannot help being reminded of what an English reviewer once said, that a lady's facts have as much poetry in them as Tom Moore's lyrics. Of course poetry is always agreeable, even though of no statistical value." "I see no poetry in my facts," said Mrs. Crowfield.
I return to the road, and inculcate patience on myself. Why may not I take a lesson in easy-mindedness from Vick? Was not it Hartley Coleridge who suggested that perhaps dogs have a language of smell; and that what to us is a noisome smell, is to them a beautiful poem? If so, Vick is searching for lyrics and epics in the ditch.
The third and the seventh numbers were made up of short pieces Dramatic Lyrics , Dramatic Romances and Lyrics . The Return of the Druses and A Blot in the 'Scutcheon Numbers 4 and 5 followed each other in the same year 1843.
This mental inadequacy alone would not have created the novel, but would only have made lyrics and epics rare, the works of superior minds. The second and cooperating circumstance was the prevalence of the Christian and feudal habit of contemplation, which made constant literature a necessity. Nothing less than eternal new romances could save the lords, the ladies, and the dependents from ennui.
Among the gorgeous descriptive pieces of Leconte de Lisle, the exquisite lyrics of Sully Prudhomme, and the chiselled sonnets of Heredia some of the finest and weightiest verse of the century is to be found. The age produced one other poet who, however, by the spirit of his work, belongs rather to the succeeding epoch than to his own.
An English clergyman found immortality by writing one poem, "The Burial of Sir John Moore," and, however posterity may appraise Verlaine's work as a whole, he has left three or four lyrics which can die only if the French language dies, or if mankind in its latter end undergoes a paralysis of the poetic sense such as Darwin suffered from in his old age.
You could read one of the brief lyrics and let the book slide down on to your knee and enjoy the quivering blue and gold, and soft, murmurous, chirruping sounds of the summer's day, while your mind played round the idea embodied in the poem. She turned the pages idly, skimming desultorily through the verses till she came to a brief two-verse lyric which caught and held her interest.
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