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descriptive of a little lake ... oh, yes, and two more I remember, descriptive of sunset: "And Fujiyama's far and sacred top Became a jewel shining in the sun." The poem was an over-laquered, metaphor-cloyed thing ... much like the bulk of our free verse of to-day ... but it was superior to all the rest of the contributions. The prize was declared off.
To Liverpool accordingly he returned, to work as a draughtsman, and fired withal with a double ambition for one thing to win fame as a poet, for another to succeed as a dramatist. Already in 1870 he had written a long poem, which was published in 1874 anonymously by an enterprising Liverpool publisher.
There was so much sorrow and grief in the land that it was the duty of all who could dispel it, if even for a little space, to do what they could. I remembered that poem of Ella Wheeler Wilcox "Laugh and the World Laughs With You!" And so I tried to laugh, and to make the part of the world that I chanced to be in laugh with me. For I knew there was weeping and sorrowing enough.
The whole poem is pervaded by that deep sense of loyalty, always a chief ingredient in Spanish honor and heroism, and which, in Ercilla, seems never to have been chilled by the ingratitude of the master to whom he devoted his life, and to whose glory he consecrated this poem.
Owen Meredith wrote a poem in which he glorified the game of chess as an aid to quiet conjugal love-making. But so far as I know no one has suggested that Canfield it was Mrs. Ascher's favourite kind of Patience has ever been used as an excuse for flirtation.
"But then, what does the average person of either sex know of love at all?" "They think they know," she said. "Really think it, but love like ours happens perhaps once in a century, and generally makes history of some sort bad or good." "Let it!" said Paul. "I am like Antony in that poem you read me last night.
Wilkes was supposed to have contributed something to these lively trifles, which, under an air of impertinent levity, are sometimes marked by originality and discernment. His poem called Day, an epistle which he had addressed to Wilkes in 1761, was not admitted by the author to take its place among the rest.
The person mourned must, however, have been of more importance than Vergil's brother. On the other hand, certain details in the poem the sorrow of the mother, for instance preclude the conjecture that it was Caesar, unless the poet is here confusing his details more than we need assume in any other eclogue.
The Aeolian Harp has been already referred to as a pleasing poem, and reading it, as we must, in constant recollection of the circumstances in which it was written, it unquestionably is so.
His friend Richter said of him: "Herder was no poet, he was something far more sublime and better than a poet, he was himself a poem, an Indian Greek Epic composed by one of the purest of the gods."
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