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Show Swinburne f rriHE great Algernon Charles Swinburne died J on April 10th of pneumonia, near London, Lon-don, aged 72. Our thought is that he was i about the foremost literary genius of his age. There was more power in the poetry of Byron, more sweetness, perhaps, in some of Tennyson's, but. neither had Swinburne's master hand in setting set-ting their high thoughts to the perfect rhythm of words. Ho was doubtless greatly helped in this by his perfect accomplishments in French and i Greek, especially the latter, because the old Greek was the one language that supplied th'e perfect words in which to give, thoughts full expression. f Swinburne was born half a century too soon. Then he was educated in Franco, and when he began to write, the women who were the leaders i in England seemed to feel just as did David Har- um's sister when, with crimson cheeks, she left the Theatro, went homo and undressed in the dark. That first impression he made attached to him all his life, and he saw other men receive high honors that should have been his. But he was not soured. He must have more tha'n once said to himself: "That is all right. They will need the honors to keep themselves in the world's remembrance; may be time will make clear our real places." His isolation was made all the more iro-nounced iro-nounced by his habits of mind. He had no reverence rever-ence except for great souls, and h'.s scofflngs were shrunk from. His admiration for Byron and Victor Vic-tor Hugo was great, but religion was a jest with him and royalty his contempt. He never knew any discipline, never had any domestic ties, hence was a free lance always. But much of his work was more exquisite than that of any other writer of his day, and is like that of a great painter, it will gather tints as the years advance and recede, unless the very perfume of his words mars his fame, for they sometimes fairly surfeit the reader with sweets. Here is the poem he wrote in memory of Walter George London Back to the flower-town, side by. side, The bright months bring, New-born, the bridegroom and the bride, Freedom and Spring. The sweet land laughs from sea to sea, Fill'd full of sun; All things come back to her, being free; All things but one. In many a tender wheaten plot Flowers that were dead Live, and old suns revive; but not That holier head. By this white wandering waste of sea, Far north, I hear One face shall never turn to me As once this year. Shall never turn and smile and rest On mine as. there, ( Nor one most sacred hand be prest Upon my hair. I came as one whose thoughts half linger, Half run before; The youngest to the oldest singer That England bore. I found him whom I shall not find Till all grief end, In holiest age our mightiest mind, Father and friend. But thou, If anything endure, If hope there be, 0 spirit that man's life left pure, Man's death set free. Not with disdain of days that were Look earthward now; Let dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow; Come back in sleep, for in the life Where thou are not We find none like thee . Time and strife And the world's lot. Move thee no more; but love at least And reverent heart May move thee, royal and releast, Soul, as thou art. And thou, his Florence, to thy trust Receive and keep, Keep safe his dedicated dust, His sacred sleep. So shall they lovers, come from far, Mix with they name As morning-star with evening-star His faultless fame. |