GENIUS AND OTHER ESSAYS
as a kind of sop to Cerberus, we suppose—are made to open the volume. They show less of the author's specific gift, though one—"After the Funeral"—is an exception, with an intense amount of genuine feeling crowded into its brief lyrical expression. We prefer to look further on to the works of graver purport, which give tone and character to the main body of the collection.
Stoddard's lyrics and madrigals, we have indicated, have the rare felicity of being spontaneous as a skylark's, and at the same time exquisite in delicacy of art. Two or three specimens will show that his voice has lost none of its sweetness:
Wail on, thou bleeding nightingale!
I join my wail with thine;
Deplore thy passion for the rose,
And let me weep for mine!
Lament thy rose for seventy days,
She lives, and may reply;
But mine is dead, and I must weep,
Or break my heart, and die!
THE DYING LOVER
The grass that is under me now
Will soon be over me, sweet!
When you walk this way again,
I shall not hear your feet.
You may walk this way again,
And shed your tears like dew;
They will be no more to me, then,
Than mine are now to you!
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