and itched for acted glory: thus Seeger, gazing beyond the war's end, cries:
"And the great cities of the world shall yet
Be golden frames for me in which to set
New masterpieces of more rare romance."
He fears no repetition of that defeat which yet enchanted the world with its misanthropy and cynicism, but strains after a vision fellow to that followed by the pilgrim lord from Harrow to Missolonghi. If in spite of failure this temperament achieved so much, what might it not succeed in? So active, so independent, so daring a nature has as many opportunities of acquiring wisdom as it has of refusing to bow its head under ruin. Though a soul consciously poses while loving, though when heroic it must be setting an example to half the world, this effrontery, largely inexperience, may betoken the very vigour that can grapple with the monster fact on the soul's behalf. Already he can philosophise his preoccupation with sexual passion.
"Oh Love whereof my boyhood was the dream
My youth the beautiful novitiate,
Life was so slight a thing and thou so great,
How could I make thee less than all supreme!
In thy sweet transports not alone I thought
Mingled the twain that panted breast to breast,
The sun and stars throbbed with them; they were caught
Into the pulse of Nature. . . .
Doubt not that of a perfect sacrifice
That soul partakes whose inspiration fills
The spring-time and the depth of summer skies
The rainbow and the clouds behind the hills,
That excellence in earth and air and sea
That makes things as they are the real divinity."
Yes, his brain keeps pace with his eloquence; but his soul? Hasty and crude and licensed to scorn the
