XXII.
THE SEA.
Is there anything new to say about it? Alas, have not all the poets
done their uttermost; and how should a poor prose-writer fare when he
enters a region where the monarchs of rhythm have proudly trodden? It
is audacious; and yet I must say that our beloved poets seem somehow
to fail in strict accuracy. Tennyson wanders and gazes and thinks; he
strikes out some immortal word of love or despair when the awful
influence of the ocean touches his soul; and yet he is not the poet
that we want. One or two of his phrases are pictorial and decisive--no
one can better them--and the only fault which we find with them is
that they are perhaps a little too exquisite. When he says, "And white
sails flying on the yellow sea," he startles us; but his picture done
in seven words is absolutely accurate. When he writes of "the scream
of the maddened beach," he uses the pathetic fallacy; but his science
is quite correct, for the swift whirling of myriads of pebbles does
produce a clear shrill note as the backdraught streams from the shore.
But, when he writes the glorious passion beginning, "Is that enchanted
moan only the swell Of the long waves that roll-in yonder bay?" we
feel the note of falsity at once--the swell does not moan, and the
poet only wanted to lead up to the expression of a mysterious ecstasy
of love.
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