become in the
hands of a master. Dante's verb and noun are now proverbial. As for Mr.
Davidson, Gray's clear-cut lines in the _Elegy_ can supply no more
instances of perfect aptness than those which I quoted some time ago of
the lark. Notice the exactness of choice in--

The patchwork sunshine _nets_ the lea,
The flitting shadows _halt and pass_
Forlorn, the mossy humble-bee
_Lounges_ along the flowerless grass,

and in "I heard the _husky_ whisper of the corn." Yet I am disposed to
think that, like many another finished artist, he has passed through
stages of various practice, and has exercised much self-restraint before
attaining to that naturalness which, as Goethe reiterates, is the last
crown of art-discipline. From sundry indications I conclude that
passages of his _Fleet-street Eclogues_ were written independently at
different dates, and have been fitted later into the dialogue form.
However that may be, it is possible to detect instances in which he
falls below his own maturer ideal of natural language. The diction, that
is to say the choice of mere vocables, is eminently natural, except for
the odd words "muted," "writhen," "watchet-hued," "dup," "swound,"
which I have collected with a rather laborious captiousness. But diction
is only part of expression, and, as I have just hinted, it would seem as
if, before his lesson in pure style was fully learned, he had passed
under the fascination of the mannerists, and particularly of Pope.
Otherwise it is hard to account for such entirely eighteenth century
lines as--

And brimming echoes spill the pleasant din,

or--

The sloping shores that fringe the velvet tides;

and (speaking of steamers)--

Or, fiery-hearted, cleave with iron limbs
And brows precipitous the pliant sea.

How different are these mechanical constructions from that expression of
the birds

hid in the white warm cloud
Mantling the thorn.

Whether I am right or wrong as to the process of his development, the
fact remains that he can be, if he chooses, a master in language of
poetic simplicity. Even a fire of garden rubbish can be expressed
without becoming altogether unpoetical when one speaks of

the spicy smoke
Of withered weeds that burn where gardens be.

Perhaps there do exist some things which cannot be made poetical in any
diction whatsoever. Tennyson could only express "tea" by "and on the
board the fluttering urn," and if Mr. Dav