ened on these verses--fluently written and, beyond a doubt,
honestly meant. They are in praise of King Henry VIII.:--

King Harry played at tennis, and he threw the dice a-main,
And did all things that seemed to him for his own
and England's gain;
He would not be talked to lightly, he would not be
checked or chid;
And he got what things he dreamed to get, and did--
what things he did.

When Harry played at tennis it was well for this our Isle--
He cocked his nose at Interdicts; he 'stablished us the while--
He was lustful; he was vengeful; he was hot and hard and proud;
But he set his England fairly in the sight of all the crowd.

So Harry played at tennis, and we perfected the game
Which astonished swaggering Spaniards when the fat Armada came.
And possession did he give us of our souls in sturdiness;
And he gave us peace from priesthood: and he gave us English
Bess!

When Harry played at tennis we began to know this thing--
That a mighty people prospers in a mighty-minded king.
We boasted not our righteousness--we took on us our sin,
For Bluff Hal was just an Englishman who played the game to win.

You will perceive that in the third stanza the word 'soul' occurs:
and I invite you to compare this author's idea of a soul with Mr.
Trench's. This author will have nothing to do with the old advice
about doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly before God.
The old notion that to conquer self is a higher feat than to take a
city he dismisses out of hand. "Be lustful be vengeful," says he,
"but play the game to win, and you have my applause. Get what you
want, set England fairly in sight of the crowd, and you are a
mighty-minded man." Now the first and last comment upon such a
doctrine must be that, if a God exist, it is false. It sets up a
part to override the whole: it flaunts a local success against the
austere majesty of Divine law. In brief, it foolishly derides the
universal, saying that it chooses to consider the particular as more
important. But it is not. Poetry's concern is with the universal:
and what makes the Celts (however much you may dislike them) the most
considerable force in English poetry at this moment is that they
occupy themselves with that universal truth, which, before any
technical accomplishment, is the guarantee of good poetry.

Now, when you tell yourself that