essay on his genius by Mr. Algernon Charles Swinburne. The former of
these two books was calculated to induce and foster a more general
knowledge and appreciation of Blake's poetry. We can hardly say as much
for Mr. Swinburne's essay. The exaggerated and fantastical epithets of
praise, the involved and overloaded method of criticism, would have the
effect upon most readers of creating a distaste in advance for the
writings so heralded. The "Prefatory Memoir" prefixed by Mr. W. M.
Rossetti to the most recent edition of the poems is of a different
character, and may be commended to all readers who are about to make
acquaintance with them.

But the best and most efficient introduction that a true poet can have
is the general publication of his works. Let them speak for themselves
to lovers of poetry, and no other prophet or expounder is needed. This
is no place for extended comment on Blake's characteristics as a poet.
His best songs are worthy to be ranked with those of the early
Elizabethan dramatists, and they are not like them as a copy is like an
original, but rather resemble them as the inspirations of a kindred
genius. To find the superiors of some of Blake's songs we must go to
Shakespeare. The faults of his best poems are always superficial, and
often mere errors of carelessness and of the absence of literary
workmanship, but the hand that strikes the keynote is the hand of a
master. Such pieces as the "Lines to the Evening Star," the songs
beginning "Memory, hither come," "How sweet I roamed from field to
field!" "Love and Harmony combine," and the "Address to the Muses," in
the _Sketches_, are full of melody and sweetness, and have a certain
lyrical perfection in which Blake excels; while in the _Songs of
Innocence_ the poems called "Night" and "Ah Sunflower!" seem to be
equally beautiful. "A Little Boy Lost," in the _Songs of Experience_, is
perhaps the best known of all the poems, and is quoted, with an
unlicensed change of title, in Mr. Emerson's _Parnassus_. The disorder
of Blake's mind, which was a very real and positive fact, undoubtedly
had a detrimental effect on his work, both in art and literature; and
there is often a sense of "sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh"
as he touches on some one of the subjects which were potent to disturb
his brain. But when he sings for the love of singing, with no memory of
the outer world and its terrible problems, the solving of which lay
heavy on his heart and