oy Mistress_, _The Nymph and Fawn_, _A Drop of Dew_, _The Garden_, _The
Gallery_, _Upon the Hill and Grove at Billborow_. In this choice we may
see the hand of Charles Lamb, as Tennyson's may be noticed in the
selection made in Palgrave's _Golden Treasury_ (1863). Dean Trench in
his _Household Book of English Poetry_ (1869) gives _Eyes and Tears_,
the _Horatian Ode_, and _A Drop of Dew_. In Mr. Ward's _English Poets_
(1880) Marvell is represented by _The Garden_, _A Drop of Dew_, _The
Bermudas_, _Young Love_, the _Horatian Ode_, and the _Lines on Paradise
Lost_. Thanks to these later Anthologies and to the quotations from _The
Garden_ and _Upon Appleton House_ in the _Essays of Elia_, Marvell's
fame as a true poet has of recent years become widespread, and is now,
whatever vicissitudes it may have endured, well established.

As a satirist in rhyme Marvell has shared the usual and not undeserved
fate of almost all satirists of their age and fellow-men. The authors of
lines written in heat to give expression to the anger of the hour may
well be content if their effusions give the pain or teach the lesson
they were intended to give or teach. If you lash the age, you do so
presumably for the benefit of the age. It is very hard to transmit even
a fierce and genuine indignation from one age to another. Marvell's
satires were too hastily composed, too roughly constructed, too redolent
of the occasion, to enter into the kingdom of poetry. To the careful and
character-loving reader of history, particularly if he chance to have a
feeling for the House of Commons, not merely as an institution, but as a
place of resort, Marvell's satirical poems must always be intensely
interesting. They strike me as honest in their main intention, and never
very wide of the mark. Hallam says, in his lofty way, "We read with
nothing but disgust the satirical poetry of Cleveland, Butler, Oldham,
Marvell," and he adds, "Marvell's satires are gross and stupid."[231:1]
Gross they certainly occasionally are, but stupid they never are.
Marvell was far too well-informed a politician and too shrewd a man ever
to be stupid.

As a satirist Marvell had, if he wanted them, many models of style, but
he really needed none, for he just wrote down in rough-and-ready rhyme
whatever his head or his spleen suggested to his fancy. Every now and
again there is a noble outburst of feeling, and a couplet of great
felicity. I confess to taking great pleasure in Marvell's