lives and moves and loves: his
Bucolics show no trace of Sicily: his Anthea and Julia wear no 'buckles
of the purest gold,' nor have anything about them foreign to Middlesex
or Devon. Herrick's imagination has no far horizons: like Burns and
Crabbe fifty years since, or Barnes (that exquisite and neglected
pastoralist of fair Dorset, perfect within his narrower range as
Herrick) to-day, it is his own native land only which he sees and
paints: even the fairy world in which, at whatever inevitable interval,
he is second to Shakespeare, is pure English; or rather, his elves live
in an elfin county of their own, and are all but severed from humanity.
Within that greater circle of Shakespeare, where Oberon and Ariel and
their fellows move, aiding or injuring mankind, and reflecting human
life in a kind of unconscious parody, Herrick cannot walk: and it may
have been due to his good sense and true feeling for art, that here,
where resemblance might have seemed probable, he borrows nothing from
MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM or TEMPEST. if we are moved by the wider range
of Byron's or Shelley's sympathies, there is a charm, also, in this
sweet insularity of Herrick; a narrowness perhaps, yet carrying with
it a healthful reality absent from the vapid and artificial
'cosmopolitanism' that did such wrong on Goethe's genius. If he has
not the exotic blooms and strange odours which poets who derive from
literature show in their conservatories, Herrick has the fresh breeze
and thyme-bed fragrance of open moorland, the grace and greenery of
English meadows: with Homer and Dante, he too shares the strength and
inspiration which come from touch of a man's native soil.

What has been here sketched is not planned so much as a criticism in
form on Herrick's poetry as an attempt to seize his relations to his
predecessors and contemporaries. If we now tentatively inquire what
place may be assigned to him in our literature at large, Herrick has no
single lyric to show equal, in pomp of music, brilliancy of diction, or
elevation of sentiment to some which Spenser before, Milton in his own
time, Dryden and Gray, Wordsworth and Shelley, since have given us.
Nor has he, as already noticed, the peculiar finish and reserve (if
the phrase may be allowed) traceable, though rarely, in Ben Jonson and
others of the seventeenth century. He does not want passion; yet
his passion wants concentration: it is too ready, also, to dwell on
externals: imagination wit