A glorified
and non-natural Sanchia pervaded the poem, which, for the form, was a
barbaric, rough-hewn chant, stuffed with words and great phrases which had
the effect rather of making music in the hearer than of containing it in
themselves. It was poetry by hints, perpetually moving, initiating,
lyrical phrases, then breaking off and leaving you with a melody in your
ears which your brain could not render. Either the poet was inchoate or
the subtlest musician of our day. He said of himself that he was a drain-
pipe for the spirit--a dark saying to Glyde, who was himself, we have
heard, something of a poet, of the Byronic tradition. The youth was
extremely interested, though seldom moved by this chaotic piece. He was
for ever on the point to drink, and had the cup snatched away. Senhouse
tormented you with possibilities of bliss--where sight merges in sound and
both lift together into a triumphant sweep of motion--whirled you, as it
were, to the gates of dawn, showed you the amber glories of preparation,
thrilled you with the throb of suspense; then, behold! coursing vapours
and gathering clouds blot out the miracle--and you end in the clash of
thunderstorms and dissonances.
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