_The Terrace at Berne_ has been already dealt with, but that mood for epicede, which was so frequent in Mr Arnold, finds in the _Carnac_ stanzas adequate, and in _A Southern Night_ consummate, expression. _The Fragment of Chorus of a Dejaneira_, written long before, but now first published, has the usual faults of Mr Arnold's rhymeless verse. It is really quite impossible, when one reads such stuff as--
"Thither in your adversity Do you betake yourselves for light, But strangely misinterpret all you hear. For you will not put on New hearts with the inquirer's holy robe And purged considerate minds"--
not to ask what, poetically speaking, is the difference between this and the following--
"To college in the pursuit of duly Did I betake myself for lecture; But very soon I got extremely wet, For I had not put on The stout ulster appropriate to Britain, And my umbrella was at home."
But _Palladium_, if not magnificent, is reconciling, the Shakespearian _Youth's Agitations_ beautiful, and _Growing Old_ delightful, not without a touch of terror. It is the reply, the _verneinung_, to Browning's magnificent _Rabbi ben Ezra_, and one has almost to fly to that stronghold in order to resist its chilling influence. But it is poetry for all that, and whatever there is in it of weakness is redeemed, though not quite so poetically, by _The Last Word_. The _Lines written in Kensington Gardens_ (which had appeared with _Empedocles_, but were missed above) may be half saddened, half endeared to some by their own remembrance of the "black-crowned red-boled" giants there celebrated--trees long since killed by London smoke, as the good-natured say, as others, by the idiotic tidiness of the gardeners, who swept the needles up and left the roots without natural comfort and protection. And then, after lesser things, the interesting, if not intensely poetical, _Epilogue to Lessing's Laocoon_ leads us to one of the most remarkable of all Mr Arnold's poems, _Bacchanalia, or the New Age_. The word remarkable has been used advisedly. _Bacchanalia_, though it has poignant and exquisite poetic moments, is not one of the most specially _poetical_ of its author's pieces. But it is certainly his only considerable piece of that really poetic humour which is so rare and delightful a thing. And, like all poetic humour, it oscillates between cynicism and passion almost bewilderingly. For a little more of this what pages and pages of jocularity about Bottles and the Rev. Esau Hittall would we not have given! what volumes of polemic with the _Guardian_ and amateur discussions of the Gospel of St John! In the first place, note the metrical structure, the sober level octosyllables of the overture changing suddenly to a dance-measure which, for a wonder in English, almost keeps the true dactylic movement. How effective is the rhetorical iteration of