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THE EARL OF LYTTON

(1831-1891)

DWARD ROBERT, first earl of Lytton, a son of Bulwer the novelist, and known to literature as «< Owen Meredith," was

born November 8th, 1831, at London. He was educated at Harrow, and privately at Bonn, Germany. He went early into diplomatic service, becoming private secretary to his uncle, Sir H. L. Bulwer, then British minister at Washington. Various diplomatic positions followed: in 1874 he was made Minister at Lisbon; in 1878-80 Governor-General of India; and from 1887 to his death in Paris, November 24th, 1891, Ambassador to France.

He

Considering the political complexion of his life and his importance as a figure in the social world, Lytton wrote voluminously and published many books. He aimed, first and always, at being a poet; and did not receive the critical recognition he desired, being regarded as a fluent, graceful versewriter with more culture and knack than original gift. Throughout his career he was either underestimated or overpraised by his adherents or opponents in statecraft. began to write when a youth in the twenties. Clytemnestra' (1855); The Wanderer' (1859); Lucile' (1860); (Serbski Pesme, or National Songs of Servia' (1861); 'The Ring of Amasis, a novel (1863); Chronicles and Characters' and 'Poems (1867); 'Orval' (1869); 'Julian Fane (1871); Fables in Song' (1874); Poems' (1877); The Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of Edward Bulwer, Lord Lytton' (1883), an incomplete memoir of his father; 'Glenaveril; or, The Metamorphoses' (1885); a volume of stories translated from the German (1886); After Paradise' (1887); and the posthumous King Poppy' (1892), make up the rather formidable list.

LORD LYTTON

(

Owen Meredith's literary reputation rests in the main upon the lyrics in the volume entitled 'The Wanderer,' and the clever verse narrative Lucile'; which were given to the public in successive years, and were all written when he was under thirty. A few of the poems in the former volume have enough of grace, music,

and sentiment to give them a vogue more than temporary. 'Aux Italiens,' perhaps the poem which keeps Lytton's name steadily before the public, although it is liked best in the storm-and-stress period of uncritical youth, has elements which commend it to maturer judgment. It seizes on an incident of fashionable social life and imbues it with the pathos of the past,— with a sense of the irrevocableness of old deeds and the glamour of early love. Certain stanzas in it have the true touch; and as a whole, sophisticated production as it is, it possesses power and beauty. 'Lucile,' which shows the influence of Byron, and has had a popularity out of proportion to its importance, is nevertheless a very successful thing in its kind, a brilliant tour de force in social verse, of the light, bright, half cynical, half sentimental sort. Its dashing metre and its vivacity of presentation must be conceded, in the same breath that one denies it the name of poetry. It is no easy matter to tell a modern story in rhyme so that it is readable, enjoyable. Meredith has done this in 'Lucile'; done it as well as any English poet of his day. That the nature of the exploit is not such as to make the work among the highest things of poetry, is no detraction. The success of an effort in literature is to be measured by the correspondence of aim and accomplishment.

A

AUX ITALIENS

T PARIS it was, at the Opera there;

And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast, so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe with a tenor note
The souls in Purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me"?

The Emperor there, in his box of state,

Looked grave, as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The Empress too had a tear in her eye:

You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,

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For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To the old glad life in Spain.

Well, there in our front-row box we sat,
Together, my bride-betrothed and I;
My gaze was fixed on my opera-hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad.

Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was!
Who died the richest and roundest of men,-
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass:
I wish him well, for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,

As I had not been thinking of aught for years,
Till over my eyes there began to move
Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot)

And her warm white neck in its golden chain.
And her full soft hair just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmine-flower in her fair young breast;
(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine-flower!)
And the one bird singing alone to his nest;

And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife;
And the letter that brought me back my ring.
And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,
Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,
Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over,
And I thought, "Were she only living still,

How I could forgive her, and love her!"

And I swear as I thought of her thus, in that hour,
And of how, after all, old things were best,
That I smelt the smell of that jasmine-flower
Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

It made me creep, and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheet Where a mummy is half unrolled.

And I turned, and looked. She was sitting there
In a dim box, over the stage; and drest
In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair,
And that jasmine in her breast!

I was here, and she was there;

And the glittering horseshoe curved between; From my bride-betrothed, with her raven hair, And her sumptuous, scornful mien,

To my early love, with her eyes downcast,
And over her primrose face the shade,-
In short, from the Future back to the Past,-
There was but a step to be made.

To my early love from my future bride

One moment I looked. Then I stole to the door; I traversed the passage; and down at her side I was sitting, a moment more.

My thinking of her, on the music's strain,

Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again, With the jasmine in her breast.

She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then; And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The Marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still;

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face: for old things are best;
And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above
The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And Love must cling where it can, I say:

For Beauty is easy enough to win;

But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men,

There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But oh the smell of that jasmine-flower!
And oh that music! and oh the way
That voice ran out from the donjon tower,
"Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!"

LUCILE'S LETTER

From Lucile

ET ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Nevers,

Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers.

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS TO A FRIEND IN INDIA

Once more, O my friend, to your arms and your heart,
And the places of old .
never, never to part!
Once more to the palm, and the fountain! Once more
To the land of my birth and the deep skies of yore!
From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret
Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set;
From the children that cry for the birth, and behold,
There is no strength to bear them-old Time is so old!
From the world's weary masters, that come upon earth
Sapped and mined by the fever they bear from their birth;
From the men of small stature, mere parts of a crowd,