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truth in one whose truth would be of little moment？ And why was the
convention so pleasant； among all others； as to occupy a whole age
nay； two great agesof literature？
Music seems to be principally answerable。 For the lyrics of the
lady are 〃words for music〃 by a great majority。 There is hardly a
single poem in the Elizabethan Song…books； properly so named； that
has what would in our day be called a tone of sentiment。 Music had
not then the tone herself； she was ingenious； and so must the words
be。 She had the air of epigram； and an accurately definite limit。
So； too； the lady of the lyrics； who might be called the lady of the
stanzas； so strictly does she go by measure。 When she is
quarrelsome； it is but fuguishness； when she dances； she does it by
a canon。 She could not but be perverse； merrily sung to such grave
notes。
So fixed was the law of this perversity that none in the song…books
is allowed to be kind enough for a 〃melody；〃 except one lady only。
She may thus derogate； for the exceedingly Elizabethan reason that
she is 〃brown。〃 She is brown and kind； and a 〃sad flower；〃 but the
song made for her would have been too insipid； apparently； without
an antithesis。 The fair one is warned that her disdain makes her
even less lovely than the brown。
Fair as a lily； hard to please； easily angry； ungrateful for
innumerable verses； uncertain with the regularity of the madrigal；
and inconstant with the punctuality of a stanza； she has gone with
the arts of that day； and neither verse nor music will ever make
such another lady。 She refused to observe the transiency of roses；
she never really intendedmuch as she was urgedto be a
shepherdess； she was never persuaded to mitigate her dress。 In
return； the world has let her disappear。 She scorned the poets
until they turned upon her in the epigram of many a final couplet；
and of these the last has been long written。 Her 〃No〃 was set to
counterpoint in the part…song； and she frightened Love out of her
sight in a ballet。 Those occupations are gone； and the lovely
Elizabethan has slipped away。 She was something less than mortal。
But she who was more than mortal was mortal too。 This was no lady
of the unanimous lyrists； but a rare visitant unknown to these
exquisite little talents。 She was not set for singing； but poetry
spoke of her； sometimes when she was sleeping； and then Fletcher
said …
None can rock Heaven to sleep but her。
Or when she was singing； and Carew rhymed …
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past；
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters； and keeps warm her note。
Sometimes when the lady was dead； and Carew； again； wrote on her
monument …
And here the precious dust is laid；
Whose purely…tempered clay was made
So fine that it the guest betrayed。
But there was besides another Lady of the lyrics； one who will never
pass from the world； but has passed from song。 In the sixteenth
century and in the seventeenth century this lady was Death。 Her
inspiration never failed； not a poet but found it as fresh as the
inspiration of life。 Fancy was not quenched by the inevitable
thought in those days； as it is in ours； and the phrase lost no
dignity by the integrity of use。
To every man it happens that at one time of his lifefor a space of
years or for a space of monthshe is convinced of death with an
incomparable reality。 It might seem as though literature； living
the life of a man； underwent that conviction in those ages。 Death
was as often on the tongues of men in older ages； and oftener in
their hands； but in the sixteenth century it was at their hearts。
The discovery of death did not shake the poets from their composure。
On the contrary； the verse is never measured with more majestic
effect than when it moves in honour of this Lady of the lyrics。 Sir
Walter Raleigh is but a jerky writer when he is rhyming other
things； however bitter or however solemn； but his lines on death；
which are also lines on immortality； are infinitely noble。 These
are； needless to say； meditations upon death by law and violence；
and so are the ingenious rhymes of Chidiock Tichborne； written after
his last prose in his farewell letter to his wife〃Now； Sweet…
cheek； what is left to bestow on thee； a small recompense for thy
deservings〃and singularly beautiful prose is this。 So also are
Southwell's words。 But these are exceptional deaths； and more
dramatic than was needed to awake the poetry of the meditative age。
It was death as the end of the visible world and of the idle
business of lifenot death as a passage nor death as a fear or a
darknessthat was the Lady of the lyrists。 Nor was their song of
the act of dying。 With this a much later and much more trivial
literature busied itself。 Those two centuries felt with a shock
that death would bring an end； and that its equalities would make
vain the differences of wit and wealth which they took apparently
more seriously than to us seems probable。 They never wearied of the
wonder。 The poetry of our day has an entirely different emotion for
death as parting。 It was not parting that the lyrists sang of； it
was the mere simplicity of death。 None of our contemporaries will
take such a subject； they have no more than the ordinary conviction
of the matter。 For the great treatment of obvious things there must
evidently be an extraordinary conviction。
But whether the chief Lady of the lyrics be this； or whether she be
the implacable Elizabethan feigned by the love…songs； she has
equally passed from before the eyes of poets。
JULY
One has the leisure of July for perceiving all the differences of
the green of leaves。 It is no longer a difference in degrees of
maturity； for all the trees have darkened to their final tone； and
stand in their differences of character and not of mere date。
Almost all the green is grave； not sad and not dull。 It has a
darkened and a daily colour； in majestic but not obvious harmony
with dark grey skies； and might look； to inconstant eyes； as prosaic
after spring as eleven o'clock looks after the dawn。
Gravity is the wordnot solemnity as towards evening； nor menace as
at night。 The daylight trees of July are signs of common beauty；
common freshness； and a mystery familiar and abiding as night and
day。 In childhood we all have a more exalted sense of dawn and
summer sunrise than we ever fully retain or quite recover； and also
a far higher sensibility for April and April eveningsa heartache
for them； which in riper years is gradually and irretrievably
consoled。
But； on the other hand； childhood has so quickly learned to find
daily things tedious； and familiar things importunate； that it has
no great delight in the mere middle of the day； and feels weariness
of the summer that has ceased to change visibly。 The poetry of mere
day and of late summ