But he has his
limitations, the chief of which is, curiously enough, the entire lack of
any sense of limit. His song is nearly always too loud for his subject.
His magnificent rhetoric, nowhere more magnificent than in the volume
that now lies before us, conceals rather than reveals. It has been said
of him, and with truth, that he is a master of language, but with still
greater truth it may be said that Language is his master. Words seem to
dominate him. Alliteration tyrannises over him. Mere sound often
becomes his lord. He is so eloquent that whatever he touches becomes
unreal.

Let us turn to the poem on the Armada:

The wings of the south-west wind are widened; the breath of his
fervent lips,
More keen than a sword's edge, fiercer than fire, falls full on the
plunging ships.
The pilot is he of the northward flight, their stay and their
steersman he;
A helmsman clothed with the tempest, and girdled with strength to
constrain the sea.
And the host of them trembles and quails, caught fast in his hand as a
bird in the toils;
For the wrath and the joy that fulfil him are mightier than man's,
whom he slays and spoils.
And vainly, with heart divided in sunder, and labour of wavering will,
The lord of their host takes counsel with hope if haply their star
shine still.

Somehow we seem to have heard all this before. Does it come from the
fact that of all the poets who ever lived Mr. Swinburne is the one who is
the most limited in imagery? It must be admitted that he is so. He has
wearied us with his monotony. 'Fire' and the 'Sea' are the two words
ever on his lips. We must confess also that this shrill
singing--marvellous as it is--leaves us out of breath. Here is a passage
from a poem called A Word with the Wind:

Be the sunshine bared or veiled, the sky superb or shrouded,
Still the waters, lax and languid, chafed and foiled,
Keen and thwarted, pale and patient, clothed with fire or clouded,
Vex their heart in vain, or sleep like serpents coiled.
Thee they look for, blind and baffled, wan with wrath and weary,
Blown for ever back by winds that rock the bird:
Winds that seamews breast subdue the sea, and bid the dreary
Waves be weak as hearts made sick with hope deferred.
Let the clarion sound from westward, let the south bear token
How the glories of thy godhead sound and shine:
Bid the land rejoice to see the land-wind's broad wings broken,
Bid the sea take comfort, bid the world be thine.

Verse of this kind may be justly praised for the sustained strength and
vigour of its metrical scheme. Its purely technical excellence is
extraordinary. But is it more than an oratorical tour de force? Does it
really convey much? Does it charm? Could we return to it again and
again with renewed pleasure? We think not. It seems to us empty.

Of course, we must not look to these poems for any revelation of human
life. To be at one with the elements seems to be Mr. Swinburne's aim. He
seeks to speak with the breath of wind and wave. The roar of the fire is
ever in his ears.