In relation to the use he makes of these faulty forms, and to show that even herein he has exercised a refraining judgment, though indeed fancying he has quite discarded in only somewhat reforming it, I recommend the study of two poems, each of which he calls Jordan, though why I have not yet with certainty discovered.

It is possible that not many of his readers have observed the following instances of the freakish in his rhyming art, which however result well.  When I say so, I would not be supposed to approve of the freak, but only to acknowledge the success of the poet in his immediate intent.  They are related to a certain tendency to mechanical contrivance not seldom associated with a love of art:  it is art operating in the physical understanding.  In the poem called Home, every stanza is perfectly finished till the last:  in it, with an access of art or artfulness, he destroys the rhyme.  I shall not quarrel with my reader if he calls it the latter, and regards it as art run to seed.  And yet—­and yet—­I confess I have a latent liking for the trick.  I shall give one or two stanzas out of the rather long poem, to lead up to the change in the last.

  Come, Lord; my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
    While thou dost ever, ever stay;
  Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick;
    My spirit gaspeth night and day. 
        O show thyself to me,
        Or take me up to thee.

  Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
    Which way soe’er I look I see: 
  Some may dream merrily, but when they wake
    They dress themselves and come to thee. 
        O show thyself to me,
        Or take me up to thee.

  Come, dearest Lord, pass not this holy season,
    My flesh and bones and joints do pray;
  And even my verse, when by the rhyme and reason
    The word is stay,[100] says ever come. 
        O show thyself to me,
        Or take me up to thee.

Balancing this, my second instance is of the converse.  In all the stanzas but the last, the last line in each hangs unrhymed:  in the last the rhyming is fulfilled.  The poem is called Denial.  I give only a part of it.

When my devotions could not pierce
Thy silent ears,
Then was my heart broken as was my verse;
My breast was full of fears
And disorder.

O that thou shouldst give dust a tongue
To cry to thee,
And then not hear it crying!  All day long
My heart was in my knee: 
But no hearing!

Therefore my soul lay out of sight,
Untuned, unstrung;
My feeble spirit, unable to look right,
Like a nipt blossom, hung
Discontented.

O cheer and tune my heartless breast—­
Defer no time;
That so thy favours granting my request,
They and my mind may chime,
And mend my rhyme.

It had been hardly worth the space to point out these, were not the matter itself precious.