“I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth,”

“Sea-shore,” the fine fragments in the “Appendix” to his published works, called, collectively, “The Poet,” blocks bearing the mark of poetic genius, but left lying round for want of the structural instinct, and last of all, that which is, in many respects, first of all, the “Threnody,” a lament over the death of his first-born son.  This poem has the dignity of “Lycidas” without its refrigerating classicism, and with all the tenderness of Cowper’s lines on the receipt of his mother’s picture.  It may well compare with others of the finest memorial poems in the language,—­with Shelley’s “Adonais,” and Matthew Arnold’s “Thyrsis,” leaving out of view Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” as of wider scope and larger pattern.

Many critics will concede that there is much truth in Mr. Arnold’s remark on the want of “evolution” in Emerson’s poems.  One is struck with the fact that a great number of fragments lie about his poetical workshop:  poems begun and never finished; scraps of poems, chips of poems, paving the floor with intentions never carried out.  One cannot help remembering Coleridge with his incomplete “Christabel,” and his “Abyssinian Maid,” and her dulcimer which she never got a tune out of.  We all know there was good reason why Coleridge should have been infirm of purpose.  But when we look at that great unfinished picture over which Allston labored with the hopeless ineffectiveness of Sisyphus; when we go through a whole gallery of pictures by an American artist in which the backgrounds are slighted as if our midsummer heats had taken away half the artist’s life and vigor; when we walk round whole rooms full of sketches, impressions, effects, symphonies, invisibilities, and other apologies for honest work, it would not be strange if it should suggest a painful course of reflections as to the possibility that there may be something in our climatic or other conditions which tends to scholastic and artistic anaemia and insufficiency,—­the opposite of what we find showing itself in the full-blooded verse of poets like Browning and on the flaming canvas of painters like Henri Regnault.  Life seemed lustier in Old England than in New England to Emerson, to Hawthorne, and to that admirable observer, Mr. John Burroughs.  Perhaps we require another century or two of acclimation.

Emerson never grappled with any considerable metrical difficulties.  He wrote by preference in what I have ventured to call the normal respiratory measure,—­octosyllabic verse, in which one common expiration is enough and not too much for the articulation of each line.  The “fatal facility” for which this verse is noted belongs to it as recited and also as written, and it implies the need of only a minimum of skill and labor.  I doubt if Emerson would have written a verse of poetry if he had been obliged to use the Spenserian stanza.  In the simple measures he habitually employed he found least hindrance to his thought.