The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (11.1896)

88

John Barlas’s Poetry
And when our language is forgot,
Some lover of old scenes
May find it in a haunted spot,
And wonder what it means.”
But it is in the Sonnet, perhaps, that Barlas’s genius reaches its
fullest development. I speak advisedly when I say that his
sequence of Love Sonnets (1889), quite unknown as it is to
ninety-nine out of a hundred readers of poetry, deserves to take
rank, and will some day take rank, with the greatest sonnet-
structures of the century. For serenity of tone, mastery of style,
and deep personal pathos, it would be hard to surpass many of the
sonnets in this book, which has drawn from no less an authority
than George Meredith the opinion that, in this form of writing,
Barlas “ takes high rank among the poets of his time.” Here is
the concluding sonnet of the series, which as Mr. Meredith justly
observes, is “ unmatched for nobility of sentiment, and the work-
manship is adequate.”
“ When in the lonely stillness of the tomb
I voiceless lie and cold, omit not thou
To sing and dance as merrily as now :
Bring roses once a year in fullest bloom,
And rather than that thou should’st come in gloom,
Bring thy new love with thee : together bow
O’er the green mound that hides the quiet brow—
Yea I would bless his babe within thy womb.
How can love be where jealousy is not ?
How shall I say ? This only : I have borne
That cruel pain : yet would I never blot,
Living, with selfish love the loved one’s lot,
Nor, dead, would have my dear love live forlorn,—
Yet would not wish my own love quite forgot.”

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