The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1896-01-12
HERE is THE LAUREATE.
,,rRED AUSTIN SAYS HE DOESN'T
CARE FOR TITLES.
s,,Iish. DIsIi<es TO Read. Gives
,oiee 10 Pride or Race-ThInlSs
TeuuysOR Was AVved by Form.
want Live In a City.

From the New York Press.
4cr Ian. 4-If self advertisement
laureate. Sir Edwin Arnold prob
~. would have won the laurel crown.
ab Alfred Austin quite the last one in
accession. There is an accent on the
'.--,bah;v.~ for had Sir George Newnes
.tor-bt that the outlay would have boom
tho circulation of Tit-Bits he would
have given Sir Edwin a close race. What a
Ind lord leaureate poetry exhibition
g. Edwin could have made of it, One
sees the sparks flying from the wheels
- his hanson as The Light of the
world would speed from one speech
making to another in the winter season
First of all, two statements which have
teen going the rounds of the press since
i, was announced on good authority that
AR Austin would be the successor of
Tennyson should be corrected. Mr.. Austin
is not a Catholic and he is not "perni-
ciously active in tory politics. He was
educated by the Jusuits. it is true: but he
has long since abjured their faith. His
svmuathies are certainly not with the lib
erals. but he is certainly too much of a
poet 10 practice politics., and nothing could
be more Objectionable to his personal
tastes than the strife of the House of
Commons.
why Mr.. Austin? Why not Mr. SWIM
burne?' are the questions that will be
asked in America. where Mr.. Austin is
not so well known as in England. One
good reason is Lord Salisbury holds Mr.
Austin TO be the better poet. Mr.. Swim
burne. TO the mind of the true-blue Eng
nshman. is a deal of a hereto. Mr.. Aus
lin is of the militant part of the Eng
disappearing race. He writes of Down
ing street and of the primroses. He sends
the Englishman forth in an ark of song
10 win the commerce of the world, s and
sings 10 him on his return OF the sweets
of English country life. He is, says Will
lam Watson, who so greatly admires him,
a singer of my" country and the" coun-
Try when some journalist wrote that
no poet could ever ind anything to
praise in English April, Mr.. Austin wrote
a long and ardent poem clarifying the
stormiest. most unpleasant month of the
is English Lyrics" which as a warm
Introduction by Mr.. Watson. The most
notable of his patriotic poems, although
not the best of his poetry, is ITO Eng
land. written when Disraeli, in dis
patching the British fleet to the Black
sea and calling out the reserves, checked
the Russian advance on Constantinople.
We shall have this, of Downing street,
before we go to him in his Kentish manor
house and to his primroses:
Men deemed thee fallen, did they? Fallen
like Rome
Not wholly shorn of strength, but vain
~ strong;
weaned from thy fame by a too happy
Scanning the ridges of the teaming loan,
Counting thy fiocks, humming thy har-
CaIious, because myself secure gainst
Behind the impossible fences of thy
The dupes! Thou dost but stand erect.
The nations cluster round and while
the horde
OF wolhsh backs SLOUGH homeward to
their snow,
Thou, mid thy sheaves in peaceful sea-
sons stored,
Smilingly leaning on thy undrawn
And this on returning from Italy to
England:
How stern How sweet! Though fresh
from lands
Where soft seas have no slumbering
And zephyrs moistened by the south
Seem kisses from an infants mouth,
Ny northern blood eXults TO face
The rapture of this rough embrace,
Glowing in every vein to feel
The cordial caress of steel
From spear-blue air and sword-blue sea,
The armour of your liberty.
Braced by the manly air, | reach
My soul out to the approaching beach,
And own, the instant l arrive,
Also this, the chorus of the Home
Coming Ships in Look Leaward, Sem
tnel,"
From the uttermost bound
OF the wind and the foam,
From creek and from sound,
We are fastening home;
Ne are laden with treasure
From ransacked seas,
10 charm your leisure
To grace your ease,
We have trodden the pillows
And tracked the ford,
TO soften your pillows,
70 heap your board
The hills have been shattered,
The forests scattered
Our white sails tattered,
To swell your hoard.
Is it blossom, or fruit, or
Seed, you crave2
The land is your Suitor
The sea your slave,
We have raced with swallows,
And threaded the foes
Where the walrus wallowS
Mid melting SHOWS;
Sought regions torTid
And realms of sleet,
10 gem your forehead,
10 sWathe your feet.
And behold, now we tender,
With pennons unfuried,
for your comfort and slpendor,
The wealth of the world.
One finds nothing about specific herioc
Deeds of soldiers or sailors in his poems.
he sings, of the great genius of the Brit
IN IN people-soldiers and sailQgs being a
EeldH OF (which he believes to stand
ior peace and the extension of England
iLlllI all the world speaks the English
Ssansuage His breadth of vision, the
saxon purity of his style, his simplicity
u thought, are due to his love of nature.
ne ne describes himself and the life that he
"'es when he says:
aL9Fts look what you learning call. =
gu gu rustic ports most of all.
" " ny from the plain truth should l shrink
al Moods men felt; in towns men think.
iroi ing by lamp reading in the even
bils' confess, has no attraction for me, -
a. SAID Need l say more as to my
I91LAe OF the city than that | have slept
~ ny lhfee nights in London in the last
,@N emonth. Once l studied law for a
ye esn az the Temple the most miserable
lar OF my life. fear that l knew less
if% "hen l gave it up than when began
o,I re lives in the depths of Kent. so far
III tne county as to be completely
ia! from all the noise of the city. From
IN IN railway station it is three miles to
tb,''Iliord Old Manor, half of the distance
sh.Uush private park, which Swinford
res with another house more preten-
fcr ana far less attractive than Swim
49, oWlntord is not Austins; but he
ma Of !,