Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing--

and

O June, O June, that we desired so,

Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?--

--it is, indeed, unnecessary to add example to example--are of the

highest order of lyric poetry. The lusty strength and naked passion

of _Sigurd the Volsung_ are as yet unattempted at any sustained

pressure, but in all other respects the achievement of _Jason_ and

_The Earthly Paradise_ is complete and representative. Remembering

Pope's "awful Aristarch"--

Thy mighty Scholiast, whose unweary'd pains

Made Horace dull, and humbled Milton's strains.

Turn what they will to Verse, their toil is vain,

Critics like me shall make it Prose again--

I have refrained from any attempt to re-tell the stories that must be

read as Morris told them or not at all. It has been my purpose

rather to hold for a moment in trembling hands the spirit that is in

them and that went to their creation.

At the time of publication of the last volume of _The Earthly

Paradise_, Morris had begun the study of Icelandic story that was to

find its splendid culmination six years later in _Sigurd the

Volsung_. The history of these beginnings will be told more fitly

later in connection with the consideration of that poem. The

completion of his great cycle of tales left him momentarily with a

sense of purposelessness. 'I feel rather lost at having done my

book,' he writes. 'I must try to get something serious to do as soon

as may be ... perhaps something else of importance will turn up

soon.' He turned again to painting, and occupied some of his time in

book-illumination, an art in which he attained a perfection no less

memorable than that of the mediæval masters. The business of Morris

and Company was developing rapidly, and in 1871 he found a new

interest in Kelmscott House, the old manor in Oxfordshire that was to

be his country home until his death. The abiding pleasure that his

retreat afforded him has been beautifully pictured for us in Mr.

Mackail's "Life." In the same year he made his first journey to

Iceland, and on his return he wrote the poem, which is next to be

considered, _Love is Enough_.

[1] Mr. Stopford Brooke.

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