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Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
The highest reaches of a human wit:
If these had made one poem's period,
And all combined in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should there hover in their restless heads
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest."

The feeling of the inexpressible, which is in literature the sense of the infinite, was never told with more heart-felt conviction than in these lines. The style of Marlowe, as lofty as it is rich, where every line brims to the rim with melody or beauty or high feeling, is such as belongs to the man. It was Shakespeare's best fortune that he caught the golden cadence of his youth from such a master's lips.

Marlowe died at the age of thirty, and left this memory of himself which for splendor and beauty is fitly symbolized by the image of the morning star which has been so freely applied to him. It is not because of the perfection of his works that he is remembered; he left no single work of the first rank; a developed art is the prerequisite of great literature. He did not so much create great works as he rather originated the art itself by which great works should in their time be accomplished. I have indicated the specific service he thus rendered by concentrating the drama on passion, by sending it to history to school, and by giving it the instrument of blank verse; but I have not meant thereby to trace his historical significance, but to show forth more fully the strength that was in him, the immense poetic energy of which his genius was the phenomenon. He had the warmth and susceptibility of a youthful poet, but he had also a greatness of soul which we associate

with more manly years. He was an emanation of the Renaissance, one of that new brood of men which was like a new creation in the ranks of the angels of power. He was a forward-looking spirit; no fiber in him looked backward to the past; he was revolutionary. He was full of mastership; no part of his nature went in leash to any power in heaven or on earth; he was free. He was lawless, even, as it is the lot of genius to be because of the prophetic element in it by which it belongs to a world not yet come into being. More than any of his fellows, more even than Shakespeare to me, he seems self-absorbed in his own other world of imaginative art, and living there as in his own bright, particular star. He is the very type of genius, as I have said- the naked form of it as bright, as beautiful, as neglectful of mankind, as free from any regards of earth as an antique statue that gives to our eyes the mortal aspect of a god.

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CAMOENS, the maker of the only truly modern epic, offers an illustration of poetic power which is to me one of the most interesting, although the foreignness of his subject-matter and the extraordinary lameness of its English translations make difficult obstacles to our appreciation; but for that very reason he has the happiest fortune that can fall to a poet in the fact that familiarity ever endears him the more. He is a less pure type of the flame of genius than Marlowe; poetic energy appears in him less a spiritual power dwelling in its own realm of imagination; but, on the other hand, his career admits us to a nearer view of a poet's human life, to what actually befalls the man so doubtfully endowed with that inward passion of life, in the days and weeks and years of his journey. Scarce any poet is so autobiographical in the strict sense. Others have made themselves the subject of their song; but usually, like Shelley, they exhibit an ideal self seen under imaginative lights and through the soul's atmosphere, and in these self-portraits half the lines are aspiration realized, the self they dream of; but Camoens shows in his verse as he was in life, with a naturalness and vigor, with an unconscious realism, a directness, an intensity and openness that give him to us as a comrade.

He was of the old blue blood of the Peninsula, the

Gothic blood, the same that gave birth to Cervantes. He was blond, and bright-haired, with blue eyes, large and lively, the face oval and ruddy — and in manhood the beard short and rounded, with long untrimmed mustachios - the forehead high, the nose aquiline; in figure agile and robust; in action "quick to draw and slow to sheathe," and when he was young, he writes that he had seen the heels of many, but none had seen his heels. Born about the year 1524, of a noble and wellconnected family, educated at Coimbra, a university famous for the classics, and launched in life about the court at Lisbon, he was no sooner his own master than he fell into troubles. He was a lover born, and the name of his lady, Caterina, is the first that emerges in his life; for such Romeo-daring he was banished from court when he was about twenty, whether after a duel or a stolen interview is uncertain; and on his return, since he continued faithful to his lady, he was sent into Africa, and in an engagement with pirates in the Straits of Gibraltar he lost his right eye. He fought the Moors for three years until he was twentyfive, and returning to Lisbon, enlisted for the Indies; but in consequence of a street affair with swords in which he drew in defense of some masked ladies and unfortunately wounded a palace servant, he was held in prison three years. Eleven days after his release he sailed, and it is not unlikely that his sailing was a condition of his release. He rounded the Cape of Good Hope and came to India, where he served in campaigns and garrison, and occasionally held official appointments, and from time to time fell into prison. He cleared himself from all charges of wrong-doing in office; but he was of the type that makes both enemies and friends. He was

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