home, and duty." Convinced that Milton and Wordsworth were central to England's poetic tradition, Watson had schooled himself in the grand rhetorical style, emphasizing clarity and epigrammatic force. In "The Sovereign Poet" he envisioned himself in the mantle of the poet as prophet who "sits above the clang and dust of Time, / With the world's secret trembling on his lip.''
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Watson's major poem, "Wordsworth's Grave," laments the decline of late-nineteenth-century poetry, echoing Wordsworth's own sonnet "London 1802" ("Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour"). Britain, Watson insisted, was in urgent need of spiritual regeneration at a time of cultural decay, as indicated by contemporary poets who "bowed the knee / To misbegotten strange new gods of song"an allusion to the literary Decadents, both French and domestic. Tennyson had condemned these "strange new gods of song" for their subversion of cultural unity: "Art for Art's sake! Hail, truest Lord of Hell!" Wordsworth, said Watson, provided the "gift of rest" by drawing strength from natureunlike the self-obsessed Decadents, who celebrated the dark side of human experience, who employed a literary language at variance with common speech, and who rejected the Romantic worship of nature by trumpeting the superiority of artifice:
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| | No word-mosaic artificer, he sang A lofty song of lowly weal and dole. Right from the heart, right to the heart it sprang, Or from the soul leapt instant to the soul.
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Such spontaneous, regenerative power as Wordsworth providedunitinq thought with feelingwas rarely found, said Watson, in late-nineteenth-century poetry:
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| | Where is the singer whose large notes and clear Can heal, and arm, and plenish, and sustain? Lo, one with empty music floods the ear, And one, the heart refreshing, tires the brain.
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With the death of Tennyson in October 1892 Watson composed "Lacrimae Musarum," an elegy which, in its profusion of l s, produces an evocative incantation in mourning the laureate's end:
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| | Low, like another's, lies the laurelled head: The life that seemed a perfect song is o'er: Carry the last great bard to his last bed.
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