Lionel Johnson (1867-1902)

It is generally believed that the "Destroyer of a Soul" was Oscar Wilde. The soul was that of Lord Alfred Douglas. Johnson had introduced the two. Johnson's verse is often described as deliberately old-fashioned, orderly, precise, and classical. These qualities seem especially apparent in The Age of a Dream (which is in hexameter) and ran counter to the Impressionist/Decadent movement of the 1890s. Perhaps ironically, he died of a stroke after falling off a barstool in 1902.

• The Destroyer of a Soul
• Doctor Major
• The Age of a Dream

  ---

  ---

  The Destroyer of a Soul

  To ------------

  I hate you with a necessary hate.
  First, I sought patience: passionate was she:
  My patience turned in very scorn of me,
  That I should dare forgive a sin so great,
  As this, through which I sit disconsolate;
  Mourning for that live soul, I used to see;
  Soul of a saint, whose friend I used to be:
  Till you came by! a cold, corrupting, fate.

  Why come you now? You, whom I cannot cease
  With pure and perfect hate to hate? Go, ring
  The death-bell with a deep, triumphant toll!
  Say you, my friend sits by me still? Ah, peace!
  Call you this thing my friend? this nameless thing?
  This living body, hiding its dead soul?

  Doctor Major

  To Dr. Birbeck Hill

  Why, no Sir! If a barren rascal cries,
  That he is most in love with pleasing woe,
  'Tis plain, Sir! what to think of him: We know
  The dog lies; and the dog, too, knows he lies.
  Sir! if he's happy, he will dry his eyes,
  And stroll at Vauxhall for an hour or so:
  If he's unhappy, it were best he go
  Hang himself straight, nor pester us with sighs.

  Enough, Sir! Let us have no more of it:
  Your friend is little better than a Whig.
  But you and I, Sir, who are men of wit,
  Laugh at the follies of a canting prig.
  Let those who will, Sir! to such whims submit:
  No, Sir! we'll to the Mitre: Frank! my wig.

  The Age of a Dream

  To Christopher Whall

  Imageries of dream reveal a gracious age:
  Black armour, falling lace, and altar lights at morn.
  The courtesy of Saints, their gentleness and scorn,
  Lights on an earth more fair, than shone from Plato's page:
  The courtesy of knights, fair calm and sacred rage:
  The courtesy of love, sorrow for love's sake borne.
  Vanished, those high conceits! Desolate and forlorn,
  We hunger against hope for that lost heritage.

  Gone now, the carven work! Ruined, the golden shrine!
  No more the glorious organs pour their voice divine;
  No more rich frankincense drifts through the Holy Place:
  Now from the broken tower, what solemn bell still tolls,
  Mourning what piteous death? Answer, O saddened souls!
  Who mourn the death of beauty and the death of grace.