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IS ruggedness arises mainly from his de

termination to say precisely what he wants to say. He allows no considera

tion to deter him from expressing his thought with perfect exactness. He is ironical, but he is passionate. His demeanour is composed, yet fire burns below. No man is more capable of understanding the subtle abandonment and the subtle extravagance of love.


It is given to some few writers to add to our sense of being; their pages are surcharged with soul, so that the soul of the reader becomes more vital, and his destiny seems deeper and larger. One remembers how this has been done often by a line of Shakespere or of Wordsworth, and to that great same soul-ascribing race of men Robert Browning belongs—To those rather who help us to see great truths, than to manipulate little ones.

P. H.

What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, he hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two.


His highest glory is the unflinching zeal with which he has mastered and given to the world the results of human strife, toil, and achievement.




IND O beloved voices, upon which
Ours passionately call because ere


Ye brake off in the middle of that song We sang together softly, to enrich The poor

world with the sense of love, and witch The heart out of things evil, -I am strong, Knowing ye are not lost for aye among The hills, with last year's thrush. God keeps a

niche In heaven to hold our idols ; and albeit He brake them to our faces, and denied That our close kisses should impair their white, I know we shall behold them raised, complete, The dust swept from their beauty,-glorified New Memnons singing in the great God-light.

LYRIC Love, half angel and half bird,
And all a wonder and a wild desire,-
Boldest of hearts that ever braved

the sun
Took sanctuary within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face,-
Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart-


Never may

I commence my song, my due To God, who best taught song by gift of Thee, Except with bent head and beseeching handThat still, despite the distance and the dark, What was, again may be; some interchange Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought, Some benediction anciently thy smile.


I praised thee not while living ; what to thee
Was praise of mine? I mourned thee not when

I only loved thee,-love thee ! oh ! thou fled,
Fair spirit, free at last where all are free,
I only love thee, bless thee, that to me
For ever thou hast made the rose more red,
More sweet each word by olden singers said
In sadness, or by children in their glee;
Once, only once, in life I heard thee speak,
Once, only once, I kissed thee on the cheek,
And met thy kiss and blessing; scarce I know
Thy smile, I only loved thee, only grew

Through wealth, through strength of thine, less

poor, less weak; Oh what hath death with souls like thine to do?



HEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my life, in this dark world and


And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; “ Doth God exact day labour, light denied ?" I fondly ask, but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies :-“ God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.


E image to ourselves the breathless

silence in which we should listen to his slightest word, the passionate venera

tion with which we should kneel to kiss his hand, the earnestness with which we should endeavour to console him, if, indeed, such a spirit could need consolation, for the neglect of an age unworthy of his talents, and the eagerness with which we should contest with his daughters the privilege of reading Homer to him.


Here Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim;
The shapes of sun and stars did swim
Like clouds from them, and granted him
God for sole vision.


Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice, whose sound was like the sea :
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.


In Milton only, first and last, is the power of the sublime revealed. In Milton only does this great agency blaze and glow as a furnace kept up to a white heat.


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