And they could let me take my state
And foolish throne, amid applause
Of all come there to celebrate

My queen's day; oh! I think the cause
Of much was; they forgot no crowd
Makes up for parents in their shroud.

See Gismond's at the gate: in talk

With his two boys: I can proceed!—
Well, at that moment, who should stalk
Forth calmly (to my face indeed)
But Gauthier, and he thundered 'Stay,'
And all did stay! no crowns I say.'

Bring torches! wind the penance sheet
About her! Let her shun the chaste,
Or lay herself before their feet!

Shall she, whose body I embraced
A night long, queen it in the day!
For honor's sake, no crowns, I say.

I? what I answered? As I live

I never thought there was such thing
As answer possible to give,

What says the body when they spring
Some monstrous torture engine's whole
Strength on it? no more says the Soul!

Till out strode Gismond! then I knew
That I was saved! I never met

His face before, but at first view

I felt quite sure that God had set
Himself to Satan:-who could spend
A minute's mistrust on the end!"

The next stanza is one of the finest in the whole

etical painting.

"He strode to Gauthier: in his throat

Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth

With one back-handed blow that wrote

In blood men's verdict there.-North, South,

East, West, I looked, The lie was dead
And damned--and truth stood up instead.

This glads me most-that I enjoyed

The heart of the joy; nor my content
In watching Gismond was alloyed
By any doubt of the event,
God took that on him-me he bid
Watch Gismond for my part. I did!

Did I not watch him, while he let

His armorer just brace his greaves,

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret

The while, his feet, my memory leaves

No least stamp out, nor how anon

He pulled his ringing gauntlets on."

Mark, how graphically the whole scene is brought before the reader. The two last lines sound just like the gauntlets themselves. No puling fine words; bold, nervous Saxon!—every word a piece of the picture.

"And e'en before the trumpet's sound

Was finished; there lay prone the knight,

Prone as his lie upon the ground:

My knight flew at him! used no sleight
Of the sword, but open breasted drove
Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

Which done he dragged him to my feet
And said 'Here die, but end thy breath
In full confession, lest thou fleet

From my first to God's second death!
Say, hast thou lied?' and 'I have lied
To God and her '-he said and died!

Then Gismond, kneeling to me asked
What safe my heart holds-though no word

Could I repeat now-tho' I tasked

My powers for ever-to a third

Dear even as you are: pass the rest,

Until I sunk upon his breast.

Over my head his arm he flung

Against the world; and scarce I felt
His sword, that dripped by me and swung,
A little shifted in its belt,

For he began to say the while

How South our home lay many a mile.

So 'mid the shouting multitude

We two walked forth, to never more
Return."

As a proof that Mr. Browning is deficient in that necessary constructive faculty which enables a dramatist to preserve the identity of his character, we may adduce as an instance the following part of Pippa's soliloquy. Pippa is a poor factory girl.

"Day!

Faster and more fast

O'er night's brim day boils at last,

Boils pure gold o'er the cloud capp'd brim
Where spurting and supprest it lay-

For not a froth flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray,

Of eastern cloud an hour away,

But forth one wavelet then another curled,

Till the whole sunrise not to be supprest

Rose, reddened, and its seething breast

Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world."

Certainly Pippa is no other than Robert Browning in petticoats. Her morning and evening hymn is also a singular piece of devotional metaphysics:

"All service ranks the same with God,

If now as formerly he trod

Paradise, God's presence fills

Our earth, and each but as God wills

Can work-God's puppets best and worst,

Are we there is no last nor first.

Say not a small event!-why small?
Costs it more pain this thing ye call

A great event shall come to pass
Than that? Untwine me, from the mass
Of deeds that make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!"

Pippa is certainly a very singular young lady, and must be half sister to the lady described in Don Juan.

"Her favorite science was the metaphysical."

We will indulge in another snatch of Pippa's:

"Overhead the tree tops meet

Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet,
What are the voices birds

Ay, and tests too, but words-our words
Only so much more sweet?

That knowledge with my life begun!-
But I had so near made out the sun!
Could count your stars-the seven over
Like the fingers of my hand-

Nay could all but understand

How and wherefore the moon rages,

And just when out of her soft fifty changes,
No unfamiliar face might overlook me-
Suddenly God took me !"

We have heard Mr. Browning frequently reply in answer to some of the critics who have accused him of an impracticable style, that he is as clear as any poet can be, who uses a new set of symbols; he declares that he is weary of phoenixes, roses, lilies, and the old stock in trade, which with the aid of ten fingers, has enabled mere versifiers to inundate the reading world with a deluge of "verse and water."

For instance, if Mr. Browning wishes to make a simile, and illustrate redness, he will not take the rose, but select some out of the way flower equally red, but of whose name not one in a thousand has ever heard this added to a style so condensed and clipt of all aids as to sometimes be unintelligible, has sealed Mr. Browning's

works to the many. It is indeed the shorthand of poetry. It requires the author or some duly qualified admirer to interpret it to the world. We feel sure it is a great defect in an author when he requires "an explanator." He should be able to converse with his reader without intermediate aid. He should sit face to face, flashing bright thoughts into the gazer's mind.

We must not conclude our notice of Robert Browning without alluding to the exquisite spiritual grace and purity he has thrown around his female characters. We confess that they all seem to belong to one family, although brought up at different colleges, (for all his women are great metaphysicians,) still there is a purity and unselfishness about them which makes one wish that the world were peopled only with such divine creatures as Shakspere and Browning's heroines are.

old as

Lamb once told a friend that he would any day marry, he was, if he could only "find one of Shakspere's women." The poet, logician, and metaphysician would, in like manner, look out for some Sordellian creature such as Mildred, Pippa, Anael, or one of her sister heroines. The purity of a poet's heart may frequently be tested by his ideal seraglio. We have only to refer to Byron, Shakspere and Browning, for strong cases in support of our opinion.

It would be unjust to Mr. Browning to give any specimen from his larger works; they should be read by themselves; they do not abound in fine isolated passages, like most poets. All their beauties are so interwoven as to render extracts, to inform the reader, well nigh as absurd as to bring a brick as a specimen of the architecture of any particular building.

In November, 1846, Mr. Browning married Miss Barrett, the celebrated poetess, and shortly after went to Florence, where he now remains. The conjugal union of the first poetess of the age with the author of Paracelsus is certainly an unparalleled event in the history of matrimony, and a singular illustration of Shakspere's sonnet.