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“ Let me not to the marriage of pure mindo
Admit impediments.” We are happy to add, that the first social production of these highly favored children of Apollo is a fine boy, born in the sunny south. In person Browning is small, but well made and active; very dark, with a Jewish cast of countenance; has large black whiskers, which he cultivates under his chin; his eyes are dark; complexion almost approaching to sallow. However obscure in his writings, he is intelligible in his conversation; and his dislike to brusquerié often borders on affectation and punctiliousness unworthy so true a poet. His marriage with Miss Barrett was the result of a short courtship; their correspondence commenced in Greek, and doubtless in that language their love longings were expressed.
Mr. Browning is very susceptible of criticism, although pretending to a great contempt of it. He is a strong disbeliever in the genius of his contemporaries, and is as chary of his critical praise as Shakspere himself. The absurdity of some of his dedications is in striking contrast to this hesitation, as those to Talfourd, Barry Cornwell, &c. abundantly testify. This is a contradiction in his nature we cannot easily explain, and most probably proceeds from that false courtesy which is, perhaps, bis solitary blemish; in other respects he is a gentleman and an undoubted poet. His political principles are republican. He is in his thirty-seventh year.
Mr. Browning's writings are numerous.
The return of the Druses.
Blot in the 'Scutcheon.
He has lately collected these in a new edition, comprised in two volumes, and we understand are about to be reprinted in America.
ARTHUR A. CLOUGH.
Thomas Burbidge and Arthur A. Clough are the last twin stars that have made their appearance as English poets; and like those of the Elizabethan age, they write together in one volume, which presents a very modest appearance, and is called " Ambarvalia.'
Mr. Clough's portion comes first under our notice; we do not know why he prints all his lyrics without a title: to be sure, it allows his readers to exercise their ingenuity, each after his own fashion ; but at the same time, we think much of the force of what he has to say is lost on the public in general, who like to know by what name such and such a poem is called ; the grown men and women who do read poetry in these days do not like to be treated as boys at school who are learning arithmetic, and whose problems are only solved in their tutor's key; none of the great poets left their poems unnamed, and we do not see why we should not have the author's own help in reading what he has written; we should like to see what Mr. Clough would have christened his first poem, being also the best, and which we think worth transcribing.
“ The human spirits saw I on a day,
Sitting and looking each a different way;
Another spirit went around the ring
Dost thou not know that these things only seem ?-
I know not, let me live my life.'
Thy duty do? rejoined the voice,
And taking up the word around, above, below,
And in a silvery whisper heard him say;
This is subjective poetry, and not likely to become popular, though it may strike the heart of many a one to whom such thoughts are food, and food only that nourishes-it will “fit audience find, though few," and much in this little volume is of “the same character,"—it does not depend upon its dramatic interest nor its passion—nor upon the music in which it comes wafted to our ear-and that there is a music in it, any one who takes up the volume may see, but the interest it excites lies entirely in the thought which lies enfolded in these bare, but not inharmonious words. Here for instance,
“ Full oft concealed high meanings work ;
And, scorning observation,
As of itself, of others so
Sometimes, indeed, it shakes off its fetters and still speaks in music through the mere power of thought, as here,
“ And can it be, you ask me, that a man,
With the strong arm, the cunning faculties,
Of God most high,-should disregard all these,
The “Blank misgivings,” &c. let us into the secret of the author's own heart—from whence all poetry must spring—and if it has no other theme, it is so far objective; moreover it shows no little hardihood in thus displaying itself, and engenders thus a more human interest than many a more glowing and objective
poem would do.
“ The golden tide of opportunity,” is a worthy coinage, and will pass current and be appreciated wherever the language is understood—nor will there be a few who will not, with our author, regret he has let it slip through his fingers. The truth of our assertion, that the poetry lies inthe thought, is borne out by
“Nor for thy neighbor, nor for thee,
Our author reminds us of two great poets of our day, Tennyson and Emerson-neither of whom does he servilely copy, but he has a good deal of Tennyson's music, with much of Emerson's subtlety of thought—and this is no slight promise for a young poet—we don't know yet but that he may earn the laurel crown. We shall have something more to say of another poem, “The Bothie, &c.” when we have introduced his fellow laborer in the same vineyard, his companion in this little volume. There is some