bright but distant fields of air. Still with her, as with all others, it is when she touches closest on human sympathies that we lend our readiest ear, and are willing, not unwisely, to think her poetry at its best. Eminently beautiful, though not without a certain vagueness in the idea, is that chorus of Eden spirits, whose sounds pursue Adam and Eve as they fly from Paradise :

Hearken, O hearken! let your souls behind you
Turn, gently moved!

Our voices feel along the Dread to find you,

O lost, beloved!

Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels,
They press and pierce :

Our requiems follow fast on our evangels,-
Voice throbs in verse!

We are but orphan spirits left in Eden
A time ago.

God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden
To feed you so.

But now our right hand hath no cup remaining,
No work to do,

The mystic hydromel is spilt and staining
The whole earth through.

Most ineradicable stains for showing

(Not interfused!)

That brighter colours were the world's foregoing,
Than shall be used.

Hearken, O hearken! ye shall hearken surely,
For years and years,

The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely,
Of spirits' tears!

The yearning to a beautiful denied you,

Shall strain your powers;
Ideal sweetnesses shall over-glide you,
Resumed from ours!

In all your music, our pathetic minor
Your ears shall cross;

And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner,
With sense of loss.

We shall be near you in your poet-languors
And wild extremes,

What time ye vex the desert with vain angers,
Or mock with dreams.

And when upon you, weary after roaming,
Death's seal is put,

By the foregone ye shall discern the coming
Through eyelids shut."

More human and more lovely in their deep yet restrained pathos are the concluding lines of the "Song of the Morning Star to Lucifer;" words that are like the verbal reflection of the pale shining of the planet in heaven, and afford as complete an instance as one could desire of that sort of harmony between the thing and the expression, against the frequent breach of which in Aurora Leigh we have protested:

“Thine angel glory sinks

Down from me, down from me,—

My beauty falls, methinks,

Down from thee, down from thee!

O my light-bearer,

O my path-preparer,
Gone from me, gone from me!
Ah, ah, Heosphoros !

I cannot kindle underneath the brow
Of this new angel here, who is not Thou :
All things are altered, since that time ago,—
And if I shine at eve, I shall not know!
I am strange-I am slow.
Ah, ah, Heosphoros !

Henceforward, human eyes of lovers be
The only sweetest sight that I shall see,
With tears between the looks raised up to me.
Ah, ah!

When, having wept all night, at break of day,
Above the folded hills they shall survey

My light, a little trembling, in the gray.

Ah, ah!

And gazing on me, such shall comprehend,

Through all my piteous pomp at morn or even,
And melancholy leaning out of heaven,

That love, their own divine, may change or end,
That love may close in loss!

Ah, ah, Heosphoros !"

H

It was natural that Mrs. Browning, as her powers developed themselves, and her experiences widened, should leave this school of poetry behind her. It was natural, too, that she should desire to go beyond the more detached and simpler subject-matters of her shorter poems, and attempt the higher task of giving a shape of verse to the more complex phenomena of life and society. Her present flight is an ambitious one. If we rightly understand her, she tells us that Aurora Leigh is her attempt in a poem "unscrupulously epic" to "represent the age" in which she lives. She admits that to most men their own age, being too close, is as ill-discerned, as would be the lineaments of that colossal statue into which Xerxes proposed to carve Mount Athos to the peasants “gathering brushwood in his ear." But, she says,

"Poets should

Exert a double vision; should have eyes
To see near things as comprehensively
As if afar they took their point of sight,
And distant things as intimately deep
As if they touched them."

She tells us, that if there is any room for poets in the world, their sole work is to represent their own times. And she seems to think that in a single poem a poet can condense a sort of distillation of his age; and this she has attempted in Aurora Leigh. Such, at least, is what we gather from the poem itself.

Now there is no doubt that every great poet must more or less give expression to the times in which he lives. No man can be a great poet whose power and knowledge are not derived from an insight into the actual life which surrounds him; and it is impossible that the conditions under which he has lived, and the things which he has most familiarly known, should not leave their impress upon him, and through him upon his work. As Wordsworth's poetry is haunted by the influences of the lakes and mountains; as the nature of the Scottish

peasant underlies the genius of Burns; as a self-willed worldly spirit clings to the highest flights of Byron; as Milton cannot shake off the Puritan, and even Shakspere has some flavour of the courtier, so it is idle to suppose every poet and every man does not carry the impress of the less close but more universal influences of the social conditions which surround him. It does not follow, however, that he is the greatest poet who most fully and most immediately reproduces these influences in the gross; still less that it is the highest effort of the poet consciously to devote himself to this task. Man is greater and more interesting than the life he lives, and it is greater to paint him simply under the conditions of his own nature, than under any restricted conditions of circumstance; it is profounder and more lasting to use the special surroundings in which men exist (and without using which they cannot be painted at all) to body forth the men themselves, than to attempt to reproduce an abstract whole of men and their lives as they live at a given time, a higher task to use the age to show a man than to use men to show an age. When it was said of the greatest poet that he was of no age, it was no idle compliment; it was not meant that he wrote of things abstract and disconnected from the realities of every age; but that he pierced to those deeper realities which underlie all the ages of men, which are what the root and springing sap of the tree are to the fleeting generations of its leaves. He used the special as a body for the universal. It is true a poet may legitimately take a lower flight than this; he may choose to embody the leading ideas and characteristics of the period of time in which he lives; and this, no doubt, is a higher artistic effort than to attempt to embody those of any other particular age,-if for no other reason, because he is dealing with things more real, more familiar, and in all probability of a deeper interest. It does not follow, however, even if this be his direct object, that his events and his

characters must be chosen from those which immediately surround him. He may select in the past, or invent for himself, the framework of his poem of modern ideas; or he may deal with the ideas of the past for the sake of some bearing they have, either by contrast or analogy, on the ideas of the present. Kingsley's Saint's Tragedy, and Tennyson's Princess, are cases in point. Mrs. Browning, however, holds,—and the idea is a common one at the present day,—that it is a higher effort to represent modern ideas in their actual modern dress. Perhaps it is. Certainly it is a much more difficult one. Perhaps the poet ought to be able to see his own times at the same moment with the eyes of one removed from them and one near to them; but we know no poet who has ever done so. It is obvious enough to cite Homer; but even granting that "Wolff's an atheist," it is not easy to believe that "the tale of Troy divine" was written in the actual times it deals with. The Homeric poems give us our knowledge of the Homeric age; but whether they are a true description of the times of Achilles, or a story cast in those times, and an incidentally true delineation of the manners and thoughts of a later time in which they were written, is, to say the least of it, an open question. Even the satirist paints his times, not as they are, but in their relation to a special preconceived idea of his own. No doubt it is easy to clothe some of the simpler elements of the present life in the dress of the time; but the deeper and more searching the knowledge of a poet of the great and fundamental characteristics of the life which surrounds him, the more difficult and intricate a task does it become to reproduce these things in their actual context with the thousand crossing and entangled details through which he has pierced to and gathered up their real significance. His instinct,—and we think it is a true one,―is, to take what he has gained quite away from these complications, and crystallise it in some new form, in which it may shine in fuller clearness and simplicity.