reached its boundary, at last
May breathe;--thinks o'er enchantments of the South
Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth,
Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried
In fancy, puts them soberly aside
For truth, projects a cool return with friends,
The likelihood of winning mere amends
Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently,
Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he,
Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon
Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon."

The best of these is where he illustrates the restless desire of a poet
for the renewal of energy, for finding new worlds to sing. The poet
often seems to stop his work, to be satisfied. "Here I will rest," he
says, "and do no more." But he only waits for a fresh impulse.

'Tis but a sailor's promise, weather-bound:
"Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored
For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured!
Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash,
Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash,
The margin's silent: out with every spoil
Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil,
This serpent of a river to his head
I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread
The bank, to help us tell our history
Aright; give ear, endeavour to descry
The groves of giant rushes, how they grew
Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through,
What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent
Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went
Till ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attest
The springing of a land-wind from the West!"
--Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day!
To-morrow, and the pageant moved away
Down to the poorest tent-pole, we and you
Part company: no other may pursue
Eastward your voyage, be informed what fate
Intends, if triumph or decline await
The tempter of the everlasting steppe!

This, from Book iii., is the best because it is closer than the rest to
the matter in hand; but how much better it might have been! How
curiously overloaded it is, how difficult what is easy has been made!

The fault of these illustrations is the fault of the whole poem.
_Sordello_ is obscure, Browning's idolaters say, by concentration of
thought. It is rather obscure by want of that wise rejection of
unnecessary thoughts which is the true concentration. It is obscure by a
reckless misuse of the ordinary rules of l