say, that her attempt has been unsuccessful. She has
tried to make bricks not only without straw, but almost without clay;
and that being the case, the marvel is that she should have succeeded so
well.

"There was room at least," continues Miss Barrett, "for lyrical emotion
in those first steps into the wilderness, in that first sense of
desolation after wrath, in that first audible gathering of the
recriminating 'groan of the whole creation,' in that first darkening of
the hills from the recoiling feet of angels, and in that first silence
of the voice of God." There certainly _was_ room for lyrical emotion in
these first steps into wilderness. All nature might most appropriately
be supposed to break forth in melodious regrets around the footsteps of
the wanderers: but we cannot think that Miss Barrett has done justice to
nature's strains. Unless lyrical emotion be expressed in language as
clear as a mountain rill, and as well defined as the rocks over which it
runs, it is much better left unsung. The merit of all lyrical poetry
consists in the clearness and cleanness with which it is cut; no tags or
loose ends can any where be permitted. But Miss Barrett's lyrical
compositions are frequently so inarticulate, so slovenly, and so
defective, both in rhythm and rhyme, that we are really surprised how a
person of her powers could have written them, and how a person of any
judgment could have published them. Take a specimen, not by any means
the worst, from the "Song of the morning star to Lucifer:"--

"Mine orbed image sinks
Back from thee, back from thee,
As thou art fallen, methinks,
Back from me, back from me.
O my light-bearer,
Could another fairer
Lack to thee, lack to thee?
Ai, ai, Heosphoros!
I loved thee, with the fiery love of stars.
Who love by burning, and by loving move,
Too near the throned Jehovah, not to love.
Ai, ai, Heosphoros!
Their brows flash fast on me from gliding cars,
Pale-passion'd for my loss.
Ai, ai, Heosphoros!

"Mine orbed heats drop cold
Down from thee, down from thee,
As fell thy grace of old
Down from me, down from me.
O my light-bearer,
Is another fairer
Won to thee, won to thee?
Ai, ai, Heosphoros,
Great love preceded loss,
Known to thee, known to thee.
Ai, ai!
Thou, breathing they communicable grace
Of li