g sweet words her childhood knew,
And years of misery and sin
_Furl off and leave her heaven blue_.'

The 'Changeling' alone would sustain a reputation. It seems always like
the plaintive but sweet warble of some unknown bird rising from the
midst of tall water-rushes in the day's dim dawning. A wonderful melody
as of Mrs. Browning's best efforts pervades every verse, priceless and
rare as some old intaglio. But when we come to his 'Odes to the Past and
the Future,' the full power of poesy unfolds before us. Their images are
not the impalpable spectres of a poet's dream, but symbols hardened into
marble by his skill, and informed with the fire of life by his genius.

'Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,
O kingdom of the past!
There lie the bygone ages in their palls,
Guarded by shadows vast;
There all is hushed and breathless,
Save when some image of old error falls,
Earth worshiped once as deathless.'

Was ever picture of silence more effective and complete? We can see the
desolate quiet of the vast arched halls, left undisturbed by centuries,
and as the moldering statue totters forward from its niche, we feel a
faith has fallen which was once the heaven of nations, and the awful
tumult is audible as a voice from the drear kingdom of death. And the
hymn to the Future, with all the joyful Titian hues of its opening
strophes, the glowing fervor of its deep yearning, swelling through
'golden-winged dreams' of the 'Land of Promise':--

'To thee the Earth lifts up her fettered hands
And cries for vengeance; with a pitying smile
Thou blessest her, and she forgets her bands,
And her old woe-worn face a little while
Grows young and noble: unto thee the Oppressor
Looks and is dumb with awe;
The eternal law
Which makes the crime its own blindfold redresser,
Shadows his heart with perilous foreboding,
And he can see the grim-eyed Doom
From out the trembling gloom
Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace goading.'

We pass by the 'Legend of Brittany,' which, as a mere artistic study of
light and shade in words, is worthy an extended notice. Its fine polish
and refinement of feeling remind us of Spencer's silver verses, frosted
here and there with the old fret-work of his lovable affectations. But
we pause at the 'Prometheus,' honestly believing that no poem made up of
so many excellences was ever written in America. Its defects are not of
conc