e a new poetic method, the significance of which we cannot
estimate as yet. But, although we may fail to apprehend the meaning of
the new method he employs, we cannot fail to perceive the fact, which is
not less striking, that the region from which he quarries his material
is new.

And yet he does not break away abruptly from his predecessors. His
kinship with them, in that he recognizes the presence of God in nature,
is everywhere evident. We quote one passage, scarcely to be surpassed by
any of our poets, as indicative of his power of dealing with the
supernaturalism of nature.

"The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,
And the earth changes like a human face;
The molten ore burst up among the rocks,
Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask--
God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged
With foam, white as the bitter lip of hate,
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups
Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,
Staring together with their eyes on flame--
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes
Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure
Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face.

* * * * *

"Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing gulls
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
Their loves in wood and plain--and God renews
His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all,
From life's minute beginnings, up at last
To man--the consummation of this scheme
Of being, the completion of this sphere of life."[A]

[Footnote A: _Paracelsus._]

Such passages as these contain neither the rapt, reflective calm of
Wordsworth's solemn tones, nor the ethereal intoxication of Shelley's
spirit-music; but there is in them the same consciousness of the
infinite meaning of natural facts. And beyond this, there is also, in
the closing lines, a hint of a new region for art. Shelley and
Wordsworth were the poets of Nature, as all truly say; Browning was the
poet of the human soul. For Shelley, the beauty in which all things work
and mo