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CHARLOTTE BRONTË.
If here is not the pure distinctive note of song as opposed to speech—the 'lyrical cry,' as Mr. Arnold calls it—I know not where to seek it in English verse since Shelley. Another such unmistakable note is struck in the verses headed 'Remembrance,' where the deep sense of division wellnigh melts and dies into a dream of reunion and revival by the might of memories 'that are most dearly sweet and bitter.' Here too is the same profound perception of an abiding power, but little less if surely less than omnipotence, in the old dumb divinities of Earth and Time—gods only not yet found strong enough to divide long love from death;
All these samples are from the little
