we turn to the following "stage-direction" with which her "Drama of Exile" concludes—There is a sound through the silence as of the falling tears of an angel." That angel must have been a distressed critic like ourselves.
Next to the "Drama of Exile," the longest poem in the collection is the composition entitled "A Vision of Poets." This poem is designed, says our authoress, "to indicate the necessary relations of genius to suffering and self-sacrifice." It is stamped throughout with the thoughtful earnestness of Miss Barrett's character, and is, on the whole, a very impressive performance. But it would have been more impressive still if it had been composed after less vicious models, or if Miss Barrett had trusted more to a style prompted by her own native powers and less to the fantastical modes of phraseology which have been introduced into literature by certain inferior artists of this and the preceding generation. We cannot read it, however, without appreciating the fervour which stirs the soul of the authoress through all its depths, when she declares and upholds the sacred mission of the poet, and teaches him that he must embrace his destiny with gratitude amid pride, even though the crown which encircles his living brows be one in which the thorns far outnumber the laurel leaves. We shall grace our pages with a series of portraits in which Miss Barrett sketches off first the true poets and then the pretenders. They certainly contain some good points, although many of her touches must be pronounced unsuccessful. Let Homer lead the van:—
" Here, Homer, with the broad suspense
Of thunderous brows, and lips intense
Of garrulous god-innocence.
" There, Shakspeare! on whose forehead climb
The crowns o' the world! Oh, eyes sublime—
With tears and laughters for all time!
" Here, Æschylus—the women swoon'd
To see so awful when he frown'd
As the gods did—he standeth crown'd.
" Euripides, with close and mild
Scholastic lips—that could be wild,
And laugh or sob out like a child
" Right in the classes. Sophocles,
With that king's look which down the trees,
Follow'd the dark effigies
" Of the lost Theban! Hesiod old,
Who somewhat blind, and deaf, and cold,
Cared most for gods and bulls! and bold
" Electric Pindar, quick as fear,
With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear,
Slant startled eyes that seem to hear
" The chariot rounding the last goal,
To hurtle past it in his soul!
And Sappho crown'd with aureole
" Of ebon curls on calmed brows—
O poet-woman! none forgoes
The leap, attaining the repose!
" Theocritus, with glittering locks,
Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks
He watch'd the visionary flocks!
" And Aristophanes! who took
The world with mirth, and laughter struck
The hollow caves of Thought, and woke
" The infinite echoes hid in each.
And Virgil! shade of Mantuan beech
Did help the shade of bay to reach
" And knit around his forehead high!
For his gods wore less majesty
Than his brown bees humm'd deathlessly.
" Lucretius—nobler than his mood!
Who dropp'd his plummet down the broad
Deep universe, and said 'No God,'
" Finding no bottom, He denied
Divinely the divine, and died
Chief poet on the Tiber-side,
" By grace of God. His face is stern,
As one compell'd, in spite of scorn,
To teach a truth he could not learn.
" And Ossian, dimly seen or guess'd!
Once counted greater than the rest,
When mountain-winds blew out his vest.
