And death and darkness rend the veil in twain.”
Literal criticism of Jean Ingelow is, however, abashed and almost silenced by the essence of her verse, which, in its chastity and beauty, is above the touch of cavil. She is one of our few contemporaneous poets who can look upon the face of her own work without a blush. Apparently past the zenith of her productive talent, she may look gratefully back upon her modest and constant rise, and say:
“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast.”
She need not avert her gaze from any line, and plead that the public forgets it was hers and a woman’s. Wanting the genius of poetry, her inspiration has been only that of intense poetic feeling wrought out by the canons of verse; but, although only one of many in this respect, the work itself is far above the average of its class.
“Many fervent souls
Strike rhyme on rhyme who would strike steel on steel,
If steel had offered, in a restless heat
Of doing something. Many tender souls
Have strung their losses on a rhyming thread,