His shame at his tattered appearance, at his companions, and at his base mode of life, are singularly beautiful and truthful strokes. That a soul so aroused should struggle for and reach the first ranks of fame is nothing strange, and that he should wed his deliverer is strict poetical justice. From “The Deserted Road” we clip the following felicitous local touches:—
“Here I stroll along the village,
As in youth’s departed morn,
But I miss the crowded coaches,
And the driver’s bugle-horn;
“Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters,
Filling buckets at the wells,
With their wains from Conestoga,
And their orchestras of bells.”
“The Alchemist’s Daughter,” amid a host of stirring lines, contains the following beautiful passages. Lorenzo, speaking of the marriage of his young mistress—