{14} We may instance several scenes of “Pippa Passes,”—the concluding one especially, where Pippa reviews her day; the whole of the “Soul's Tragedy,”—the poetic as well as the prose portion; “The Flight of the Duchess;” “Waring,” &c.; and passages continually recurring in “Sordello,” and in “Colombe's Birthday.”
These questions answered categorically will, we believe, be found to establish the assurance that Browning's style is copious, and certainly not other than appropriate,—instance contrasted with instance—as the form of expression bestowed on the several phases of a certain ever-present form of thought. We have already endeavored to show that, where style is not inadequate, its object as a means being attained, the mind must revert to its decision as to relative and collective value of intention: and we will again leave Browning's manifestations of intellectual purpose, as such, for the verdict of his readers.
To those who yet insist: “Why cannot I read Sordello?” we can only answer:—Admitted a leading idea, not only metaphysical but subtle and complicated to the highest degree; how work out this idea, unless through the finest intricacy of shades of mental development? Admitted a philosophic comprehensiveness of historical estimate and a minuteness of familiarity with details, with the added assumption, besides, of speaking with the very voice of the times; how present this position, unless by standing at an eminent point, and addressing thence a not unprepared audience? Admitted an intense aching concentration of thought; how be self-consistent, unless uttering words condensed to the limits of language?—And let us at last say: Read Sordello again. Why hold firm that you ought to be able at once to know Browning's stops, and to pluck out the heart of his mystery? Surely, if you do not understand him, the fact tells two ways. But, if you will understand him, you shall.
We have been desirous to explain and justify the state of feeling in which we enter on the consideration of a new poem by Robert Browning. Those who already feel with us will scarcely be disposed to forgive the prolixity which, for the present, has put it out of our power to come at the work itself: but, if earnestness of intention will plead our excuse, we need seek for no other.
The Evil under the Sun
How long, oh Lord?—The voice is sounding still, Not only heard beneath the altar stone, Not heard of John Evangelist alone In Patmos. It doth cry aloud and will Between the earth's end and earth's end, until The day of the great reckoning, bone for bone, And blood for righteous blood, and groan for groan: Then shall it cease on the air with a sudden thrill; Not slowly growing fainter if the rod Strikes one or two amid the evil throng, Or one oppressor's hand is stayed and numbs,— Not till the vengeance that is coming comes: For shall all hear the voice excepting God? Or God not listen, hearing?—Lord, how long?
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Art and Poetry,
Being Thoughts towards Nature.
Conducted principally by Artists.
Of the little worthy the name of writing that has ever been written upon the principles of Art, (of course excepting that on the mere mechanism), a very small portion is by Artists themselves; and that is so scattered, that one scarcely knows where to find the ideas of an Artist except in his pictures.