I will not do my readers the injustice to suppose that they are unacquainted with the writings of our greatest English poetess, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They will not fail to have been attracted by the prodigal genius, the superabundant power, the exquisite imagery, the profound spirit of tenderness, the high, pure thoughts, which render almost every page such delightful reading. Successful as she was, however, in giving expression to the most subtle emotions and the intensest feeling, I think she was even happier in her descriptions of scenery. These are invariably aglow with life and colour, and have all the fidelity of Creswick with the imaginative insight of Turner. Turning over her "Aurora Leigh," the other day, I lighted on the following beautiful picture:—
"I flattered all the beauteous country round,
As poets use—the skies, the clouds, the fields,
The happy violets, hiding from the roads
The primroses run down to, carrying gold—
The tangled hedgerows, where the rows push out
Their tolerant horns and patient churning mouths
'Twixt dripping ash-boughs—hedgerows all alive
With birds, and gnats, and large white butterflies,
Which look as if the May-flower had caught life