he had
picked up in Florence.

Much, far the greater part, of the first "book" is--interesting! It is
mere verse. As verse, even, it is often so involved, so musicless
occasionally, so banal now and again, so inartistic in colour as well as
in form, that one would, having apprehended its explanatory interest,
pass on without regret, were it not for the noble close--the passionate,
out-welling lines to "the truest poet I have ever known," the beautiful
soul who had given her all to him, whom, but four years before he wrote
these words, he had laid to rest among the cypresses and ilexes of the
old Florentine garden of the dead.

"O lyric Love, half angel and half bird
And all a wonder and a wild desire,--
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,
Took sanctuary within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face,--
Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart--
When the first summons from the darkling earth
Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,
And bared them of the glory--to drop down,
To toil for man, to suffer or to die,--
This is the same voice: can thy soul know change?
Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!
Never may I commence my song, my due
To God who best taught song by gift of thee,
Except, with bent head and beseeching hand--
That still, despite the distance and the dark,
What was, again may be; some interchange
Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,
Some benediction anciently thy smile:
--Never conclude, but raising hand and head
Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,
Their utmost up and on,--so blessing back
In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,
Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,
Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!"
* * * * *

Thereafter, for close upon five thousand words, the poem descends again
to the level of a versified tale. It is saved from ruin by subtlety of
intellect, striking dramatic verisimilitude, an extraordinary vigour,
and occasional lines of real poetry. Retrospectively, apart from the
interest, often strained to the utmost, most readers, I fancy, will
recall with lingering pleasure only the opening of "The Other Half
Rome," the description of Pompilia, "wi