in the old days, in spite of the
Roman poet's noble boast, it was not so. The fragile clay vases of the
Greeks still keep for us pictures of Sappho, delicately painted in black
and red and white; but of her song we have only the echo of an echo.

Of all the women of history, Mrs. Browning is the only one that we could
name in any possible or remote conjunction with Sappho.

Sappho was undoubtedly a far more flawless and perfect artist. She
stirred the whole antique world more than Mrs. Browning ever stirred our
modern age. Never had Love such a singer. Even in the few lines that
remain to us the passion seems to scorch and burn. But, as unjust Time,
who has crowned her with the barren laurels of fame, has twined with them
the dull poppies of oblivion, let us turn from the mere memory of a
poetess to one whose song still remains to us as an imperishable glory to
our literature; to her who heard the cry of the children from dark mine
and crowded factory, and made England weep over its little ones; who, in
the feigned sonnets from the Portuguese, sang of the spiritual mystery of
Love, and of the intellectual gifts that Love brings to the soul; who had
faith in all that is worthy, and enthusiasm for all that is great, and
pity for all that suffers; who wrote the _Vision of Poets_ and _Casa
Guidi Windows_ and _Aurora Leigh_.

As one, to whom I owe my love of poetry no less than my love of country,
said of her:

Still on our ears
The clear 'Excelsior' from a woman's lip
Rings out across the Apennines, although
The woman's brow lies pale and cold in death
With all the mighty marble dead in Florence.
For while great songs can stir the hearts of men,
Spreading their full vibrations through the world
In ever-widening circles till they reach
The Throne of God, and song becomes a prayer,
And prayer brings down the liberating strength
That kindles nations to heroic deeds,
She lives--the great-souled poetess who saw
From Casa Guidi windows Freedom dawn
On Italy, and gave the glory back
In sunrise hymns to all Humanity!

She lives indeed, and not alone in the heart of Shakespeare's England,
but in the heart of Dante's Italy also. To Greek literature she owed her
scholarly culture, but modern Italy created her human passion for
Liberty. When she crossed the Alps she became filled with a new ardour,
and from that fine, eloquent mouth, that we can still