But sacred fervour is confined to no sect. Here it is of the profoundest,
and uttered with a homely tenderness equal to that of the earliest
writers. Mrs. Browning, the princess of poets, was no partisan. If my
work were mainly critical, I should feel bound to remark upon her false
theory of English rhyme, and her use of strange words. That she is
careless too in her general utterance I cannot deny; but in idea she is
noble, and in phrase magnificent. Some of her sonnets are worthy of being
ranged with the best in our language--those of Milton and Wordsworth.
BEREAVEMENT.
When some Beloveds, 'neath whose eyelids lay
The sweet lights of my childhood, one by one
Did leave me dark before the natural sun,
And I astonied fell, and could not pray,
A thought within me to myself did say,
"Is God less God that _thou_ art left undone?
Rise, worship, bless Him! in this sackcloth spun,
As in that purple!"--But I answer, Nay!
What child his filial heart in words can loose,
If he behold his tender father raise
The hand that chastens sorely? Can he choose
But sob in silence with an upward gaze?
And _my_ great Father, thinking fit to bruise,
Discerns in speechless tears both prayer and praise.
COMFORT.
Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet,
From out the hallelujahs sweet and low,
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so,
Who art not missed by any that entreat.
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