Curiously enough, it was some fragments of the grandiose but shadowy Ossian which first stirred the imitative impulse in this poet of trenchant and clear-cut form.  “The first composition I ever was guilty of,” he wrote to Elizabeth Barrett (Aug. 25, 1846), “was something in imitation of Ossian, whom I had not read, but conceived through two or three scraps in other books.”  And long afterwards Ossian was “the first book I ever bought in my life” (ib.) These “imitations” were apparently in verse, and in rhyme; and Browning’s bent and faculty for both was very early pronounced.  “I never can recollect not writing rhymes; ... but I knew they were nonsense even then.”  And a well-known anecdote of his infancy describes his exhibition of a lively sense of metre in verses which he recited with emphatic accompaniments upon the edge of the dining-room table before he was tall enough to look over it.  The crowding thoughts of his maturity had not yet supervened to prevent the abundant music that he “had in him” from “getting out.”  It is not surprising that a boy of these proclivities was captivated by the stormy swing and sweep of Byron; nor that he should have caught also something of his “splendour of language,” and even, a little later, a reflection, respectable and suburban enough, of his rebellious Titanism.  The less so, that in Robert’s eleventh or twelfth year Byron, the head of the Satanic school, had become the heroic champion of Greek liberation, and was probably spoken of with honour in the home of the large-hearted banker who had in his day suffered so much for the sake of the unemancipated slave.  In later years Browning was accustomed to deliver himself of breezy sarcasms at the expense of the “flat-fish” who declaimed so eloquently about the “deep and dark blue ocean.”  But it is easy to see that this genial chaff covered a real admiration,—­the tribute of one abounding nature to another, which even years and the philosophic mind did not seriously abate.  “I always retained my first feeling for Byron in many respects,” he wrote in a significant letter to Miss Barrett in 1846. " ...  I would at any time have gone to Finchley to see a curl of his hair or one of his gloves, I am sure,—­while Heaven knows that I could not get up enthusiasm enough to cross the room if at the other end of it all Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey were condensed into the little china bottle yonder."[4] It was thus no mere freak of juvenile taste that took shape in these early Byronic poems.  He entitled them, with the lofty modesty of boyish authorship, Incondita, and his parents sought to publish them.  No publisher could be found; but they won the attention of a notable critic, W.J.  Fox, who feared too much splendour and too little thought in the young poet, but kept his eye on him nevertheless.

[Footnote 4:  To E.B.B., Aug. 22, 1846.]