Two years later the boy of fourteen caught the accents of another poetic voice, destined to touch the sources of music and passion in him with far more intimate power.  His casual discovery, on a bookstall, of “Mr Shelley’s Atheistical poem” seems to have for the first time made known to him even the name of the poet who had died in Italy four years before.  Something of Shelley’s story seems to have been known to his parents.  It gives us a measure of the indulgent sympathy and religious tolerance which prevailed in this Evangelical home, that the parents should have unhesitatingly supplied the boy of fourteen, at some cost of time and trouble, with all the accessible writings of the “atheistical” poet, and with those of his presumably like-minded friend Keats as well.  He fell instantly under the spell of both.  Whatever he may have known before of ancient or modern literature, the full splendour of romantic poetry here broke upon him for the first time.  Immature as he was, he already responded instinctively to the call of the spirits most intimately akin to his own.  Byron’s stormy power thrilled and delighted him; but it was too poor in spiritual elements, too negative, self-centred, and destructive to stir the deeper sources of Browning’s poetry.  In Keats and in Shelley he found poetic energies not less glowing and intense, bent upon making palpable to eye and ear visions of beauty which, with less of superficial realism, were fed by far more exquisite and penetrating senses, and attached by more and subtler filaments to the truth of things.  Beyond question this was the decisive literary experience of Browning’s early years.  Probably it had a chief part in making the poet’s career his fixed ideal, and ultimately, with his father’s willing consent, his definite choice.  What we know of his inner and outer life during the important years which turned the boy into the man is slight and baffling enough.  The fiery spirit of poetry can rarely have worked out its way with so little disturbance to the frame.  Minute scrutiny has disclosed traits of unrest and revolt; he professed “atheism” and practised vegetarianism, betrayed at times the aggressive arrogance of an able youth, and gave his devoted and tender parents moments of very superfluous concern.  For with all his immensely vivacious play of brain, there was something in his mental and moral nature from first to last stubbornly inelastic and unimpressible, that made him equally secure against expansion and collapse.  The same simple tenacity of nature which kept his buoyantly adventurous intellect permanently within the tether of a few primary convictions, kept him, in the region of practice and morality, within the bounds of a rather nice and fastidious decorum.  Malign influences effected no lodgment in a nature so fundamentally sound; they might cloud and trouble imagination for a while, but their scope hardly extended further, and as they were literary in origin, so they were mainly literary in expression.  In the meantime