The Guardian Angel is a “translation into song” of Guercino’s picture of that name (L’Angelo Custode).  It is addressed to “Waring,” and was written by Browning at Ancona, after visiting with Mrs. Browning the church of San Agostino at Fano, which contains the picture.  This touching and sympathetic little poem is Browning’s only detailed description of a picture; but it is of more interest as an expression of personal feeling.  Something in its sentiment has made it one of the most popular of his poems. Old Pictures in Florence is a humorous and earnest moralising on the meaning and mission of art and the rights and wrongs of artists, suggested by some of the old pictures in Florence.  It contains perhaps the most complete and particular statement of Browning’s artistic principles that we have anywhere in his work, as well as a very noble and energetic outburst of indignant enthusiasm on behalf of the “early masters,” the lesser older men whom the world slurs over or forgets.  The principles which Browning imputes to the early painters may be applied to poetry as well as to art.  Very characteristic and significant is the insistence on the deeper value of life, of soul, than of mere expression or technique, or even of mere unbreathing beauty. Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha is the humorous soliloquy of an imaginary organist over a fugue in F minor by an imaginary composer, named in the title.  It is a mingling of music and moralising.  The famous description of a fugue, and the personification of its five voices, is a brilliantly ingenious tour de force; and the rough humour is quite in keeping with the dramatis persona.  In complete contrast to Master Hugues is A Toccata of Galuppi’s,[31] one of the daintiest, most musical, most witching and haunting of Browning’s poems, certainly one of his masterpieces as a lyric poet.  It is a vision of Venice evoked from the shadowy Toccata, a vision of that delicious, brilliant, evanescent, worldly life, when

      “Balls and masks began at midnight, burning ever to midday,”

and the lover and his lady would break off their talk to listen while Galuppi

“Sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord.”

But “the eternal note of sadness” soon creeps in.

“Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned: 
’Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.

* * * * *

Dust and ashes!’ So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. 
Dear dead women, with such hair, too—­what’s become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms?  I feel chilly and grown old.”