No.  V. Rain.

  The chamber is lonely and light;
  Outside there is nothing but night—­
  And wind and a creeping rain. 
  And the rain clings to the pane: 
  And heavy and drear’s
  The night; and the tears
  Of heaven are dropt in pain.

  And the tears of heaven are dropt in pain;
  And man pains heaven and shuts the rain
  Outside, and sleeps:  and winds are sighing;
  And turning worlds sing mass for the dying.

Reviews

Christmas Eve and Easter Day:  by Robert Browning.—­Chapman and Hall. 1850.

There are occasions when the office of the critic becomes almost simply that of an expositor; when his duty is not to assert, but to interpret.  It is his privilege to have been the first to study a subject, and become familiar with it; what remains is to state facts, and to suggest considerations; not to lay down dogmas.  That which he speaks of is to him itself a dogma; he starts from conviction:  his it is to convince others, and, as far as may be, by the same means as satisfied himself; to incite to the same study, doing his poor best, meanwhile, to supply the present want of it.

Thus much, indeed, is the critic’s duty always; but he generally feels the right, and has it, of speaking with authority.  He condemns, or gives praise; and his judgment, though merely individual and subject to revision, is judgment.  Before the certainty of genius and deathless power, in the contemplation of consummate art, his position changes:  and well for him if he knows, and is contented it should be so.  Here he must follow, happy if he only follows and serves; and while even here he will not shelve his doubts, or blindly refuse to exercise a candid discrimination, his demur at unquestioning assent, far from betraying any arrogance, will be discreetly advanced, and on clearly stated grounds.

Of all poets, there is none more than Robert Browning, in approaching whom diffidence is necessary.  The mere extent of his information cannot pass unobserved, either as a fact, or as a title to respect.  No one who has read the body of his works will deny that they are replete with mental and speculative subtlety, with vivid and most diversified conception of character, with dramatic incident and feeling; with that intimate knowledge of outward nature which makes every sentence of description a living truth; replete with a most human tenderness and pathos.  Common as is the accusation of “extravagance,” and unhesitatingly as it is applied, in a general off-hand style, to the entire character of Browning’s poems, it would require some jesuitism of self-persuasion to induce any one to affirm his belief in the existence of such extravagance in the conception of the poems, or in the sentiments expressed; of any want of concentration in thought, of national or historical keeping.  Far from this, indeed, a deliberate unity of purpose