ABSTRACT
Mr. Browning’s metaphysics have been too abundant for his poetry. That is the substance of the objection to be urged against him. And it is not a slight one. Poetry is a jealous mistress, and will have undivided homage. The analytic and the imaginative powers never yet worked well together. But it is the fault (not an inglorious one) of youth: the fault of which Shelley became conscious before he died, and from which Mr. Browning is fast freeing himself. Nothing but this retarded his advance.
