ks of the strange, bleak fidelity of Crabbe.
Give Coleridge a canvas, she says, and he will paint a picture as if his colors were made of the mind's own atoms.
The rush, the flow, the delicacy of vibration in Shelley's verse can only be paralleled by the waterfall, the rivulet, the notes of the bird and of the insect world.
It is as yet impossible to estimate duly the effect which the balm of his [Wordsworth's] meditations has had in allaying the fever of the public heart, as exhibited in Byron and Shelley.
This is a rare series of condensed criticisms, on authors about whom so much has been written, and her remarks on the new men — Sterling, Henry Taylor, and Browning — were almost as good.
She was one of the first in America to recognize the genius of Browning, and, while his Bells and pomegranates was yet in course of publication, she placed him at the head of contemporary English poets.
There is much beside, in these rich volumes; a brief criticism on Hamlet, for instance,