Robert Browning, unlike Wordsworth, is a dramatic poet at heart. We do not mean that his plays are his best work, but that he has unerring skill in reading the human heart and translating into poetry its loves, hates, fears, and ambitions. If you will try to understand him, do not be discouraged by obscurity, but begin by some of the shorter, simpler, and yet characteristic poems in the volume of _Selections_.
As for Tennyson, who sings alike of man and of nature, you will probably be more readily lured to his pages than to those of Wordsworth or Browning. If you are in sorrow, _In Memoriam_ may prove a faithful comforter.
It is impossible, of course, to expatiate on all the poets named and many others who are not named; a volume would not be sufficient. All one can say is—read for yourself, and if you are ambitious for self-culture, remember that the reading of the best poetry will do more for you than can possibly be expressed by any words here.
There are two minor poets whose works you will probably much enjoy—Jean Ingelow and Coventry Patmore. The “Angel in the House” by the latter is greatly esteemed by Mr. Ruskin.
“Teach your children poetry,” says Lord Macaulay; “it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom, and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.” And the rugged old philosopher, Carlyle, speaks thus of the influence of poetry on any living human creature—
“Tones of sphere-music and tidings from loftier worlds will flit round him if he can but listen, and visit him with holy influences, even in the thickest press of trivialities or the din of busiest life.”
BY ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.
The missive in Lucy’s hand was no simple workman’s clumsy bill. It was a sheet of blank paper.
“What can this mean?” said Lucy, turning it about, while Miss Latimer and Tom watched her.
“You may be sure it ought to be the bricklayer’s bill, but that he has put in the wrong piece of paper,” observed Miss Latimer.
“Or it may have come from that stupid fellow we found in the area,” said Tom. “Perhaps his next tipsy fit has taken this form, and he is under the delusion that he has written a letter to Jane Smith.”
“That is not unlikely,” Lucy admitted, still turning the paper about. “The letter has been posted at this district office, and there is no maker’s name on the envelope. Anyhow, there it goes,” and she tore it in two and dropped it into the waste-paper basket.