vivid presence, are also domineering--apt to assume command of the
theme long after their proper work is done. So great is the
headstrong power of the finest metaphors, that an author may be
incommoded by one that does his business for him handsomely, as a
king may suffer the oppression of a powerful ally. When a lyric
begins with the splendid lines,


Love still has something of the sea
From whence his mother rose,


the further development of that song is already fixed and its knell
rung--to the last line there is no escaping from the dazzling
influences that presided over the first. Yet to carry out such a
figure in detail, as Sir Charles Sedley set himself to do,
tarnishes the sudden glory of the opening. The lady whom Burns
called Clarinda put herself in a like quandary by beginning a song
with this stanza -


Talk not of Love, it gives me pain,
For Love has been my foe;
He bound me in an iron chain,
And plunged me deep in woe.


The last two lines deserve praise--even the praise they obtained
from a great lyric poet. But how is the song to be continued?
Genius might answer the question; to Clarinda there came only the