rainbows that have ever been, or are yet to be, forever drift to and
fro, evanishing and reappearing, like immortal flowers of vapour. In
that far country, it may be, are also the unfulfilled dreams, the
visions too perfect to be fashioned into song, of the young poets who
have gained the laurel.

We close the little book lovingly:

"And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,
And many a thought did I build up on thought,
As the wild bee hangs cell to cell--in vain;
For I must still go on: my mind rests not."




CHAPTER III.


It has been commonly asserted that "Pauline" was almost wholly
disregarded, and swiftly lapsed into oblivion.

This must be accepted with qualification. It is like the other general
assertion, that Browning had to live fifty years before he gained
recognition--a statement as ludicrous when examined as it is unjust to
the many discreet judges who awarded, publicly and privately, that
intelligent sympathy which is the best sunshine for the flower of a
poet's genius. If by "before he gained recognition" is meant a general
and indiscriminate acclaim, no doubt Browning had, still has indeed,
longer to wait than many other eminent writers have had to do: but it is