Shakespeare is not our poet, but the worlds,1 Therefore on him no speech! And brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walkd along our roads with steps So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse.
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the suns palace-porch, where when unyoked His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one, and it awakens; then apply Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.2
Past are three summers since she first beheld The ocean; all around the child await Some exclamation of amazement here. She coldly said, her long-lasht eyes abased, Is this the mighty ocean? is this all? That wondrous soul Charoba once possest, Capacious, then, as earth or heaven could hold, Soul discontented with capacity, Is gone (I fear) forever. Need I say She was enchanted by the wicked spells Of Gebir, whom with lust of power inflamed The western winds have landed on our coast? I since have watcht her in lone retreat, Have heard her sigh and soften out the name.3