BIKDS AND POETS. 
155 
palette, and at a single stroke, dasli off such a profile of 
our Shjnx-headed Mother in her eternal youth, that the 
very Raven of the ark — said to be now abroad — will re- 
cognize it for the same face it saw lifted above the flood ! 
That would be Miss Barrett-izing with a " line effect," es- 
pecially if by the one effort we could throw in, as an acces- 
sory, the old fellow's croak of greeting, hoarse with the 
phlegm of ages. 
But we are mournfully fain to confess we may not be a 
Seer — for as yet we have seen no sights 
" Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire," 
worth talking about ; though, in equal humility, we are 
ready to acknowledge that, all this while, it may be 
" true I talk of dreams 
Which are the children of an idle brain, 
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy." 
Be our similitudes veritable, or this the "base and fabric of 
a vision," still we reiterate our " weakness" for them ! Sure 
this wondrous wide ocean of Analogy (had we not as well 
have said Truth f) has some sunny spots in it — green islands 
where we love to stop and play upon the pebbly verge 
with the weird Albatross — it brings us " whispering shells" 
from the deep, deep sea. Rebuke not our toying fancy, and 
you shall hear them, too ! 
But has not Earth, as well as Man, a yet more exalted 
and exalting Poetry than that of which the Bird of Battle 
is a sign ? We, ourselves, can vouch for this — for have we 
not heard it ? — not alone in strains such as 
" Bottomless conceit 
Can comprehend in still imagination," 
but through this carnal sense in our own pricked ears have 
