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'St, there's Vespers! _Plena gratia
Ave, Virgo_! Gr-r-r--you swine!
Everybody loves Browning's _Ghent to Aix_ poem. Even those who can
not abide the poet make an exception here; and your thorough-going
Browningite never outgrows this piece. It is the greatest horseback
poem in the literature of the world: compared to this, _Paul
Revere's Ride_ is the amble of a splayfooted nag. It sounds as
though it had been written in the saddle: but it was really composed
during a hot day on the deck of a vessel in the Mediterranean, and
written off on the flyleaf of a printed book that the poet held in
his hand. Poets are always most present with the distant, as Mrs.
Browning said; and Browning, while at sea, thought with irresistible
longing of his good horse eating his head off in the stable at home.
Everything about this poem is imaginary; there never had been any
such good news brought, and it is probable that no horse could cover
the distance in that time.
But the magnificent gallop of the verse: the change from moonset to
sunrise: the scenery rushing by: the splendid spirit of horse and man:
and the almost insane joy of the rider as he enters Aix--these are
more true than history itself.
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