Browning is one of our greatest poets
of motion--whether it be the glide of a gondola, the swift running
of the Marathon professional Pheidippides, the steady advance of the
galleys over the sea in _Paracelsus_, the sharp staccato strokes of
the horse's hoofs through the Metidja, or the swinging stride of the
students as they carry the dead grammarian up the mountain. Not only
do the words themselves express the sound of movement; but the
thought, in all these great poems of motion, travels steadily and
naturally with the advance. It is interesting to compare a
madly-rushing poem like _Ghent to Aix_ with the absolute calm of
_Andrea del Sarto_. It gives one an appreciation of Browning's
purely technical skill.
No one has ever, so far as I know, criticised _Ghent to Aix_
adversely except Owen Wister's Virginian; and his strictures are
hypercritical. As Roland threw his head back fiercely to scatter the
spume-flakes, it would be easy enough for the rider to see the
eye-sockets and the bloodfull nostrils.
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