If any one, in possession of a good ear, and with a certain facility for composing verse, though destitute of the inventive faculty, will persevere in imitating the style of different poets, he is almost certain at last to discover some writer whose peculiar manner he can assume with far greater facility than that of others. The _Strayed Reveller_ fails altogether with Mrs Browning; because it is beyond his power, whilst following her, to make any kind of agreement between sound and sense. He is indeed very far from being a metaphysician, for his perception is abundantly hazy: and if he be wise, he will abstain from any future attempts at profundity. But he has a fair share of the painter's gift; and were he to cultivate that on his own account, we believe that he might produce something far superior to any of his present efforts. As it is, we can merely accord him the praise of sketching an occasional landscape, very like one which we might expect from Alfred Tennyson. He has not only caught the trick of Tennyson's handling, but he can use his colours with considerable dexterity. He is like one of those second-rate artists, who, with Danby in their eye, crowd our exhibitions with fiery sunsets and oceans radiant in carmine; sometimes their pictures are a little overlaid, but, on the whole, they give a fair idea of the manner of their undoubted master. The following extract will, we think, illustrate our meaning. It is from a poem entitled _Mycerinus_, which, though it does not possess the interest of any tale, is correctly and pleasingly written:-- "So spake he, half in anger, half in scorn, And one loud cry of grief and of amaze Broke from his sorrowing people; so he spake, And turning, left them there; and with brief pause, Girt with a throng of revellers, bent his way To the cool regions of the grove he loved. There by the river banks he wandered on, From palm-grove on to palm-grove; happy trees, Their smooth tops shining sunwards, and beneath Burying their unsunn'd stems in grass and flowers; Where in one dream the feverish time of youth Might fade in slumber, and the feet of Joy Might wander all day long and never tire: Here came the king, holding high feast, at morn Rose-crown'd; and ever, when the sun went down, A hundred lamps beam'd in the tranquil gloom From tree to tree, all through the twinkling grove, Revealing all the tumult of the feast, Flush'd guests, and golden goblets, foam'd with wine, While the deep burnish'd foliage overhead Splinter'd the silver arrows of the moon."