Thus towards the light we walked in colloquy Of things my silence wisely here omits, As there 'twas sweet to speak them, till we came To where a seven times circled castle sits, Whose walls are watered by a lovely stream. This we crossed over as it had been dry, Passing the seven gates that guard the same, And reached a meadow, green as Arcady. People were there with deep, slow-moving eyes Whose looks were weighted with authority. Scant was their speech, but rich in melodies. The walls receding left a pasture fair, A place all full of light and of great size, So we could see each spirit that was there. And straight before my eyes upon the green Were shown to me the souls of those that were, Great spirits it exalts me to have seen. Electra with her comrades I descried, I saw Æneas, and knew Hector keen, And in full armor Cæsar, falcon-eyed, Camilla and the Amazonian queen, King Latin with Lavinia at his side, Brutus that did avenge the Tarquin's sin, Lucrece, Cornelia, Martia Julia, And by himself the lonely Saladin. The Master of all thinkers next I saw Amid the philosophic family. All eyes were turned on him with reverent awe; Plato and Socrates were next his knee, Then Heraclitus and Empedocles, Thales and Anaxagoras, and he That based the world on chance; and next to these, Zeno, Diogenes, and that good leech The herb-collector, Dioscorides. Orpheus I saw, Livy and Tully, each Flanked by old Seneca's deep moral lore, Euclid and Ptolemy, and within their reach Hippocrates and Avicenna's store, The sage that wrote the master commentary, Averois, with Galen and a score Of great physicians. But my pen were weary Depicting all of that majestic plain Splendid with many an antique dignitary. My theme doth drive me on, and words are vain To give the thought the thing itself conveys. The six of us were now cut down to twain. My guardian led me forth by other ways, Far from the quiet of that trembling wind, And from the gentle shining of those rays, To places where all light was left behind. * * * * * ROBERT BROWNING There is a period in the advance of any great man's influence between the moment when he appears and the moment when he has become historical, during which it is difficult to give any succinct account of him. We are ourselves a part of the thing we would describe. The element which we attempt to isolate for purposes of study is still living within us. Our science becomes tinged with autobiography. Such must be the fate of any essay on Browning written at the present time.