Here, and perhaps here first, at least in the order of the published poems, appears that curious mixture of pathos and quizzing, sentiment and satire, which has never been mastered more fully or communicated more happily than by Praed. But not even yet do we meet with it in its happiest form: nor is that form to be found in "Josephine" which is much better in substance than in manner, or in the half-social, half-political patter of "The Brazen Head," or in "Twenty-eight and Twenty-nine." It sounds first in the "Song for the Fourteenth of February." No one, so far as I know, has traced any exact original[20] for the altogether admirable metre which, improved and glorified later in "The Letter of Advice," appears first in lighter matter still like this: Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia, Whom no one e'er saw, or may see, A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia, An _ad libit_ Anna Marie? Shall I court an initial with stars to it, Go mad for a G. or a J., Get Bishop to put a few bars to it, And print it on Valentine's Day? But every competent critic has seen in it the origin of the more gorgeous and full-mouthed, if not more accomplished and dexterous, rhythm in which Mr. Swinburne has written "Dolores," and the even more masterly dedication of the first "Poems and Ballads." The shortening of the last line which the later poet has introduced is a touch of genius, but not perhaps greater than Praed's own recognition of the extraordinarily vivid and ringing qualities of the stanza. I profoundly believe that metrical quality is, other things being tolerably equal, the great secret of the enduring attraction of verse: and nowhere, not in the greatest lyrics, is that quality more unmistakable than in the "Letter of Advice." I really do not know how many times I have read it; but I never can read it to this day without being forced to read it out loud like a schoolboy and mark with accompaniment of hand-beat such lines as Remember the thrilling romances We read on the bank in the glen: Remember the suitors our fancies Would picture for both of us then. They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquished and pardoned their foe-- Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? My own Araminta, say "No!" · · · · · He must walk--like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile--like the sun in his glory, On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow! If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!"