‘Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn’t see how things were going; Luther was foolish,—but, O great God! what call you Ignatius? O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians, Alaric, Attila, Genseric;—why, they came, they killed, they Ravaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards, These are here still,—how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante? These, that fanaticised Europe, which now can forget them, release not This, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see them,— Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesù, Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,— Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,— Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing Michael Angelo’s dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven, Raphael’s Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo!’ The plot of the poem is very simple, and certainly is not very exciting. The moving force, as in most novels of verse or prose, is the love of the hero for the heroine; but this love assuredly is not of a very impetuous and overpowering character. The interest of this story is precisely that it is not overpowering. The over-intellectual hero, over-anxious to be composed, will not submit himself to his love; over-fearful of what is voluntary and factitious, he will not make an effort and cast in his lot with it. He states his view of the subject better than we can state it:— ‘I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so. I am in love, you say, with those letters, of course, you would say so. I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift, Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking, Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment, Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind. No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tis Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded, Syllables singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning. I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly. There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction: One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy, And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you. I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter. I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing, There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished. I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious, Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;