The present generation, which has been unjust to Dobell, has dealt still more hardly with Alexander Smith. The Nemesis of excessive praise is unjust depreciation, and both have been Smith's lot. He has been denied the title of poet altogether; but he is a poet, and even a considerable one. He shares both the defects and the excellences of Dobell, never sinking so low, and, on the other hand, never rising as high. His execution is unequal, he rants, he uses metaphor to excess, he is by no means free from affectation. But though the _Life Drama_ is crude and unequal, there is plenty of promise in it. There was ground to hope that the spirit from which it proceeded was like a turbid torrent which would by-and-by deposit its mud and flow on strong and clear. To those who hoped thus _Edwin of Deira_ was disappointing. A good deal of the mud had been deposited, the execution was more perfect, but there was less strength and less volume of thought than might have been expected. It is in his minor pieces and in occasional lines and passages that Smith shows best. There is rare beauty in the melancholy close of the lyric _Barbara_ in _Horton_. The picture of the sphinx, 'staring right on with calm eternal eyes,' has the true touch of imagination; and so has the image of the wind smiting 'his thunder-harp of pines.' _Glasgow_ in the _City Poems_, is a strong as well as a beautiful piece. There can be no question of the imaginative power of this picture of the city in its cloud of smoke pierced by sunlight: 'When sunset bathes thee in his gold, In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled, Thy smoke is dusky fire; And, from the glory round thee poured, A sunbeam like an angel's sword Shivers upon a spire. Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream! While the blue night crept up the stream.' [Sidenote: Coventry Patmore (1823-1896).]