Vaguely she reaches from her stony bed; The blessed moonbeam, gliding underground, Like angel ministrant from heaven sped, To rescue one in frosty irons long bound, Cheers her new-beating heart, till she has found Recourse of memory and use of will. Then soon her feet are on the ladder-round, The stone above gives way to patient skill; And now the wide night greets her, bright, and lone, and still. The story of Genevra, as told by Miss Thomas, has often great beauty of phrase, picturesque descriptive passages of Florentine life, delicacy in the scene between the reunited lovers when Genevra seeks Antonio’s gate, and fine pathos in the lines spoken by her father to her supposed spirit returning to haunt him; in short, the poem has all but the dramatic touch. The narrative force is lost in the poetic elaboration. But although Miss Thomas has not the outward art of the dramatist, she has, as earlier stated, a keenly intuitive sense of the spiritually dramatic in passing life. Upon love she has written with so keen a psychology that certain of the poems probe to the quick of that source of pain; for it is not the lighter phase, already so well celebrated, that she sings, but oftener the fateful, the inexplicable. For illustration, the poem, “They Said,” presents the caprice of love by which (they say), it goes to those who hold it most lightly, spend it most prodigally, flee it to entice it, and yet weave snares to detain it. The thrust of these stanzas is as delicately keen as a rapier point: Because thy prayer hath never fed Dark Atë with the food she craves; Because thou dost not hate (they said), Nor joy to step on foemen’s graves; Because thou canst not hate, as we, How poor a creature thou must be, Thy veins as pale as ours are red! Go to! Love loves thee not (they said). Because by thee no snare was spread To baffle Love—if Love should stray, Because thou dost not watch (they said), To strictly compass Love each way: Because thou dost not watch, as we, Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee, To strew with thorns a restless bed— Go to! Love loves thee not (they said). Because thy feet were not misled To jocund ground, yet all infirm, Because thou art not fond (they said), Nor dost exact thine heyday term: Because thou art not fond, as we, How dull a creature thou must be, Thy pulse how slow—yet shrewd thy head! Go to! Love loves thee not (they said). Because thou hast not roved to wed With those to Love averse or strange, Because thou hast not roved (they said), Nor ever studied artful change: Because thou hast not roved, as we, Love paid no ransom rich for thee, Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped. Go to! Love loves thee not (they said).