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 moved men, however little refined they may be, and however wrong are the means that she has employed.

If we turn from Eliza Cook to another popular poetess, Adelaide Anne Procter, we shall note a difference. A Lost Chord is the poetry of no imagination; its sentiment, nebulously ecstatic, is addressed to no definite audience:

The windy words have no purpose; they are as dead as Frank Dicksee's St. Cecilia. But they may have at least this use: they may bring us to the point. What is it which