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To the poet, walking in the solemn and silent woodlands,

Flowers are said to be everywhere about us glowing,

Here is one of the "effects" of the rising moon:

Out of the prairie grass, the long white horns of the cattle "rise like the flakes of foam on the adverse currents of ocean." Stars are "the thoughts of God in the heavens." Bears are "the anchorite monks of the desert" Swinging from the great arms of a cedar-tree,

This penchant for Scripture similitudes would have made the poet dear, two centuries ago, to the lovers of Donne and George Herbert, whatever we, now-a-days, may think of such concetti. But it is time to pass from particulars to generals. And first of the so-called American "Faust."

Drama the "Golden Legend" is not; dramatic poem, hardly. More fitly than Tennyson's longest work, it might be styled a "Medley." Whoso swears by the Unities, and abhors Teutonic romanticisms, and