It is, as a whole, poor, chiefly from its being so loosely written.

There are men, and men whose thoughts are of great worth, to whom it never seems to occur that they may utter very largely and convey very little; that what is clear to themselves is in their speech obscure as a late twilight.

Their utterance is rarely articulate: their spiritual mouth talks with but half-movements of its lips; it does not model their thoughts into clear-cut shapes, such as the spiritual ear can distinguish as they enter it.

Of such is Lord Brooke.

These few stanzas, however, my readers will be glad to have: What is the chain which draws us back again, And lifts man up unto his first creation?
Nothing in him his own heart can restrain; His reason lives a captive to temptation; Example is corrupt; precepts are mixed; All fleshly knowledge frail, and never fixed.
It is a light, a gift, a grace inspired; A spark of power, a goodness of the Good; Desire in him, that never is desired; An unity, where desolation stood; In us, not of us, a Spirit not of earth, Fashioning the mortal to immortal birth.
* * * * * Sense of this God, by fear, the sensual have, Distressed Nature crying unto Grace; For sovereign reason then becomes a slave, And yields to servile sense her sovereign place, When more or other she affects to be Than seat or shrine of this Eternity.
Yea, Prince of Earth let Man assume to be, Nay more--of Man let Man himself be God, Yet without God, a slave of slaves is he; To others, wonder; to himself, a rod; Restless despair, desire, and desolation; The more secure, the more abomination.
Then by affecting power, we cannot know him.
By knowing all things else, we know him less.
Nature contains him not.