One can hardly help fancying that the mountain moves; that those dancing lines are not instinct with life." "At least," said Headley, "that the mountain is a leaping wave, frozen just ere it fell." "Perfect," said Valencia.

"That is the very expression! So concise, and yet so complete." And Headley, poor fool, felt as happy as if he had found a gold mine.
"To me," said Elsley, "the fancy rises of some great Eastern monarch sitting in royal state; with ample shoulders sloping right and left, he lays his purple-mantled arms upon the heads of two of those Titan guards who stand on either side his footstool." "While from beneath his throne," said Headley, "as Eastern poets would say, flow everlasting streams, life-giving, to fertilise broad lands below." "I did not know that you, too, were a poet," said Valencia.

"Nor I, madam.

But if such scenes as these, and in such company, cannot inspire the fancy of even a poor country curate to something of exaltation, he must be dull indeed." "Why not put some of these thoughts into poetry ?" "What use ?" answered he in so low, sad, and meaning a tone, meant only for her ear, that Valencia looked down at him: but he was gazing intently upon the glorious scene.

Was he hinting at the vanity and vexation of poor Elsley's versifying?
Or did he mean that he had now no purpose in life,--no prize for which it was worth while to win honour?
She did not answer him: but he answered himself,--perhaps to explain away his own speech,-- "No, madam! God has written the poetry already; and there it is before me.