and didst cast the morning stars, the angels, from heaven, into chains of darkness, when they grew giddy and proud, walking upon the battlements of heaven, beholding the glorious regions that were above them." This power is the essence of all rightful Poetry; or, in other words, it is that without which Poetry is not.

The second accomplishment of an absolute poet, or, rather, of Poetry, is Imitation; by which term I mean all efforts of the mind, which are not in a genuine sense original and self-springing, but are modelled after prototypes existing somewhere in rerum nuturâ; i. e. all descriptions of passive Nature and Art;-Dramatic representations of manners-and Satire, &c., because all these, in their external form and composition, merely aim at imitating objects set before them, and they become more or less really Poetical, as they are more or less powerfully impregnated with the living soul and breath of the Imagination. The last requisite for perfection is, as was hinted above, a copious and splendid command of language, and thorough acquaintance with the laws of metre, tempered by an ear tuned up, if it were possible, to the "noiseless music of the spheres."

It may be fairly questioned whether this beau ideal has ever been realized amongst men in all its members: the most glorious specimens of this, the most sublime exaltation of human intellect, are undoubtedly Homer and Shakspeare, even without the Margites. That many have been endowed more or less with detached emanations of the Poetical Power, and that more have possessed the auxiliar accomplishments, without that Power, is also as certain; but to enter upon that subject would be endless: it is more my immediate object to show that a large portion of the spirit, and an absolute empire over the dependencies, are in the present day centered in the person of William Wordsworth.

This object, I imagine, cannot be more effectually attained, and certainly not more expeditiously and delight

fully to the reader and myself, than by extracting a few passages of different kinds, containing all the essentials, as before laid down, of genuine Poetry; but which shall not be connected particularly with the Author's more private theory, as it is quite necessary, according to all good reasoning, to show that Wordsworth is generally a great poet, before it can be proved even worth the while to investigate that theory at all. For I acknowledge that there is no intrinsic excellence in Singularity of itself, unless it be grounded on, and spring from, the immutable laws of reason and nature, and be therefore singular, simply because it is a straight line exposing the obliquities of a thousand crooked ones.

My first proof is the beginning of the "Address to H. C. six years old:"

"O Thou, whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,

And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion, and the self-born carol;
Thou fairy Voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy Boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream

Suspended on a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed Vision! happy Child!

Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years."

I make no comments upon this extract, or those which follow; because I really suppose that there can be no lover of poetry in any shape who will not confess this and them to be admirable, and such as neither Milton nor Shakspeare in their highest moments would have been ashamed of.

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful fawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see, with eye serene,

The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller betwixt life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd,
To warn, to comfort, to command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel light."

I produce then my third proof from "Ruth:"

"The youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,

With all its fairy crowds

Of islands, that together lie

As quietly as spots of sky

Among the evening clouds.

'What days and what sweet years! Ah me!
Our life were life indeed, with thee

So pass'd in quiet bliss!

And all the while,' said he,' to know

That we were in a world of woe,

On such an earth as this!'

Throngh dream and vision did she sink,
Delighted all the while to think

That on those lonesome floods,
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the wild woods.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
Fair trees and lovely flowers;
The breezes their own languor lent;
The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those gorgeous bowers."

I have written and quoted so much, that I must hasten to a conclusion, after having given to Eton two more exquisite stanzas from "Peter Bell:"

I have but a few words to say more, and I will then put an end to a very long, though I confidently hope not uninteresting letter. If the passages, which have been quoted, were the only ones known by experience to be of that degree of merit, whatever that be, which they may lay claim to, yet most assuredly all the laws of good reasoning would infer, that it was highly probable, at least, that he who could write a hundred such lines on different subjects, could also write other hundreds with more or less of the same power. Now I declare, and every one,

who knows Wordsworth's poems well, will bear me out in the assertion, that almost every page contains similar passages;-nay, there are many who will think I have not selected the finest specimens of his genius, which is indeed true, as I have not touched upon the Platonic Ode, the most magnificent of all his efforts, simply because I was anxious to show Wordsworth only in the character of a great poet, independent of what he may be thought to gain or lose by his own peculiar theory.

If I find that these remarks have not been distasteful to the generality, or even to a few of your readers, I will at some future period advance one step farther, and endeavour to explain and illustrate Wordsworth as a very singular and peculiar poet, quite set apart from the troop of every-day metrists, and living and breathing in a world This I think would not be without its amusement; at least I am sure the fault would be in the critic if it were so, and not in the poet himself. I end all by leaving in the ears of all objectors and sneerers the eloquent words of Edmund Burke:-

of his own.

“I am sensible I have not disposed my materials to abide the test of a captious controversy, but of a sober and even forgiving examination; that they are not armed at all points for battle, but dressed to visit those who are willing to give a peaceful entrance to-Truth."

G. M.