That he had in youth the
      feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in
      his writings-(and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom-his _El Dorado)-but
      they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at
      best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know that a few
      straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier. “He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
      of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
      which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is
      too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany would
      have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their
      State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might
      not be deficient in formality—drunk lest they should be destitute of
      vigor. “The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration
      of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such
      assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random)—‘Of
      genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done,
      and what was never done before;’-indeed? then it follows that in doing
      what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _been done before, no
      genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act,
      pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket,
      in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William
      Wordsworth, the poet. “Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian’s
      or Macpherson’s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to
      prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the
      controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to such
      absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor
      of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
      abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the
      beginning of the epic poem ‘Temora.’ ‘The blue waves of Ullin roll in
      light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads
      in the breeze.’ And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is
      alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the author of
      ‘Peter Bell,’ has _selected _for his contempt. We shall see what
      better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

     “‘And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
     And now she’s at the pony’s head,
     On that side now, and now on this;
     And, almost stifled with her bliss,
     A few sad tears does Betty shed....
     She pats the pony, where or when
     She knows not.... happy Betty Foy! Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!’

      Secondly:

     “‘The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink;
     I heard a voice: it said-“Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
      And, looking o’er the hedge, be-fore me I espied
     A snow-white mountain lamb, with a-maiden at its side. No other sheep was near,—the lamb was all alone,
     And by a slender cord was-tether’d to a stone.’

      “Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed we
      will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a
      sheep from the bottom of my heart. “But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when even
      Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
      and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
      extract from his preface:—

      “‘Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if
      they persist in reading this book to a conclusion _(impossible!) will,
      _no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha! ), and will be induced to
      inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to
      assume that title.’ Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! “Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the
      bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a
      tragedy with a chorus of turkeys. “Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering intellect! his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, _‘Tai trouvé
      souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce
      qu’elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu’elles nient,’ and _to employ
      his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he
      has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a
      mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its
      perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man’s poetry, I tremble like
      one who stands upon a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting
      from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below. “What is poetry?—Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
      appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! ‘Give me,’ I demanded of a
      scholar some time ago, ‘give me a definition of poetry.’ _‘Trèsvolontiers;’
      _and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, and
      overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! I
      imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of
      that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-, think of poetry, and
      then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and
      fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his
      huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and then think of the ‘Tempest’—the
      ‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream’—Prospero Oberon—and Titania! “A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its
      _immediate _object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
      its object, an _indefinite _instead of a _definite _pleasure,
      being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
      perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to
      which end music is an _essential, since _the comprehension of sweet
      sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
      pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the
      idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness. “What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul? “To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B—, what you, no doubt,
      perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
      contempt.