the charge of unfairness cannot properly be imputed to me for, in the Poet's dedication of "Peter Bell" to Southey, he says "pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the literature of our country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours in poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached." What then, I ask, could be better suited to the musings of our author than a day in Spring? Inspired, accordingly, with the music of the grove, he regrets the general distaste for pleasure of so pure a kind, and lapses into the following strain:

"Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

"The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure :—

But the least motion that they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

"The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there."

Now with all my respect for the good intentions of the Laureate, I cannot help thinking he was somewhat hard upon "Peter Bell," because

"A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more"-

for, in how far would the suggestions of the Poet's primrose have exceeded Peter's if he might have spoken for himself? Peter would have been found sufficiently philosophic to say that the plant appeared to "joy" pretty well; and that is all we are told by the Poet. It would be unjust to say that he never does more. We learn elsewhere that

"Long as there's a sun that sets,

Primroses will have their glory."

Nor are we left long to conjecture in what their glory consists; since the Poet soon after, in addressing his favourite flower (pilewort), says:

"While the patient primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,

Slip'st into thy sheltering hold."

Little cause would Nature have to congratulate herself on the acquisition of a devotee, who should thus treat her dispensations, whether in the character of poet or naturalist. Pilewort (Ranunculus ficaria), called by the earlier botanists little celandine, is a plant of almost universal prevalence; but it first blooms in the most sheltered situations, as in the copse, along the sunny margin of woods, and in hedgerows, where it may be seen to gladden the hearts of children so early as February, in a mild winter. And these are precisely the localities in which the primrose is found. It may be discovered as well by "a river's brim," where Shelley also found the violet; but it is doubtful whether Nature planted it there; such is rather the work of man's "meddling intellect." On the contrary, pilewort may be

seen, as the Spring advances, to flourish further, and yet further from a place of shelter, until it beautifies the fields with its golden bloom, even to the " river's brim.” The four vulgar lines I have quoted, therefore, betray no less inattention to the natural habits of these plants, than depravity of taste in the employment of the simile. Perhaps there is no form of expression that subjects the genius of a writer to so severe a test as one of comparison yet is it that which the unskilful artist is sure to attempt. From a refined source "similes are sparkling ornaments:" Wordsworth, conceiving that they might be elaborated after a more homely fashion, presents us with the following:

"I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand-it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead."

"For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead Boy he is serene."

"His limbs would toss about him with delight,
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy."

"That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.”

But to dilate on the Poet's inelegances were an endless task: his verse consists of little else. I will be content to follow him as the simple interpreter of Nature: and now " it is the first mild day of March;"

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the robin is singing beside his door; and in anticipation of an intellectual feast, he conjures his sister to lay aside her book, put on her "woodland dress," and accompany him in his walk. "One moment now," he

writes,

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'may give us more

Than years of toiling reason :

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season."

After so startling a metaphor, it is natural to look for results correspondent to the occasion. But where are they? Of a truth he gave the day " to idleness; " or drinking "the spirit of the season " with his accustomed relish, he wasted its inspiration upon vapid rhyme. Again he longs to be abroad; and craving the society of a friend, absorbed in studies for which the Poet had little taste, he thus addresses him:

"Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland linnet,

How sweet his music! on my life,

There's more of wisdom in it."

"And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher:

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher."

For one who was habitually cautious in the use of language, this may be considered a pretty bold freak of fancy; and but for the colloquial form of their construction, the stanzas would have been unobjectionable. Having - ventured so far, he determined for once to attest the moral supremacy of Nature:

"One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can."

It was

How those dignitaries of the Church who have concurred in the laudations bestowed upon Wordsworth, reconcile themselves to this expression" of sentiment and reflection" I am at a loss to determine! held by a learned divine*, known to some of them, that poetry always says too much or too little; and had he been one of the Laureate's acquaintance, it is fair to presume that he would have whispered in his ear the memorable passage of Lactantius: Totum autem, quod referas, fingere; id est ineptum esse et mendacem, potius quam poetam.

Apart from all consideration of poetical embellishment, I look in vain to Wordsworth for instruction. Few of his pieces impart it: and the little they contain is generally so much diluted with superfluous expletives, as to leave it doubtful whether my gain be commensurate with the time and attention occupied in searching for it. I adduce "the Thorn" for example-a poem greatly admired by advocates of the Lake school. And it is pretty so that if men can find amusement in a mere play upon words, I wonder not that this should delight them. Unfortunately for those who are not thus easily pleased, the first four lines present a glaring absurdity:

"There is a thorn it looks so old,

In truth you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey."

* Dr. Adam Clarke.