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and earn her hand by helping him to root out those impious Ghebers whom he so much ab hors. The spirit of the patriot bursts forth at this; and, without revealing his name or quality, he proudly avows and justifies the conduct of that luckless sect; and then, relenting, falls into a gentler and more pathetic strain.

the best parts of Mokanna, it has a far more interesting story; and is not liable to any of the objections we have been obliged to bring against the contrivance and structure of that leading poem. The outline of the story is short and simple.-Al Hassan, the bigotted and sanguinary Emir of Persia, had long waged a furious and exterminating war against the votaries of the ancient religion of the landthe worshippers of Mithra, or his emblem, Or could this heart e'en now forget! "Oh! had we never, never met! Fire-then and since designated by the name How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, of Ghebers. The superior numbers of the Had fate not frown'd so dark between! invader had overcome the heroic resistance Hadst thou been born a Persian maid; of the patriots, and driven them to take refuge in a precipitous peninsula, cut off from the Through the same fields in childhood play'd, In neighb'ring valleys had we dwelt, land by what was understood to be an im- Then, then, while all those nameless ties, At the same kindling altar kneltpassable ravine, and exposing nothing but In which the charm of Country lies, bare rocks to the sea. In this fastness the Had round our hearts been hourly spun, scanty remnant of the Ghebers maintain them-Till Iran's cause and thine were one; selves, under the command of their dauntless While in thy lute's awak'ning sigh leader, Hafed, who is still enabled, by sudden heard the voice of days gone by, and daring incursions, to harass and annoy Returning hours of glory shine! And saw in ev'ry smile of thine their enemy. In one of those desperate en- While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land terprises, this adventurous leader climbs to the summit of a lofty cliff, near the Emir's God! who could then this sword withstand? Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through [thee!palace, where a small pleasure-house had been built, in which he hoped to surprise this Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; Its very flash were victory! bigotted foe of his country; but found only Our only ties what love has wove But now! Estrang'd, divorc'd for ever, his fair daughter Hinda, the loveliest and gentlest of all Arabian maids-as he himself expresses it.

"He climb'd the gory Vulture's nest,

And found a trembling Dove within!"

This romantic meeting gives rise to a mu-
tual passion-and the love of the fair Hinda
is inevitably engaged, before she knows the
name or quality of her nightly visitant. In the
noble heart of Hafed, however, love was but
a secondary feeling, to devotion to the free-
dom and the faith of his country. His little
band had lately suffered further reverses, and
saw nothing now before them but a glorious
self-sacrifice. He resolves, therefore, to tear
all gentler feelings from his breast, and in one
last interview to take an eternal farewell of
the maid who had captivated his soul. In his
melancholy aspect she reads at once, with the
instinctive sagacity of love, the tidings of their
approaching separation; and breaks out into
the following sweet and girlish repinings:—
"I knew, I knew it could not last-

'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly-but 'tis past!
Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never lov'd a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.
I never nurs'd a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die!
Now too-the joy most like divine
Of all I ever dreamt or knew,
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,-
Oh mis'ry! must I lose that too?
Yet go!-on peril's brink we meet ;-
Those frightful rocks-that treach'rous sea-
No. never come again-though sweet,
Though heav'n, it may be death to thee.""
pp. 187, 188.

When he smiles sternly at the idea of danger, she urges him to join her father's forces,

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And then, then only, true to love,
Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide;-

When false to all that's dear beside!
Thy father Iran's deadliest foe-
Thyself, perhaps, ev'n now-but no-
Hate never look'd so lovely yet!

The land of him who could forget
No!-sacred to thy soul will be

When other eyes shall see, unmov'd,
All but that bleeding land for thee!

Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd,
Her widows mourn, her warriors fall,
And for his sake thou'lt weep for all!"
pp. 193, 194.

his skiff at the foot of the precipice, and
He then starts desperately away; regains
leaves her in agony and consternation. The
poet now proceeds to detail, a little more par-
ticularly, the history of his hero; and recounts
some of the absurd legends and miraculous
attributes with which the fears of his enemies
had invested his name.

"Such were the tales, that won belief,

And such the colouring fancy gave
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief,-
One who, no more than mortal brave,
Fought for the land his soul ador'd,
For happy homes and altars free;
His only talisman, the sword,-
His only spell-word, Liberty!
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee
Tamely to Moslem tyranny ;-
"Twas not for him, whose soul was cast
In the bright mould of ages past,
Whose melancholy spirit, fed
With all the glories of the dead;-
'Twas not for him, to swell the crowd
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd
Before the Moslem, as he pass'd,
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast-
No-far he fled-indignant fled

The pageant of his country's shame;
While every tear her children shed
Fell on his soul, like drops of flame;
And, as a lover hails the dawn

Of a first smile, so welcom'd he

The sparkle of the first sword drawn
For vengeance and for liberty!"-pp. 206, 207.
The song then returns to Hinda-

Whose life, as free from thought as sin,
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in
His talisman, and woke the tide,
And spread its trembling circles wide.
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child,
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smil'd,-
Tranquil as on some battle-plain

The Persian lily shines and towers,
Before the combat's reddening stain

Has fall'n upon her golden flowers.
Far other feelings Love has brought-
Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness," &c.
"Ah! not the Love, that should have bless'd
So young, so innocent a breast!

Not the pure, open, prosp'rous Love,
That, pledg'd on earth and seal'd above,
Grows in the world's approving eyes,

When the blue waters rise and fall,
In sleepy sunshine mantling all;
And ev❜n that swell the tempest leaves
Is like the full and silent heaves
Of lover's hearts, when newly blest;
Too newly to be quite at rest!—

"Such was the golden hour that broke
Upon the world, when Hinda woke
From her long trance; and heard around
No motion but the water's sound
Rippling against the vessel's side,
As slow it mounted o'er the tide.-
But where is she?-Her eyes are dark,
Are wilder'd still-is this the bark,
The same, that from Harmozia's bay
Bore her at morn-whose bloody way
The sea-dog tracks ?-No!-Strange and new
Is all that meets her wond'ring view
Upon a galliot's deck she lies,

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade,
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes,
Nor jasmin on her pillow laid.
But the rude litter, roughly spread
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed,
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung,

For awning o'er her head are flung."-p. 233-236

In friendship's smile, and home's caress, Collecting all the hearts sweet ties -Into one knot of happiness!"'—pp. 215-217. The Emir now learns, from a recreant priShe soon discovers, in short, that she is a soner, the secret of the pass to the Gheber's retreat; and when he sees his daughter faint captive in the hands of the Ghebers! and with horror at his eager anticipation of their shrinks with horror, when she finds that she final extirpation, sends her, in a solitary gal-is to be carried to their rocky citadel, and to ley, away from the scene of vengeance, to the quiet of her own Arabian home.

"And does the long-left home she seeks Light up no gladness on her cheeks? The flowers she nurs'd-the well-known Where oft in dreams her spirit rovesOnce more to see her dear gazelles Come bounding with their silver bells; Her birds' new plumage to behold,

And the gay, gleaming fishes count, She left, all filleted with gold,

Shooting around their jasper fountHer little garden mosque to see,

And once again, at ev'ning hour, To tell her ruby rosary,

In her own sweet acacia bower.Can these delights, that wait her now, Call up no sunshine on her brow? No-silent, from her train apartAs if ev'n now she felt at heart The chill of her approaching doomShe sits, all lovely in her gloom

groves.

As a pale Angel of the Grave."-pp. 227, 228.

Her vessel is first assailed by a violent tempest, and, in the height of its fury, by a hostile bark; and her senses are extinguished with terror in the midst of the double conflict. At last, both are appeased-and her recollection is slowly restored. The following passage appears to us extremely beautiful and characteristic:

"How calm, how beautiful comes on

The stilly hour, when storms are gone;
When warring winds have died away,
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,
Melt off, and leave the land and sea
Sleeping in bright tranquillity-
Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn!

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,
There blow a thousand gentle airs,
And each a different perfume bears-
As if the loveliest plants and trees
Had vassal breezes of their own
To watch and wait on them alone,
And waft no other breath than theirs!

the presence of the terrible Hafed. The galley is rowed by torchlight through frightful rocks and foaming tides, into a black abyss of the promontory, where her eyes are bandaged and she is borne up a long and rugged ascent, till at last she is desired to look up, and receive her doom from the formidable chieftain. Before she has raised her eyes, the well known voice of her lover pronounces her name; and she finds herself alone in the arms of her adoring Hafed! The first emotion is ecstasy.-But the recollection of her father's vow and means of vengeance comes like a thundercloud on her joy;—she tells her lover of the treachery by which he has been sacrificed; and urges him, with passionate eagerness, to fly with her to some place of safety.

"Hafed, my own beloved Lord,'

She kneeling cries-' first, last ador'd!
If in that soul thou'st ever felt

Half what thy lips impassion'd swore,
Here, on my knees, that never knelt
To any but their God before!

I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly—
Now, now-ere yet their blades are nigh.
Oh haste-the bark that bore me hither
Can waft us o'er yon dark'ning sea
East-west-alas! I care not whither,
So thou art safe, and I with thee!
Go where we will, this hand in thine,

Those eyes before me beaming thus,
Through good and ill, through storm and shine,
The world's a world of love for us!
On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell,
Where 'tis no crime to love too well!-
Where thus to worship tenderly
An erring child of light like thee
Will not be sin-or, if it be,
Where we may weep our faults away,
Together kneeling, night and day,-
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine,
And I at any god's, for thine!'
Wildly these passionate words she spoke-
Then hung her head, and wept for shame;
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke
With ev'ry deep-heav'd sob that came.
pp. 261, 262.

High burst in air the fun'ral flames,
And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er!
One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave-
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze,
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze,
And, gazing, sunk into the wave!-
Deep, deep!-where never care or pain
Shall reach her innocent heart again!"

pp. 283, 284.

Hafed is more shocked with the treachery to which he is sacrificed than with the fate to which it consigns him:-One moment he gives up to softness and pity-assures Hinda, with compassionate equivocation, that they shall soon meet on some more peaceful shore -places her sadly in a litter, and sees her borne down the steep to the galley she had lately quitted, and to which she still expects that he is to follow her. He then assembles dirge, of great elegance and beauty, of which This sad story is closed by a sort of choral his brave and devoted companions-warns we can only afford to give the first stanza. them of the fate that is approaching-and exhorts them to meet the host of the invaders" in the ravine, and sell their lives dearly to their steel. After a fierce, and somewhat too sanguinary combat, the Ghebers are at last borne down by numbers; and Hafed finds himself left alone, with one brave associate, mortally wounded like himself. They make a desperate effort to reach and die beside the consecrated fire which burns for ever on the summit of the cliff.

"The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er,

The rock-weed's dripping with their gore-
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length,
Now breaks beneath thy tott'ring strength-
Haste, haste!-the voices of the Foe
Come near and nearer from below-
One effort more-thank Heav'n! 'tis past,
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last,
And now they touch the temple's walls,

Now Hafed sees the Fire divine-
When, lo!-his weak, worn comrade falls
Dead, on the threshold of the Shrine.
'Alas! brave soul, too quickly fled!

And must I leave thee with'ring here,
The sport of every ruffian's tread,

The mark for every coward's spear?
No, by yon altar's sacred beams!"
He cries, and, with a strength that seems
Not of this world, uplifts the frame
Of the fall'n chief, and tow'rds the flame
Bears him along!-With death-damp hand
The corpse upon the pyre he lays;
Then lights the consecrated brand,

-

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea
"Now Freedom's God! I come to Thee!'
The youth exclaims, and with a smile
Of triumph, vaulting on the pile,
In that last effort, ere the fires

Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires!"
pp. 278, 279.

The unfortunate Hinda, whose galley had been detained close under the cliff by the noise of the first onset, had heard with agony the sounds which marked the progress and catastrophe of the fight, and is at last a spectatress of the lofty fate of her lover.

"But see what moves upon the height?
Some signal!-'tis a torch's light.

What bodes its solitary glare?
In gasping silence tow'rd the shrine
All eyes are turn'd-thine, Hinda, thine
Fix their last failing life-beams there!
'Twas but a moment-fierce and high
The death-pile blaz'd into the sky,
And far away o'er the rock and flood
Its melancholy radiance sent;
While Hafed, like a vision, stood
Reveal'd before the burning pyre!
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire

Shrin'd in its own grand element !
"Tis he -the shudd'ring maid exclaims,
But, while she speaks, he's seen no more!

Farewell-farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee." p. 284.

The general tone of this poem is certainly too much strained. It is overwrought throughout, and is too entirely made up of agonies and raptures;-but, in spite of all this, it is a work of great genius and beauty; and not only delights the fancy by its general brilliancy and spirit, but moves all the tender and noble feelings with a deep and powerful agitation.

The last piece, entitled "The Light of the Haram," is the gayest of the whole; and is of a very slender fabric as to fable or invention. In truth, it has scarcely any story at all; but is made up almost entirely of beautiful songs and descriptions. During the sumImer months, when the court is resident in the Vale of Cashmere, there is, it seems, a sort of oriental carnival, called the Feast of Roses, during which every body is bound to be happy and in good humour. At this critical period, the Emperor Selim had unfortunately a little love-quarrel with his favourite Sultana Nourmahal,-which signifies, it seems, the Light of the Haram. The lady is rather unhappy while the sullen fit is on her; and applies to a sort of enchantress, who invokes a musical spirit to teach her an irresistible song, which she sings in a mask to the offended monarch; and when his heart is subdued by its sweetness, throws off her mask, and springs with fonder welcome than ever into his repentant arms. The whole piece is written in breathed nothing but intoxicating gas during a kind of rapture, as if the author had its composition. It is accordingly quite filled with lively images and splendid expressions, and all sorts of beauties,-except those of reserve or simplicity. We must give a few specimens, to revive the spirits of our readers after the tragic catastrophe of Hafed; and we may begin with this portion of the description of the Happy Valley.

"Oh! to see it by moonlight,-when mellowly
shines

The light o'er its palaces, gardens and shrines;
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars,
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Chenars
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet,
From the cool shining walks where the young peo-
ple meet.-

Or at morn, when the magic of daylight awakes
A new wonder each minute, as slowly it breaks,
Hills, cupolas, fountains, call'd forth every one
Out of darkness, as they were just born of the Sun,

When the Spirit of Fragrance is up with the day,
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing away;
And the wind, full of wantonness, woes like a lover
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over.
When the East is as warm as the light of first hopes,
And Day, with his banner of radiance unfurl'd,
Shines in through the mountainous portal that opes,
Sublime, from that Valley of bliss to the world!"
p. 296.

The character of Nourmahal's beauty is much in the same taste: though the diction is rather more loose and careless.

"There's a beauty, for ever unchangingly bright,
Like the long sunny lapse of a summers day's
light,

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender,
Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour.
This was not the beauty-oh! nothing like this,
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic of bliss;
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days,
Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the

eves,

Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams,
Like the glimpses a saint has of Heav'n in his
dreams!

When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace,
That charm of all others, was born with her face.
Then her mirth-oh! 'twas sportive as ever took
wing
[spring-
From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in
Illum'd by a wit that would fascinate sages,
Yet playful as Peris just loos'd from their cages.
While her laugh, full of life, without any controul
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her
soul;
[cover,

Then come! thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness!
'Come! if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.
'But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid,-and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place :-
Then, fare thee well!-I'd rather make
My bow'r upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!""

This strain, and the sentiment which embodies, reminded the offended monarch of his charming Nourmahal; and he names her name in accents of tenderness and regret.

"The mask is off-the charm is wrought!-
And Selim to his heart has caught,
In blushes more than ever bright,
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light!"

p. 334.

We have now said enough, and show enough, of this book, to let our readers understand both what it is, and what we think of it. Its great fault certainly is its excessive finery, and its great charm the inexhaustible copiousness of its imagery-the sweetness and ease of its diction-and the beauty of the objects and sentiments with which it is conAnd where it most sparkl'd no glance could discerned. Its finery, it should also be observed, In lip, cheek or eyes, for she brighten'd all over,Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, is not the vulgar ostentation which so often When it breaks into dimples and laughs in the sun." disguises poverty or meanness-but the expp. 302, 303. travagance of excessive wealth. We have said this, however, we believe before-and suspect we have little more to say.

en

We can give but a little morsel of the
chanting Song of the Spirit of Music.
"For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murm'ring dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly!
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!
'The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume, that high amid death
Through the field has shone--yet moves with a
And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, [breath.
When Music has reach'd her inward soul,
Like the silent stars that wink and glisten,
While Heav'n's eternal melodies roll!'"
pp. 318, 319.

Mr.

All poets, who really love poetry, and live in a poetical age, are great imitators; and the character of their writings may often be as correctly ascertained by observing whom they imitate and whom they abstain from imitating, as from any thing else. Moore, in the volume before us, reminds us oftener of Mr. Southey and Lord Byron, than of any other of his contemporaries. The resemblance is sometimes to the Roderick of the first-mentioned author, but most frequent ly to his Kehama. This may be partly owing to the nature of the subject; but, in many passages, the coincidence seems to be more radical-and to indicate a considerable conformity, in taste and habits of conception. Nourmahal herself, however, in her Arabian Mr. Southey's tone, indeed, is more assumdisguise, sings a still more prevailing ditty-ing, his manner more solemn, and his diction of which we can only insert a few stanzas. "Fly to the desert, fly with me!

Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
'Our rocks are rough; but smiling there
Th' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet-nor lov'd the less
For flow'ring in a wilderness!

'Our sands are bare; but down their slope
The silv'ry-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of Kings.

weaker. Mr. Moore is more lively-his figures and images come more thickly; and his language is at once more familiar, and more strengthened with points and antitheses. In other respects, the descriptive passages in Kehama bear a remarkable affinity to many in the work before us-in the brightness of the colouring, and the amplitude and beauty of the details. It is in his descriptions of love, and of female loveliness, that there is the strongest resemblance to Lord Byron-at least to the larger poems of that noble author. In the powerful and condensed expression of

strong emotion, Mr. Moore seems to us rather to have imitated the tone of his Lordship's smaller pieces-but imitated them as only an original genius could imitate-as Lord Byron himself may be said, in his later pieces, to have imitated those of an earlier date. There is less to remind us of Scott than we can very well account for, when we consider the great range and variety of that most fascinating and powerful writer; and we must say, that if Mr. Moore could bring the resemblance a little closer, and exchange a portion of his superfluous images and ecstasies for an equivalent share of Mr. Scott's gift of interesting and delighting us with pictures of familiar nature, and of the spirit and energy which never rises to extravagance, we think he would be a gainer by the exchange. To Mr. Crabbe there is no resemblance at all; and we only mention his name to observe, that he and Mr. Moore seem to be the antipodies of our present poetical sphere; and to occupy the extreme points of refinement and homeliness that can be said to fall within the legitimate dominion of poetry. They could not meet in the middle, we are aware, without changing their nature, and losing their specific character; but each might approach a few degrees, we think, with great mutual advantage. The outposts of all empires are posts of peril:--though we do not dispute that there is great honour in maintaining them with success.

There is one other topic upon which we are not quite sure we should say any thing. On a former occasion, we reproved Mr. Moore, perhaps with unnecessary severity, for what appeared to us the licentiousness of some of his youthful productions. We think it a duty to say, that he has long ago redeemed that error; and that in all his latter works that have come under our observation, he appears as the eloquent champion of purity, fidelity, and delicacy, not less than of justice, liberty, and honour. Like most other poets, indeed, he speaks much of beauty and love; and we doubt not that many mature virgins and careful matrons may think his lucubrations on those themes too rapturous and glowing to be safely admitted among the private studies of youth. We really think, however, that there is not much need for such apprehensions: And, at all events, if we look to the moral design and scope of the works themselves, we can see no reason to censure the author. All his favourites, without exception, are dutiful, faithful, and self-denying; and no other example is ever set up for imitation. There is nothing approaching to indelicacy even in his description of the seductions by which they are tried; and they who object to his enchanting pictures of the beauty and pure attachment of the more prominent characters would find fault, we suppose, with the loveliness and the embraces of angels.

(November, 1814.)

By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The Excursion; being a Portion of the Recluse, a Poem. 4to. pp. 447. London: 1814.* THIS will never do! It bears no doubt the unfortunately not half so visibly as that of his stamp of the author's heart and fancy: But peculiar system. His former poems were

I have spoken in many places rather too bitterly and confidently of the faults of Mr. Words worth's poetry: And forgetting that, even on my own view of them, they were but faults of taste, or venial self-partiality, have sometimes visited them, I fear, with an asperity which should be reserved for objects of Moral reprobation. If I were now to deal with the whole question of his poetical merits, though my judgment might not be substantially different, I hope I should repress the greater part of these vivacités of expression: And indeed so strong has been my feeling in this way, that, considering how much I have always loved many of the attributes of his Genius, and how entirely I respect his Character, it did at first occur to me whether it was quite fitting that, in my old age and his, I should include in this publication any of those critiques which may have formerly given pain or offence, to him or his admirers. But, when I reflected that the mischief, if there really ever was any, was long ago done, and that I still retain, in substance, the opinions which I should now like to have seen more gently expressed, I felt that to omit all notice of them on the present occasion, might be held to import a retractation which I am as far as possible from intending; or even be represented as a very shabby way of backing out of sentiments which should either be manfully persisted in, or openly renounced, and abandoned as untenable.

I finally resolved, therefore, to reprint my review of " The Excursion;" which contains a pretty full view of my griefs and charges against Mr. Wordsworth; set forth too, I believe, in a more temperate strain than most of my other inculpations, and of which I think I may now venture to say farther, that if the faults are unsparingly noted, the beauties are not penuriously or grudgingly allowed; but commended to the admiration of the reader with at least as much heartiness and good-will.

But I have also reprinted a short paper on the same author's "White Doe of Rylstone,"-in which there certainly is no praise, or notice of beauties, to set against the very unqualified censures of which it is wholly made up I have done this, however, not merely because I adhere to these censures, but chiefly because it seemed necessary to bring me fairly to issue with those who may not concur in them. I can easily understand that many whose admiration of the Excursion, or the Lyrical Ballads, rests substantially on the passages which I too should join in admiring, may view with greater indulgence than I can do, the tedious and flat pas sages with which they are interspersed, and may consequently think my censure of these works a great deal too harsh and uncharitable. Between such persons and me, therefore, there may be no radical difference of opinion, or contrariety as to principles of judgment. But if there be any who actually admire this White Doe of Rylstone, or

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