tance of
Poets. I have also thought it expedient to restrict myself still
further, having abstained from the use of many expressions, in
themselves proper and beautiful, but which have been foolishly repeated
by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are connected with them as
it is scarcely possible by any art of association to overpower.

If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a single
line, in which the language, though naturally arranged, and according to
the strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of prose, there is a
numerous class of critics, who, when they stumble upon these prosaisms,
as they call them, imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and
exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now
these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will
conclude he must utterly reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these
volumes. And it would be a most easy task to prove to him, that not only
the language of a large portion of every good poem, even of the most
elevated character, must necessarily, except with reference to the
metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose, but likewise that
some of the most interesting parts of the best poems will be found to be
strictly the language of prose when prose is well written. The truth of
this assertion might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost
all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself. To illustrate the
subject in a general manner, I will here adduce a short composition of
Gray, who was at the head of those who, by their reasonings, have
attempted to widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical
composition, and was more than any other man curiously elaborate in the
structure of his own poetic diction.

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.
These ears, alas! for other notes repine;
_A different object do these eyes require;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire_;
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
_I fruitless mourn to Him that cannot hear,
And weep the more because