stitution_ was _preserved_ with _decent reverence_.

JOHNSON.

Of _genius_, that _power_ which _constitutes_ a _poet_; that _quality_
without which _judgment_ is cold, and knowledge is _inert_; that _energy_
which _collects_, _combines_, _amplifies_, and _animates_; the
_superiority_ must, with some _hesitation_, be _allowed_ to Dryden. It is
not to be _inferred_ that of this _poetical vigor Pope_ had only a little,
_because_ Dryden had more; for every other writer since Milton must give
_place_ to _Pope_; and even of Dryden it must be said, that if he has
brighter _paragraphs_, he has not better _poems_.

BYRON.

_Ancient_ of days! _august Athena!_ where,
Where are thy men of might--thy _grand_ in soul?
Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were.
First in the race that led to _Glory's goal_,
They won, and _passed_ away. Is this the whole?
A _school_-boy's tale--the wonder of an _hour_!
The warrior's-weapon and the _sophist's stole_
Are sought in _vain_, and o'er each _mouldering_ tower,
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of _power_.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The way was long, the wind was cold,
The _Minstrel_ was _infirm_ and old;
His withered cheek and _tresses_ gray
_Seemed_ to have known a better day;
The harp, his _sole remaining joy_,
Was carried by an _orphan_ boy.
The last of all the bards was he
Who sung of border _chivalry_;
For, well-a-day! their _dale_ was fled;
His _tune_ful brethren all were dead;
And he, _neglected_ and _oppressed_,
Wished to be with them and at rest.

WORDSWORTH.

Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What _power_ is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess;
Years to a mother bring _distress_;
But do not make her love the less.

My son, if thou be _humbled_, _poor_,
Hopeless of _honor_ and of _gain_,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with _grief_ and _pain_.
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly _grandeur_ I _despise_,
And _Fortune_ with her gifts and lies.

TENNYSON.

Not wholly in the busy world, nor _quite_
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming _city_ comes to it
In _sound_ of _funeral_ or of _marriage_ bells;
And sitting muffled in dark leaves you hear
The windy clanging of the winter clock;
Although between it and the gard