to a poetical reader the clearest
possible idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had
been merely to show the school's character, the attempt might have been
considered successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now
before us of the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever
beyond that of their antiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do not
particularly please us. His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not
to be false. His opinion, for example, of Sir Henry Wotton's "Verses on
the Queen of Bohemia"-that "there are few finer things in our language,"
is untenable and absurd.

In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of
Poesy which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all
time. Here every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No
prepossession for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no
other prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of
poetry, a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments,
stitched, apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and
without even an attempt at adaptation.

In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with "The
Shepherd's Hunting" by Withers--a poem partaking, in a remarkable
degree, of the peculiarities of "Il Penseroso." Speaking of Poesy the
author says:

"By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least boughs rustleling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Something that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness--
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect

Walled about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight."

But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found
in Corbe