ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales, bestow:
Here rocks alone and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around."

Yet in these beautiful lines there is a slight error, which writers of
the greatest genius very frequently fall into.--It will be needless to
observe to the accurate reader, that in the fifth and sixth verses there
is a verbal pleonasm where the poet speaks of the _green_ delights of
_verdant_ vales. There is an oversight of the same kind in the Manners,
an Ode, where the poet says,

"----Seine's blue nymphs deplore
In watchet weeds----."

This fault is indeed a common one, but to a reader of taste it is
nevertheless disgustful; and it is mentioned here, as the error of a man
of genius and judgment, that men of genius and judgment may guard
against it.

Mr. Collins speaks like a true poet, as well in sentiment as expression,
when, with regard to the thirst of wealth, he says,

"Why heed we not, while mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of Peace, or Pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we these less pleasing to behold,
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?"

But however just these sentiments may appear to those who have not
revolted from nature and simplicity, had the author proclaimed them in
Lombard Street, or Cheapside, he would not have been complimented with
the understanding of the bellman.--A striking proof, that our own
particular ideas of happiness regulate our opinions concerning the sense
and wisdom of others!

It is impossible to take leave of this most beautiful eclogue, without
paying the tribute of admiration so justly due to the following nervous
lines:

"What if the lion in his rage I meet!----
Oft in the dust I view his printed feet:
And, fearful! oft, when day's declining light
Yields her pale empire to the mourner night,
By hunger roused, he scours the groaning plain,
Gaunt wolves and sullen tigers in his train:
Before them death with shrieks directs their way,
Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey."

This, amongst many other passages to be met with in the writings of
Collins, shows that his genius was perfectly capable of the grand and
magnificent in description, notwithstanding what a learned writer has
advanced to the contrary. Nothing, certainly, could be mor