The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . imentalism ;—they arethe earnest breathings of a happy and buoyant spirit; a giving out, as it were, of thebreath that has been inhaled among the mountains. They manifest, moreover, thefinest sympathies with ; nothing harsh or repining seems to have entered thePoets thoughts ; they may be read as compositions of the highest merit,—as bearingthe severest test of critical asperity; but also as graceful and beautiful transcripts ofnature, when her grace and beauty is felt and appreciated by all. There is no evi-dence of fine
The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . imentalism ;—they arethe earnest breathings of a happy and buoyant spirit; a giving out, as it were, of thebreath that has been inhaled among the mountains. They manifest, moreover, thefinest sympathies with ; nothing harsh or repining seems to have entered thePoets thoughts ; they may be read as compositions of the highest merit,—as bearingthe severest test of critical asperity; but also as graceful and beautiful transcripts ofnature, when her grace and beauty is felt and appreciated by all. There is no evi-dence of fine phrenzy in his glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven ;but there is ample proof of the depth of his worship, and the fulness of his affectionfor all the objects which Natures God has made graceful and fruitful. It is worthyof comment, that, as far as we know, Wilson has never penned a line of satire, inpoetry,—seeming as if his thoughts could take in nothing but what was good, andholy, and tranquillizing, when his associates were the WILSON. FROM EDITH AND NORA. Tis a lonely glen ! but the happy childHath friends whom she meets in the morning wild !As on she trips, her native stream,Like her hath awoke from a joyful dream;And glides away by her twinkling feetWith a face as bright, and a voice as the osier bank the ouzel sitting,Hath heard her steps, and away is flittingFrom stone to stone, as she glides sinks in the stream with a broken lapwing, fearless of his looking round with his delicate crest;Or a love-like joy is in his cry,As he wheels, and darts, and glances 2 92 Is the heron asleep on the silvery sandOf his little lake ? Lo ! his wings expandAs a dreamy thought, and withouten he floats oer the maidens looks to the birch-wood glade, and lo IThere is browsing there the lifts up her gentle eyes—nor movesAs on glides the form whom all nature s
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwordsworthcollection, bookce, booksubjectenglishpoetry
