The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . e at all aware of his exquisite talent for pure and genuinepoetry. While his Whims and Oddities have passed through many editions, his Plea of the Midsummer Fairies has never reached a second ; and while his ComicAnnuals have brought him a large income, his delicious Lyrics have scarcely yieldedsufficient to pay the printer. We refer to the few extracts we have selected, for proofthat Mr. Hood has claims to a far higher and more enviable reputation than that whichhis puns have conferred upon him. More tender, more graceful, or mor
The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . e at all aware of his exquisite talent for pure and genuinepoetry. While his Whims and Oddities have passed through many editions, his Plea of the Midsummer Fairies has never reached a second ; and while his ComicAnnuals have brought him a large income, his delicious Lyrics have scarcely yieldedsufficient to pay the printer. We refer to the few extracts we have selected, for proofthat Mr. Hood has claims to a far higher and more enviable reputation than that whichhis puns have conferred upon him. More tender, more graceful, or more beautifullywrought lyrics are scarcely to be found in the language. They smack of the oldPoets; they have all the truth and nature for which the great Bards are pre-eminent;and while Mr. Hood has caught their spirit, he has not fallen into the error that hasproved fatal to many of his contemporaxies,—a mistaken notion that by copying theslips and blots which occasionally mar the delicate beauty of their writings, he wasimitating their style and HOOD. TO A COLD BEAUTY. Lady, wouldst thou heiress beTo winters cold and cruel part ? When he sets the rivers free, Thou dost still lock up thy heart: Thou that shouldst outlast the snow. But in the whiteness of thy brow ? Scorn and cold neglect are madeFor winter gloom and winter wind : But thou wilt wrong the summer air,Breathing it to words unkind : Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song ! 256 Wlien the little buds unclose, Red, and white, and pied, and blue ; And that virgin flower, the rose,Opes her heart to hold the dew,— Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup ? Let not cold December sit Thus in loves peculiar throne ; Brooklets are not prisond crystal frosts are all agone; And that which hangs upon the spray. It is no snow, but flower of May ! She stood breast high amid the corn,Claspd by the golden light of the sweetheart of the sunWho many a glowing kis
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwordsworthcollection, bookce, booksubjectenglishpoetry
