The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . late years, the prose of Southey has been preferred to his poetry. It rarely hap-pens that there is a preference without a disparagement. No Poet in the present orthe past century, has written three such poems as Thalaba, Kehama, and have more excelled in delineating what they find before them in life; butnone have given such proofs of extraordinary power in creating. He has been calleddiffuse, because there is a spaciousness and amplitude about his poetry—as if concen-tration was the highest quality of a writer. He
The book of gemsThe modern poets and artists of Great Britain . late years, the prose of Southey has been preferred to his poetry. It rarely hap-pens that there is a preference without a disparagement. No Poet in the present orthe past century, has written three such poems as Thalaba, Kehama, and have more excelled in delineating what they find before them in life; butnone have given such proofs of extraordinary power in creating. He has been calleddiffuse, because there is a spaciousness and amplitude about his poetry—as if concen-tration was the highest quality of a writer. He lays all his thoughts before us; butthey never rush forth tumultuously. He excels in unity of design and cougruity ofcharacter; and never did Poet more adequately express heroic fortitude, and generous_ affections. He has not, however, limited his pen to grand paintings of epic his shorter productions will be found some light and graceful sketches, full ofbeauty and feeling, and not the less valuable because they invariably aim at promoting. SOUTKEY. I MARVEL not, O Sun ! that unto theeIn adoration man should bow the knee. And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love ;For like a God thou art, and on thy wayOf glory sheddest with benignant ray. Beauty, and life, and joyance from above. No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud,—These cold raw mists that chill the comfortless day;But shed thy splendour through the opening cloud And cheer the earth once more. The languid flowersLie odourless, bent down with heavy rain. Earth asks thy presence, saturate with showers !O lord of light! put forth thy beams again. For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours. 1 24 SOUTHEY. REMEMBRANCE. Man hath a weary pilgrimage As through the world he wends, On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before. And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. To school the little exile goes. Torn from his mot
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Keywords: ., bookauthorwordsworthcollection, bookce, booksubjectenglishpoetry
