most where conflagration of passion has left its mark? Need I mention
to you a Scott, that fertile and fascinating writer, the vegetation
of whose mind is as rapid as that of a northern summer, and as rich
as the most golden harvests of the south, whose beautiful creations
succeed each other like fruits in Armida's enchanted garden, "one
scarce is gathered ere another grows?" Shall I recall to you a Rogers,
(to me endeared by friendship as well as genius,) who has hung up his
own name on the shrine of memory among the most imperishable tablets
there. A Southey, _not the laureate_, but the author of 'Don
Roderick,' one of the noblest and most eloquent poems in any language.
A Campbell, the polished and spirited Campbell, whose song of
'Innisfail' is the very tears of our own Irish muse, crystallized by
the touch of genius, and made eternal. A Wordsworth, a poet, even in
his puerilities, whose capacious mind, like the great pool of Norway,
draws into its vortex not only the mighty things of the deep, but its
minute weeds and refuse. A Crabbe, who has shown what the more than
galvanic power of talent can effect, by giving not only motion, but
life and soul to subjects that seemed incapable of it. I could
enumerate, gentlemen, still more, and from thence would pass with
delight to dwell upon the living poets of our own land. The dramatic
powers of a Maturin and a Shiel, the former consecrated by the
applause of a Scott and a Byron, and the latter by the tears of some
of the brightest eyes in the empire. The rich imagination of a
Philips, who has courted more than one Muse. The versatile genius of
a Morgan, who was the first that mated our sweet Irish strains with
poetry worthy of their pathos and their force. But I feel I have
already trespassed too long upon your patience and your time. I do
not regret, however, that you have deigned to listen with patience to
this humble tribute to the living masters of the English lyre, which
I, 'the meanest of the throng,' thus feebly, but heartily, have paid