and such a habit of work could scarcely, in all instances, keep himself
within the bounds of good taste--a term which people are far too ready
to introduce into serious discussions, for the purpose of casting
disparagement upon some work which transcends the ordinary standards of
appreciation, but a term nevertheless which has its important meaning
and its true place. Hood is too often like a man grinning awry, or
interlarding serious and beautiful discourse with a nod, a wink, or a
leer, neither requisite nor convenient as auxiliaries to his speech:
and to do either of these things is to fail in perfect taste.
Sometimes, not very often, we are allowed to reach the close of a poem
of his without having our attention jogged and called off by a single
interpolation of this kind; and then we feel unalloyed--what we
constantly feel also even under the contrary conditions--how exquisite
a poetic sense and how choice a cunning of hand were his. On the whole,
we can pronounce Hood the finest English poet between the generation of
Shelley and the generation of Tennyson.

[Footnote 4: Horne's _New Spirit of the Age_.]




CONTENTS.


To Hope
The Departure of Summer
The Sea of Death
To an Absentee
Lycus the Centaur