arise, in some measure, from the self-illusion of a mind of
extraordinary sensibility, habituated to solitary meditation, we cannot
undertake to determine. It is possible enough, we allow, that the sight
of a friend's garden-spade, or a sparrow's nest, or a man gathering
leeches, might really have suggested to such a mind a train of powerful
impressions and interesting reflections; but it is certain, that, to
most minds, such associations will always appear forced, strained, and
unnatural; and that the composition in which it is attempted to exhibit
them, will always have the air of parody, or ludicrous and affected
singularity. All the world laughs at Elegiac stanzas to a sucking-pig--a
Hymn on Washing-day--Sonnets to one's grandmother--or Pindarics on
gooseberry-pye; and yet, we are afraid, it will not be quite easy to
convince Mr Wordsworth, that the same ridicule must infallibly attach to
most of the pathetic pieces in these volumes. To satisfy our readers,
however, as to the justice of this and our other anticipations, we shall
proceed, without further preface, to lay before them a short view of
their contents.

The first is a kind of ode 'to the Daisy,'--very flat, feeble, and
affected; and in a diction as artificial, and as much encumbered with
heavy expletives, as the theme of an unpractised schoolboy. The two
following stanzas will serve as a specimen.

'When soothed a while by milder airs,
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
_Spring cannot shun thee_;
Whole summer fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight