"The Pilgrim oft
At dead of night, 'mid his orison hears
Aghast the voice of Time, disparting tow'rs
Tumbling all precipitate down dashed,
Rattling around, loud thund'ring to the Moon."

Of "The Fleece," which never became popular, and is now universally
neglected, I can say little that is likely to recall it to
attention. The woolcomber and the poet appear to me such discordant
natures, that an attempt to bring them together is to COUPLE THE
SERPENT WITH THE FOWL. When Dyer, whose mind was not unpoetical,
has done his utmost, by interesting his reader in our native
commodity by interspersing rural imagery, and incidental
digressions, by clothing small images in great words, and by all the
writer's arts of delusion, the meanness naturally adhering, and the
irreverence habitually annexed to trade and manufacture, sink him
under insuperable oppression; and the disgust which blank verse,
encumbering and encumbered, superadds to an unpleasing subject, soon
repels the reader, however willing to be pleased.

Let me, however, honestly report whatever may counterbalance this
weight of censure. I have been told that Akenside, who, upon a
poetical question, has a right to be heard, said, "That he would
regulate his opinion of the reigning taste by the fate of Dyer's
'Fleece;' for, if that were ill-received, he should not think it any
longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence."



SHENSTONE.