equal to a real Roman Coena, the ideal of which Croly has so
superbly described in "Salathiel." His "Epistle to Curio" is a
masterpiece of vigorous composition, terse sentiment, and glowing
invective. It gathers around Pulteney as a ring of fire round the
scorpion, and leaves him writhing and shrivelled. Out of Dryden and
Pope, it is perhaps the best satiric piece in our poetry.

Of the "Pleasures of Imagination," it is not necessary to say a
great deal. A poem that has been so widely circulated, so warmly
praised, so frequently quoted and imitated--the whole of which
nearly a man like Thomas Brown has quoted in the course of his
lectures--must possess no ordinary merit. Its great beauty is its
richness of description and language--its great fault is its
obscurity; a beauty and a fault closely connected together, even as
the luxuriance of a tropical forest implies intricacy, and its
lavish loveliness creates a gloom. His attempt to express Plato's
philosophy in blank verse is not always successful. Perhaps prose
might better have answered his purpose in expressing the awfully
sublime thought of the "archetypes of all things existing in God."
We know that in certain objects of nature--in certain rocks, for
instance (such as Coleridge describes in his "Wanderings of Cain")--
there lie silent prefigurations and aboriginal types of artificial
objects, such as ships, temples, and other orders of architecture;
and it is so also in certain shells, woods, and even in clouds. How
interesting and beautiful those painted prophecies of nature, those
quiet hieroglyphics of God, those mystic letters, which, unlike
those on the Babylonian wall, do _not_,

"Careering shake,
And blaze IMPATIENT to be read,"