We have been urged several times to take up the subject of Mr. Wordsworth’s Poems, in order to do them justice. In doing this, we should satisfy neither his admirers nor his censurers. We have once already attempted the thankless office, and it did not succeed. Indeed we think all comment on them superseded by those lines of Withers, which are a complete anticipation of Mr. Wordsworth’s style, where, speaking of poetry, he says,—
‘In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some invention draw;
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object’s sight;—
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough’s rustling,
By a daisy whose leaves spread