Lodge, dodge—heaven, leaven—earth, birth—such, in six words, is the sum and substance of six lines.
“We come now to the author’s taste in versification. He cannot indeed write a sentence, but perhaps he may be able to spin a line. Let us see. The following are specimens of his prosodial notions of our English heroic metre:
‘Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite.
‘So plenteously all weed-hidden roots.
‘Of some strange history, potent to send.
‘Before the deep intoxication.
‘Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion.
‘The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepared.
‘Endymion, the cave is secreter
Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise
Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys
And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.’
“By this time our readers must be pretty well satisfied as to the meaning of his sentences and the structure of his lines. We now present them with some of the new words with which, in imitation of Mr. Leigh Hunt, he adorns our language.