“Where one for sense and one for rhyme
  Is quite sufficient at one time.”

We think, however, that if Mr. Wordsworth had been a more liberal and candid critic, he would have been a more sterling writer.  If a greater number of sources of pleasure had been open to him, he would have communicated pleasure to the world more frequently.  Had he been less fastidious in pronouncing sentence on the works of others, his own would have been received more favourably, and treated more leniently.  The current of his feelings is deep, but narrow; the range of his understanding is lofty and aspiring rather than discursive.  The force, the originality, the absolute truth and identity with which he feels some things, makes him indifferent to so many others.  The simplicity and enthusiasm of his feelings, with respect to nature, renders him bigotted and intolerant in his judgments of men and things.  But it happens to him, as to others, that his strength lies in his weakness; and perhaps we have no right to complain.  We might get rid of the cynic and the egotist, and find in his stead a common-place man.  We should “take the good the Gods provide us:”  a fine and original vein of poetry is not one of their most contemptible gifts, and the rest is scarcely worth thinking of, except as it may be a mortification to those who expect perfection from human nature; or who have been idle enough at some period of their lives, to deify men of genius as possessing claims above it.  But this is a chord that jars, and we shall not dwell upon it.

Lord Byron we have called, according to the old proverb, “the spoiled child of fortune:”  Mr. Wordsworth might plead, in mitigation of some peculiarities, that he is “the spoiled child of disappointment.”  We are convinced, if he had been early a popular poet, he would have borne his honours meekly, and would have been a person of great bonhommie and frankness of disposition.  But the sense of injustice and of undeserved ridicule sours the temper and narrows the views.  To have produced works of genius, and to find them neglected or treated with scorn, is one of the heaviest trials of human patience.  We exaggerate our own merits when they are denied by others, and are apt to grudge and cavil at every particle of praise bestowed on those to whom we feel a conscious superiority.  In mere self-defence we turn against the world, when it turns against us; brood over the undeserved slights we receive; and thus the genial current of the soul is stopped, or vents itself in effusions of petulance and self-conceit.  Mr. Wordsworth has thought too much of contemporary critics and criticism; and less than he ought of the award of posterity, and of the opinion, we do not say of private friends, but of those who were made so by their admiration of his genius.  He did not court popularity by a conformity to established models, and he ought not to have been surprised that his originality was not understood as a matter of course.  He