poetasters who ring changes on the commonplaces of magazine versification; and all the difference between them is that they borrow their phrases from a different and a scantier gradus ad Parnassum.  If they were, indeed, to discard all imitation and set phraseology, and bring in no words merely for show or for metre,—­as much, perhaps, might be gained in freedom and originality, as would infallibly be lost in allusion and authority; but, in point of fact, the new poets are just as much borrowers as the old; only that, instead of borrowing from the more popular passages of their illustrious predecessors, they have preferred furnishing themselves from vulgar ballads and plebian nurseries.

Their peculiarities of diction alone, are enough, perhaps, to render them ridiculous; but the author before us really seems anxious to court this literary martyrdom by a device still more infallible,—­we mean that of connecting his most lofty, tender, or impassioned conceptions, with objects and incidents which the greater part of his readers will probably persist in thinking low, silly, or uninteresting.  Whether this is done from affectation and conceit alone, or whether it may not arise, in some measure, from the self-illusion of a mind of extraordinary sensibility, habituated to solitary meditation, we cannot undertake to determine.  It is possible enough, we allow, that the sights of a friend’s garden-spade, of a sparrow’s-nest, or a man gathering leeches, might really have suggested to such a mind a train of powerful impressions and interesting reflections; but it is certain, that, to most minds, such associations will always appear forced, strained, and unnatural; and that the composition in which it is attempted to exhibit them, will always have the air of parody, or ludicrous and affected singularity.  All the world laughs at Eligiac stanzas to a sucking pig—­a Hymn on Washing-day, Sonnets to one’s grandmother—­or Pindarics on gooseberry-pie; and yet, we are afraid, it will not be quite easy to persuade Mr. Wordsworth, that the same ridicule must infallibly attach to most of the pathetic pieces in these volumes.  To satisfy our readers, however, as to the justice of this and our other anticipations, we shall proceed without further preface, to lay before them a short view of their contents.

The first is a kind of ode “to the Daisy,—­” very flat, feeble, and affected; and in diction as artificial, and as much encumbered with heavy expletives as the theme of an unpractised schoolboy....

The scope of the piece is to say, that the flower is found everywhere; and that it has suggested many pleasant thoughts to the author—­some chime of fancy, “wrong or right”—­some feeling of devotion more or less—­and other elegancies of the same stamp....

The next is called “Louisa,” and begins in this dashing and affected manner.

I met Louisa in the shade; And, having seen that lovely maid, Why should I fear to say That she is ruddy, fleet and strong; And down the rocks can leap along, Like rivulets in May?  I. 7.

Does Mr. Wordsworth really imagine that this is more natural or engaging than the ditties of our common song-writers?...