Mr. Wordsworth is the most original poet now living.  He is the reverse of Walter Scott in his defects and excellences.  He has nearly all that the other wants, and wants all that the other possesses.  His poetry is not external, but internal; it does not depend upon tradition, or story, or old song; he furnishes it from his own mind, and is his own subject.  He is the poet of mere sentiment.  Of many of the Lyrical Ballads, it is not possible to speak in terms of too high praise, such as Hart-leap Well, the Banks of the Wye, Poor Susan, parts of the Leech-gatherer, the lines to a Cuckoo, to a Daisy, the Complaint, several of the Sonnets, and a hundred others of inconceivable beauty, of perfect originality and pathos.  They open a finer and deeper vein of thought and feeling than any poet in modern times has done, or attempted.  He has produced a deeper impression, and on a smaller circle, than any other of his contemporaries.  His powers have been mistaken by the age, nor does he exactly understand them himself.  He cannot form a whole.  He has not the constructive faculty.  He can give only the fine tones of thought, drawn from his mind by accident or nature, like the sounds drawn from the AEolian harp by the wandering gale.—­He is totally deficient in all the machinery of poetry.  His Excursion, taken as a whole, notwithstanding the noble materials thrown away in it, is a proof of this.  The line labours, the sentiment moves slow, but the poem stands stock-still.  The reader makes no way from the first line to the last.  It is more than any thing in the world like Robinson Crusoe’s boat, which would have been an excellent good boat, and would have carried him to the other side of the globe, but that he could not get it out of the sand where it stuck fast.  I did what little I could to help to launch it at the time, but it would not do.  I am not, however, one of those who laugh at the attempts or failures of men of genius.  It is not my way to cry “Long life to the conqueror.”  Success and desert are not with me synonymous terms; and the less Mr. Wordsworth’s general merits have been understood, the more necessary is it to insist upon them.  This is not the place to repeat what I have already said on the subject.  The reader may turn to it in the Round Table.  I do not think, however, there is any thing in the larger poem equal to many of the detached pieces in the Lyrical Ballads.  As Mr. Wordsworth’s poems have been little known to the public, or chiefly through garbled extracts from them, I will here give an entire poem (one that has always been a favourite with me), that the reader may know what it is that the admirers of this author find to be delighted with in his poetry.  Those who do not feel the beauty and the force of it, may save themselves the trouble of inquiring farther.

HART-LEAP WELL.

      The knight had ridden down from Wensley moor
        With the slow motion of a summer’s cloud;
      He turned aside towards a vassal’s door,
        And, “Bring another horse!” he cried aloud.