The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
        That is in the green leaves among the groves,
      Maintains a deep, and reverential care
        For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

      The pleasure-house is dust:—­behind, before,
        This is no common waste, no common gloom;
      But Nature, in due course of time, once more
        Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

      She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
        That what we are, and have been, may be known;
      But at the coming of the milder day,
        These monuments shall all be overgrown.

      One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
        Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals,
      Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
        With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.”

Mr. Wordsworth is at the head of that which has been denominated the Lake school of poetry; a school which, with all my respect for it, I do not think sacred from criticism or exempt from faults, of some of which faults I shall speak with becoming frankness; for I do not see that the liberty of the press ought to be shackled, or freedom of speech curtailed, to screen either its revolutionary or renegado extravagances.  This school of poetry had its origin in the French revolution, or rather in those sentiments and opinions which produced that revolution; and which sentiments and opinions were indirectly imported into this country in translations from the German about that period.  Our poetical literature had, towards the close of the last century, degenerated into the most trite, insipid, and mechanical of all things, in the hands of the followers of Pope and the old French school of poetry.  It wanted something to stir it up, and it found that some thing in the principles and events of the French revolution.  From the impulse it thus received, it rose at once from the most servile imitation and tamest common-place, to the utmost pitch of singularity and paradox.  The change in the belles-lettres was as complete, and to many persons as startling, as the change in politics, with which it went hand in hand.  There was a mighty ferment in the heads of statesmen and poets, kings and people.  According to the prevailing notions, all was to be natural and new.  Nothing that was established was to be tolerated.  All the common-place figures of poetry, tropes, allegories, personifications, with the whole heathen mythology, were instantly discarded; a classical allusion was considered as a piece of antiquated foppery; capital letters were no more allowed in print, than letters-patent of nobility were permitted in real life; kings and queens were dethroned from their rank and station in legitimate tragedy or epic poetry, as they were decapitated elsewhere; rhyme was looked upon as a relic of the feudal system, and regular metre was abolished along with regular government.