I am not, however, afraid of such censure, insignificant as probably the majority of those poems would appear to very respectable persons.  I do not mean London wits and witlings, for these have too many foul passions about them to be respectable, even if they had more intellect than the benign laws of Providence will allow to such a heartless existence as theirs is; but grave, kindly-natured, worthy persons, who would be pleased if they could.  I hope that these volumes are not without some recommendations, even for readers of this class:  but their imagination has slept; and the voice which is the voice of my poetry, without imagination, cannot be heard.  Leaving these, I was going to say a word to such readers as Mr. ——.  Such!—­how would he be offended if he knew I considered him only as a representative of a class, and not an unique!  ‘Pity,’ says Mr. ——­ ’that so many trifling things should be admitted to obstruct the view of those that have merit.’  Now, let this candid judge take, by way of example, the sonnets, which, probably, with the exception of two or three other poems, for which I will not contend, appear to him the most trifling, as they are the shortest.  I would say to him, omitting things of higher consideration, there is one thing which must strike you at once, if you will only read these poems,—­that those ‘to Liberty,’ at least, have a connection with, or a bearing upon, each other; and, therefore, if individually they want weight, perhaps, as a body, they may not be so deficient.  At least, this ought to induce you to suspend your judgment, and qualify it so far as to allow that the writer aims at least at comprehensiveness.

But, dropping this, I would boldly say at once, that these sonnets, while they each fix the attention upon some important sentiment, separately considered, do, at the same time, collectively make a poem on the subject of civil liberty and national independence, which, either for simplicity of style or grandeur of moral sentiment, is, alas! likely to have few parallels in the poetry of the present day.  Again, turn to the ‘Moods of my own Mind.’  There is scarcely a poem here of above thirty lines, and very trifling these poems will appear to many; but, omitting to speak of them individually, do they not, taken collectively, fix the attention upon a subject eminently poetical, viz., the interest which objects in Nature derive from the predominance of certain affections, more or less permanent, more or less capable of salutary renewal in the mind of the being contemplating these objects?  This is poetic, and essentially poetic.  And why?  Because it is creative.

But I am wasting words, for it is nothing more than you know; and if said to those for whom it is intended, it would not be understood.

I see by your last letter, that Mrs. Fermor has entered into the spirit of these ‘Moods of my own Mind.’  Your transcript from her letter gave me the greatest pleasure; but I must say that even she has something yet to receive from me.  I say this with confidence, from her thinking that I have fallen below myself in the sonnet, beginning,