And thus, having written once, I wrote on; encouraged no doubt by the success of the moment, yet by no means anticipating its duration, and I will venture to say, scarcely even wishing it.  But then I did other things besides write, which by no means contributed either to improve my writings or my prosperity.

“I have thus expressed publicly upon the poetry of the day the opinion I have long entertained and expressed of it to all who have asked it, and to some who would rather not have heard it; as I told Moore not very long ago, ’we are all wrong except Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell.’[4] Without being old in years, I am in days, and do not feel the adequate spirit within me to attempt a work which should show what I think right in poetry, and must content myself with having denounced what is wrong.  There are, I trust, younger spirits rising up in England, who, escaping the contagion which has swept away poetry from our literature, will recall it to their country, such as it once was and may still be.

     “In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will be repentance,
     and new and frequent editions of Pope and Dryden.

“There will be found as comfortable metaphysics and ten times more poetry in the ‘Essay on Man,’ than in the ‘Excursion.’  If you search for passion, where is it to be found stronger than in the epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, or in Palamon and Arcite?  Do you wish for invention, imagination, sublimity, character? seek them in the Rape of the Lock, the Fables of Dryden, the Ode on Saint Cecilia’s Day, and Absalom and Achitophel:  you will discover in these two poets only, all for which you must ransack innumerable metres, and God only knows how many writers of the day, without finding a tittle of the same qualities,—­with the addition, too, of wit, of which the latter have none.  I have not, however, forgotten Thomas Brown the Younger, nor the Fudge Family, nor Whistlecraft; but that is not wit—­it is humour.  I will say nothing of the harmony of Pope and Dryden in comparison, for there is not a living poet (except Rogers, Gifford, Campbell, and Crabbe) who can write an heroic couplet.  The fact is, that the exquisite beauty of their versification has withdrawn the public attention from their other excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest more upon the splendour of the uniform than the quality of the troops.  It is this very harmony, particularly in Pope, which has raised the vulgar and atrocious cant against him:—­because his versification is perfect, it is assumed that it is his only perfection; because his truths are so clear, it is asserted that he has no invention; and because he is always intelligible, it is taken for granted that he has no genius.  We are sneeringly told that he is the ‘Poet of Reason,’ as if this was a reason for his being no poet.  Taking passage for passage, I will undertake to cite more lines teeming with imagination