Scribbleomania Or, The Printer's Devil's Polichronicon. A Sublime Poem. Edited by Anser Pen-drag-on [i.e. S. W. H. Ireland] |
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Wordsworth.
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Wordsworth.
—Quo diversus abis?
Whither dost thou wand'ring run?
Whither dost thou wand'ring run?
Though verging in track by our laureat profess'd,
The lays of a Wordsworth must here be impress'd;
Who veils many faults, since his labours impart
Such numbers pathetic as sink to the heart;
Which sensitive impulse must ever infuse
A genuine type of the soul-thrilling Muse:
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May adopt in the future a style more sedate,
I close my critique, since, by pathos subdu'd,
That feeling with sternness shall not be imbu'd:
For I hold it fair maxim, when merit I scan,
To white-wash all foibles as much as I can.
Having already descanted upon Mr. Wordsworth's talents as a poet, in my annotations upon the present laureat, I conceive it altogether superfluous to dilate further upon the subject, except it be to assure the above gentleman that I grant him every praise, as a writer appealing to the heart. I have, myself, very frequently owned the potency of his spells, which if uncontaminated by foppish singularity of style would place him in the most envied situation as a sterling delineator of the pathetic.
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