ABSTRACT
We always leave Mr. Wordsworth with regret, but on no occasion have we left him with so much regret as on the present. He has touched in these poems some of the finest springs of natural pathos; and we do really think that there is enough in the collection before us to fix the wreath upon his brows too firmly to be torn off by his own hands in any of his fits of prosaic depression, or temporary rage for simplicity.
