ABSTRACT
Though the new school of philosophy, to which we are utterly averse, has introduced a new school of poetry, which we do not altogether admire; yet, from Mr. Wordsworth, who may be regarded as the senior professor in this Parnassian college, we wish not to withhold our warm eulogium. Energy of thought, pathos of sentiment, and exquisite discrimination in selecting whatever is picturesque in imagery, or interesting in nature, are the distinguishing characteristics of these poems: yet an obscurity too often arises, from a romantic search after simplicity, and there is a studied abruptness in the commencement and termination of several pieces, which makes them assume an appearance of mere fragments. Where we meet with a complete poem, like that entitled ‘The Brothers,’ our gratification is proportionably complete. We regret, however, that these volumes are marked by a querulous monotony of woe, which we cannot applaud: for a wayward spirit of discontent has lately been let loose upon the world, and seems calculated to diffuse the seeds of general dissatisfaction, by libelling all mankind. These well-told tales are mostly tales of sorrow, and this sorrow takes its root from the hollowheartedness of human beings, or the calamities incident to human life. The vista is dreary, and the objects which present themselves at its extremity are involved ‘in gloomiest shade.’
