ABSTRACT
Peter Bell, and Benjamin, the Waggoner, had given us almost a disgust to Mr. Wordsworth’s Muse; for to such a ridiculous height has he carried his affectation of simplicity in these two last productions, that he left us little hope of seeing his genius break the fetters of his school. It has done so, however, and it now bursts upon us with a brilliancy and pathos, a grandeur and a true simplicity, which, if he always wrote thus, would, indeed, entitle him to be called the poet of Nature.
