ABSTRACT

These are the very poems which are ridiculed in the Simpliciad, noticed by us last month; and in good truth well worthy are they, in general, of ridicule; for such flimsy, puerile thoughts, expressed in such feeble and halting verse, we have seldom seen; never in a volume published by a person of the smallest reputation. Mr. Wordsworth seems, in his motto, to promise better things hereafter, and we heartily hope he will keep his word. He says,

Posterius graviore sono tibi Musa loquetur Nostra; dabunt cum securos mihi tempora fructus.1