ABSTRACT
Of the Excursion, excluding the tale of the ruined Cottage, which I have ever thought the finest Poem in our Language, comparing it with any of the same or similar Length, I can truly say, that one half the number of it’s Beauties would make all the beauties of all his Contemporary Poets collectively mount to the balance; but yet – the fault may be in my own mind – I do not think, I did not feel, it equal to the Work on the Growth of his own spirit. As proofs meet me in every part of the Excursion, that the Poet’s genius has not flagged, I have sometimes fancied, that having by the conjoint operation of his own experiences, feelings, and reason himself convinced himself of Truths, which the generality of persons have either taken for granted from their Infancy, or at least adopted in early life, he has attached all their own depth and weight to doctrines and words, which come almost as Truisms or Common-place to others.
