ABSTRACT
We had scarcely completed the preceding notice of Mr. Wordsworth’s new poems and re-publications, when we were called to listen again to his lyre, or harp, or hurdy-gurdy, (as it too often may be denominated,) and to sympathize with his ‘White Doe of Rylstone.’ We hoped to be able to meet him now with a less interrupted pleasure than before: but indeed this is not yet the case. So tired, however, are we with pointing out errors which we fear must be now regarded as incurable, that, after having remarked that all the author’s usual excentricities of thought and defects in composition are to be found in the thin quarto before us, we shall resign the wearisome office of censure for the present, and amuse ourselves and our readers with a few extracts which display elegance and tenderness of manner.
