ABSTRACT
We open this volume with an indescribable feeling of reverence and curiosity. We approach it as a gentleman from the country takes his seat in the third row of the pit at the Lyceum, to banquet upon the sweets of ‘Woman's Will—a Riddle,’ after being told in the play-bills that ‘it has received the decided approbation of the first critics of the day.’ Mr Keats has been praised by all ‘men of mark,’ from the Editor 178of the New Times to the Editor of the Examiner. Principles the most opposite unite in lauding this ‘Muses’ Son of Promise:’—He is ‘a fresh and true poet,’ says one; and ‘No criticism can deny his merits,’ pro-claims another, ‘but such as would disprove that moonlight is beautiful, or roses fragrant.’ This is oracular—and we bow to it.
