| But stills not, neither angers; from his height |
| As from a star, float forth his sphere-like tones; |
| He wits not whether the vexed herd may hear |
| The music wafted to the reverent ear; |
| And far man’s wrath, or scorn, or heed above, |
| Smiles down the calm disdain of his majestic love!” |
| [From Stanzas addressed by Bulwer to Wordsworth.] |
Read him, then, in your leisure hours, and when you walk into the summer fields you shall find the sky more blue, the flowers more fair, the birds more musical, your minds more awake, and your hearts more tender, for having held communion with him.
I have not troubled myself to point out the occasional affectations of Southey, the frequent obscurity of Coleridge, or the diffuseness of Wordsworth. I should fear to be treated like the critic mentioned in the story Addison quotes from Boccalini, whom Apollo rewarded for his labours by presenting him with a bushel of chaff from which all the wheat had been winnowed. For myself I think that where there is such beauty and strength, we can afford to be silent about slight defects; and that we refine our tastes more effectually by venerating the grand and lovely, than by detecting the little and mean.
