seldom furnish us with a similar mastery of rhythm for his appropriate purpose; while in The Excursion his tendency to prolixity, and to the substitution of rhetorical for poetic language, is confirmed by the didactic nature of his work. Even his sketches of natural scenery, often so novel, true, and Turner-like, are here obscured by this prosaic habit: no wonder, then, if the parts in which he more directly seeks to enunciate the philosophy of men and morals should prove vague, involved, and unintelligible. In illustration of both these faults, we will transcribe a passage commencing with the description of a mountain prospect and its phenomena at sun-setting, and then conveying the sentiments drawn forth on the occasion from the devout Priest, as spokesman of the poet and his party.

Alert to follow as the pastor led,

We clomb a green hill's side; and, as we clomb,
The valley, opening out her bosom, gave

Fair prospect, intercepted less and less,
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast

Of the smooth lake, in compass seen;-far off,
And yet conspicuous, stood the old church-tower
In majesty presiding over fields

And habitations, seemingly preserved

From the intrusion of a restless world

By rocks impassable and mountains huge.
Soft heath this elevated spot supplied,

And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couched
Or sat reclined; admiring quietly

The general aspect of the scene; but each
Not seldom over-anxious to make known
His own discoveries; or to favourite points
Directing notice, merely from a wish
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared.
That rapturous moment ne'er shall I forget,
When these particular interests were effaced
From every mind! - Already had the sun,
Sinking with less than ordinary state,
Attained his western bound; but rays of light-
Now suddenly diverging from the orb
Retired behind the mountain-tops, or veiled
By the dense air-shot upwards to the crown
Of the blue firmament, aloft and wide;

And multitudes of little floating clouds
Through their etherial texture pierced―ere we
Who saw, of change were conscious—had become
Vivid as fire; clouds separately poised,-

Innumerable multitudes of forms

Scattered through half the circle of the sky;
And giving back, and shedding each on each,
With prodigal communion, the bright hues
Which from the unapparent fount of glory
They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive.
That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep
Repeated; but with unity sublime!

Let us pause a moment between the foregoing descriptive passage and its ensuing moral. Considerable power is manifested in these lines, composing a landscape-picture of much beauty. Sky and mountain scenery, among which the colours of a sun, already set, shift lingeringly in their reluctant flight, are vividly called up before us. And yet the charm of poetry is wanting. The delineation evidences our artist's skill, rather than his art; for art conceals itself in beautiful effects, while that which he has substituted in its place is only too apparent. The picture is fine; but the stages of its production may be traced too clearly, as though it were eliminated before our eyes, not there as by magic and in perfection. The palpable elaboration of its parts, while it evinces aptitude and power, gives evidence also of the limits of that power. Dante would have concentrated the passage in three lines: the language would have been at once more simple and more poetic, and the picture more distinctly realised-the whole resulting in a cabinet composition framed in every memory. If it be objected that we are critical, when we should be elevated and absorbed, does

the fault, we ask, lie with ourselves, or with our author? The mood of his companions, and especially of the Priest, is indeed that of elevated rapture: but, if the real prospect may have justified his enthusiasm, does the poet's transcript condemn our stricture as impertinent.

There is one circumstance which has led us to consider well, before venturing those unfavourable remarks. It must be owned that with some of the most accomplished critics of the day, The Excursion is the favourite production of a favourite poet; and the ablest of them all, in his admirable treatise on Modern Painters, has adduced the conclusion of the very passage just quoted, as likely to defy the imitative powers of all but one excelling painter. "There is but one master," says he, "whose works we can think of while we read this; one alone has taken notice of the neglected upper sky; it is his peculiar and favourite field; he has watched its every modification, and given its every phase and feature; at all hours, in all seasons, he has followed its passions and changes, and has brought down and laid open to the world another

apocalypse of heaven." Now to these words we heartily subscribe. Turner as an artist bears

close resemblance to Wordsworth as a poet; and yet it may be quite wrong to confound them in the same praise; the one may fall below his higher privilege of song, and the other transcend the ordinary limits of a scene; the poet may stoop to simple painting, and dictate language casily exchanged for colours, while the painter may catch some of the spiritual and transforming power of the poet, and both elevate and exhaust the utmost resources of his art. And as we believe it to be in the case before us, Wordsworth is the too literal counterpart of Turner: the compositions of the latter fully realise the elaborate descriptions of the former; but what is admirable in the landscape-painter is feeble and artificial in the poet. Turner has so well employed the limited materials of painting as to suggest some of the higher truths of poetry; but Wordsworth has contracted his poetic field to the sensuous objects of painting, and effected that with evident labour and purpose which should