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The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,

To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;

And from its darkening shadow floats,
A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,

With the light dallying of the west-wind play,
And the full-brimming floods,

As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.

JAMES G. PERCIVAL

[graphic]

VII.

The Flock.

DYER'S poem of «The Fleece," though little read now-adays, has found warm admirers among the great poets of England. Akenside once remarked that he should regulate his opinion of the public taste by the reception of "The Fleece;" for if it were not to succeed, "he should think it no longer reasonable to expect fame from excellence." And Mr. Wordsworth appears to have been very much of the same opinion:

"Bard of The Fleece,' whose skillful genius made

That work a living landscape, fair and bright,

*

Though party Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste-

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill."

Dyer is one of those writers whose higher efforts have been little heeded, while his lesser works have been much liked. "Grongar Hill" and "The Country Walk" have been always read with pleasure, while the "Ruins of Rome" and "The Fleece" lie on the shelf unopened. The saucy critic, who on hearing, shortly after the publication of "The "Fleece," that Dyer was growing old, exclaimed, "He will be buried in woolen!" has proved at least a true seer. The world never forgives a man of approved talent, who, having once fixed its attention agreeably, fails in some higher and later aim. The game of authorship is, in this sense, like many other games, where, if the last throw is a blank, you lose all that has been previously won from the pool of fame and fortune. The public has very little patience. But, on the other hand, we can not always adhere implicitly to the opinion of some wiser judge, though he be of the higher court, who may desire to revoke the earlier general decision. The literary man usually makes up his mind regarding a book upon very different grounds from the general reader; the public decides rapidly, from first impressions, from general views; it has neither time nor ability to waste on analysis; the critic delights in looking very closely at his subject, and his enjoyment of perfection of detail is often too great. The public is, no doubt, the best judge of the interest of a work, since it considers little else. The man of letters holds the best guage of talent; he appreciates more justly excellency of workmanship and accuracy of finish. But a really great book is not written for one class only-it should satisfy the best of all classes; it must have more than one kind of merit --it must possess interest for the careless reader, skill and good workmanship for the critic, power and inspiration to strike the spark from kindred genius. There is quite a large class of poetical works especially, which, while they meet with more or less approbation from the critic, fail to please generally; they lack interest; the writer has had talent enough to introduce much that is good, or, perhaps, even admirable passages, at intervals; but he has not been endowed

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