that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon that figure artfully managed all strength in the pathetic depends.’—‘It is remarkable,’ cried Mr Burchell, ‘that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you’ll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is I think at least free from those I have mentioned.’
A BALLAD.
‘Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray.
‘For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.’
‘Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries, ‘To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
‘Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; And