File:The book of gems. The modern poets and artists of Great Britain (1838) (14593317978).jpg

Identifier: cu31924103991828 (find matches)
Title: The book of gems. The modern poets and artists of Great Britain
Year: 1838 (1830s)
Authors: Hall, S. C. (Samuel Carter), 1800-1889 St. John, Cynthia Morgan, 1852-1919. fmo Wordsworth Collection
Subjects: English poetry
Publisher: London, Whitaker and Co.
Contributing Library: Cornell University Library
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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ur readers will find in our selections ampleto sustain a high reputation. They are polished to a degree ; yet full of fine thoughtsand rich fancies. The evidences of his genius for dramatic poetry are abundant, andreceived full justice, a year ago, in the New Monthly Magazine. To a glowing imagina-tion and a mind remarkably vigorous, he adds the advantages of extensive learning,and a matured knowledge of human kind. His indifference to public opinion—arising,no doubt, from a taste highly cultivated, and a refined appreciation of e^Lcellence—has,unhappily, induced him to withhold too much of the intellectual wealth he possesses,and even to mix with baser matter that which he has given us. If he had been borna poor man, he would have been, at least in the estimation of the world, a much greaterman than he is. If, however, the fame of Walter Savage Landor be not widely spread,it cannot fail to be enduring. Among the rarest and most excellent of British Poetshe will always be classed.
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LANDOR, Clifton, in vain thy varied scenes invite—The mossy hank, dim glade, and dizzv height;The sheep, that, starting from the tufted thyme.Untune the distant cliurches mellow chime ;As oer each limh a gentle horror creeps.And shake above our heads the craggy steeps.Pleasant Ive thought it to pursue the rowerWhile light and darkness seize the changeful oar;The frolic Naiads drawing from belowA net of silver round the black canoe.Now the last lonely solace must it beTo watch pale evening brood oer land and sea.Then join my friends, and let those friends believeMy cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve. 200 TflE DRAGON-FLY. Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream ;I wish no happier one than to be laidBeneath some cool syringas scented shade Or wavy willow, by the running stream,Brimful of moral, where the Dragon-flyWaiiders us careless and content as I. Thanks for this fancy, insect king.Of purple crest and meshy wing.Who, with indifference, givest upThe water-lilys golden cup.To

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