THE VALLEY OF THE NYMPHS. 155 



Thou, whose least will is fate ; 



Whose thoughts create ; 

 Who fillest all Matter with mysterious Mind ; 



Who art of this vast whole, 



Eye, Ear, Hand, Heart, and Soul, 

 Kindling the sun, and whispering in the wind ! 



Thou, whose blue cloud-fire's stroke 



Rips the strong oak ; 

 Whose thunder maddens through the burning gloom : 



By whom wan meteors hurled 



Glare on the shuddering world, 

 And the, blind tempests sing the song of doom f 



Thou, who lett'st loose the deep, 



When the waves leap 

 On the hoarse rocks, and rime the pines with spray ; 



Or bidd'st the peaceful foam 



In golden ripplings roam 

 O'er the green-diamond main at evening day ! 



Thou, whose fine Spirit guides 



The gleaming tides, 

 That roll the mute moon's talisman beneath ; 



Through whom the Months and Hours 



Shed forth ripe fruits and flowers, 

 And the warm winds upon the young leaves breathe ! 



Thou, from whose urn sweet rains 



Impearl our plains ; 



ll'7/o strew' 'st like silver seed the quickening dews; 

 \Vho mak'st the dusk cloud glow 

 With thy seven-gloried bow, 

 And giv'st each lonely brook its murmuring Muse ! " 



pp. 44, 45, 46, 47. 



The whole poem displays thought and talent of no 

 common order, and it is very evident that the author 

 has not lingered carelessly over the beauties of the An- 

 cient classic writers. Having said this much in his 

 favor, we must now consider the other side of the ques- 

 tion. 



We are informed, by an introductory remark, that the 

 " Valley of the Nymphs" was written at the rate of 

 about forty lines per diem, for thirty consecutive days ; 

 and that the faults it may have would probably have 

 remained unconnected, even had the writer kept it by 

 him for the Horatian nine years. Now, it appears to 

 us, that with the first of these observations as an ex- 



