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Filling the solitude with panting tongues, 
At which the pines woke up into their songs, 
Shaking their choral locks." 
-“ The loud wind through the forest wakes, 
With sound, like ocean’s roaring, wild and deep ; 
And in yon gloomy pines strange music wakes, 
Like symphonies unearthly heard in sleep.” 
It is impossible to read these beautiful poetic descrip¬ 
tions without experiencing something of the feeling which 
the sight and sound of the very objects themselves ever 
inspire—till Fancy, freeing herself from the common¬ 
places with which she is encumbered flies to 
- «* The hollow cliff, whose pine 
Waves o’er the gloomy stream ; 
Whence the scar’d owl, on pinions grey, 
Breaks from the rustling boughs, 
And down the lone vale sails away 
To more profound repose.” 
It is in this power of abstracting the mind from surround¬ 
ing objects, and realising the scenes and feelings deli¬ 
neated, that the grand spell of poetry consists; and 
surely when lawfully directed and enjoyed, it constitutes 
a legitimate source of exquisite pleasure. 
But we have wandered from our subject, and must 
e 3 
