It is genius on a frolic, coquetting with all the
Graces, and unearthing men long since become gnomes,
'In that country
Where are neither stars nor meadows,'
to join in his merry carousing. They float on floods of Chian and moor
their barks under 'hills of spice.' What golden wine of inspiration has
our poet drunk, whose flush is on his brow and its fire in his veins?
For every sentence of this poem is aglow with vigor and life and power;
'Its feeldes have een and its woodes have eeres.'
And if he sometimes stumbles over a metre or lets his private
friendships and preferences run away with his cool discretion and
judgment, why, _bonus dormitat Homerus_, let us, like the miser Euclio,
be thankful for the good the gods vouchsafe us. Taken in themselves and
without regard to their poetical surroundings, no more comprehensive,
faithful, concise portraitures of our authors have ever been produced.
They unite in the highest degree candor and justice, and there is withal
a tone so kindly and a wit so pure, that we almost believe him to be
describing a community of brothers affiliated by the close ties of deep
mutual appreciation. He flings his diamonds of learning upon the page,
and we recognize the scholar whom no extravagance in knowledge can make
bankrupt.
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