Prophetic to have mourned of man the fall,—­p. 9.

but he does not tell us what she has been doing ever since.

When he sees two Cumberland streams—­the Brathay and Rothay—­flowing down, first to a confluence, and afterwards to the sea, he fancies “a soul-knit pair,” man and wife, mingling their waters and gliding to their final haven—­

        in kindred love,
    The haven Contemplation sees above!

Below, he would—­following his allegory—­have said; but rhyme forbade—­ and allegories are not so headstrong on the banks of the Brathay as on those of the Nile.

A sonnet on Thomson’s grave is a fine specimen of empty sounds and solid nonsense:—­

    Whene’er I linger, Thomson, near thy tomb,
    Where Thamis—­

“Classic Cam” will be somewhat amazed to hear his learned brother called Thamis—­

      Where Thamis urges his majestic way,
    And the Muse loves at twilight hour to stray,
  I think how in thy theme ALL seasons BLOOM;—­

What, all four?—­autumn, nay, winter—­blooming?

  What heart so cold that of thy fame has heard,
  And pauses not to gaze upon each scene.

We are inclined to be very indulgent to what is called a confusion of metaphors, when it arises from a rush of ideas—­but when it is produced by an author’s having no idea at all, we can hardly forgive him for equipping the Heart with eyes, ears, and legs:—­he might just as well have said that on entering Twickenham church to visit the tomb, every Heart would take off its hat, and on going out again would put its hand in its pockets to fee the sexton.

  And pauses not to gaze upon each scene
    That was familiar to thy raptured view,
    Those walks beloved by thee while I pursue,
  Musing upon the years that intervene—­

Why this line intervenes or what it means we do not see—­it seems inserted just to make up the number—­

  Methinks, as eve descends, a hymn of praise
  To thee, their bard, the sister Seasons raise!

That is, as we understand it, ALL the Seasons meet together on one or more evenings of the year, to sing a hymn to the memory of Thompson.  This simultaneous entree of the Four Seasons would be a much more appropriate fancy for the opera stage than for Twickenham meadows.

Such are the tame extravagances—­the vapid affectations—­the unmeaning mosaic which Mr. Moxon has laboriously tesselated into fifty and four sonnets.  If he had been—­as all this childishness at first led us to believe—­a very young man—­we should have discussed the matter with him in a more conciliatory and persuasive tone; but we find that he is, what we must call, an old offender.  We have before us two little volumes