The song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, the Seven Sisters, the
Affliction of Margaret ---- of ----, possess all the beauties, and
few of the defects, of this writer: the following lines from the last
are in his first style:--

"Ah! little doth the young one dream
When full of play and childish cares,
What power hath e'en his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares:
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress,
But do not make her love the less."

The pieces least worthy of the author are those entitled "Moods of my
own Mind." We certainly wish these "Moods" had been less frequent, or
not permitted to occupy a place near works which only make their
deformity more obvious; when Mr. W. ceases to please, it is by
"abandoning" his mind to the most commonplace ideas, at the same time
clothing them in language not simple, but puerile. What will any
reader or auditor, out of the nursery, say to such namby-pamby as
"Lines written at the Foot of Brother's Bridge?"

"The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter.
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest,
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,