Their heads never raising,
There are forty feeding like one.
Like an army defeated,
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill,
On the top of the bare hill."

"The plough-boy is whooping anon, anon," &c. &c. is in the same
exquisite measure. This appears to us neither more nor less than an
imitation of such minstrelsy as soothed our cries in the cradle, with
the shrill ditty of

"Hey de diddle,
The cat and the fiddle:
The cow jump'd over the moon,
The little dog laugh'd to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon."

On the whole, however, with the exception of the above, and other
INNOCENT odes of the same cast, we think these volumes display a
genius worthy of higher pursuits, and regret that Mr. W. confines his
muse to such trifling subjects. We trust his motto will be in future,
"Paulo majora canamus." Many, with inferior abilities, have acquired
a loftier seat on Parnassus, merely by attempting strains in which
Mr. Wordsworth is more qualified to excel.[1]

[Footnote 1: This first attempt of Lord Byron at reviewing is
remarkable only as showing how plausibly he could assume the
established tone and phraseology of these minor judgment-seats of
criticism. If Mr. Wordsworth ever chanced to cast his eye over this