Though regretting what to us must seem the errors of Mr Bailey, we have no disposition to censure him very severely for any heterodox opinion he may have ventured to express. As times go, and as poets write, Mr Bailey is remarkable for the plenitude of his faith, and the piety of his verse. We would only, if it were possible, take from his hands certain edged tools which he is playing with too fantastically, and the due command of which he does not seem to have acquired. We would merely express our regret that views which have been dictated by, or are in accordance with, the highest sentiments and aspirations of the human mind, should not have been rendered more harmonious with themselves--more distinct, consistent, and intelligible. We extricate ourselves as soon as possible from these thorny discussions, and turn from the philosophy, to some concluding remarks on the poetry, of _Festus_. And here we can now vary our task, and relieve our page, by selecting some of those brilliant fragments and admirable passages which, as we have said, abundantly prove the genius of Mr Bailey, and which make us regret that an imagination so bold and original has not been allied to a more disciplined intellect. Nor is it only in the more daring efforts of imagination that he displays his power; occasionally there are touches of true pathos; and from time to time a charming picture, the product of a playful and tender fancy, will flit past us in the dreary mist which too often hangs over the scene. There is much beauty and passion scattered through the love passages of the drama. Clara says-- "I wish we had a little world to ourselves, With none but we two in it. _Festus._ And if God Gave us a star, what could we do with it But what we could without it? Wish it not! _Clara._ I'll not wish then for stars: but I could love Some peaceful spot, where we might dwell unknown, Where home-born joys might nestle round our hearts As swallows round our roofs, and blend their sweets Like dewy tangled flowerets in one bed. _Festus._ The sweetest joy, the wildest woe is love; The taint of earth, the odour of the skies Is in it. Would that I were aught but man! The death of brutes, the immortality Of fiend or angel, better seems than all The doubtful prospects of our painted dust. And all Morality can teach is--Bear! And all Religion can inspire is--Hope!" Then changing his mood, with a very natural versatility, Festus says--