The volume embraces, we believe, all the best compositions of Mr. Sprague—certainly all the best of his poems. These latter have had a wide circulation, and are well known. Some of the pieces have attained a reputation—in some measure deserved—for example “The Shakspeare Ode,” “The Winged Worshippers,” the “Lines on the Death of M. S. C.,” and “I See Thee Still.” Others have acquired a notoriety which is any thing but desirable fame. We speak of the Prize odes for Festivals and Opening Nights of new theatres—a species of literature almost beneath contempt, and whose _sine quâ non_ of success is pedantic common-place. Who believes that a really good poem would even be glanced at a second time by any one of a committee appointed to decide upon such things as “Opening Addresses?” The “Shakspeare Ode” of Mr. Sprague is, after all, scarcely an exception to our general rule in this case. We may, perhaps, modify matters so as to admit that while all prize articles are bad _ex officio_, the Shakspeare Ode is the best of them. It carries the essential error to the height of its perfection—that is precisely what we mean. Farther than this no man should go. We allow that public opinion is here against us, and that the poem in question is generally considered as a “brilliant production.” Public opinion, however, is a certain intangible something of which we have no opinion at all. By this we mean what is _called_ public opinion; for the true unbiased judgment of the majority is a different thing, but can never be accurately ascertained. If it could, it would nearly always be found in accordance with critical decision. We must keep in mind the distinction when we read the words of Chamfort. “_Il y a à parier_,” says he, “_que toute idée publique, toute convention recue, est une sottise; car elle a convenue au plus grand nombre_.” In fact all that a just criticism can say in favor of this Ode, is that its versification is of the highest order of excellence (it includes finer lines and even finer entire paragraphs than are to be found elsewhere) and that its imagery is scrupulously accurate and well-sustained:—its imagery such as it is. What indeed can be more outrageously absurd than an obstinate persistence, at this epoch, in the mawkish allegory of ancient theology—a thing, which in its origin, and under the best circumstances, never had—never _could_ have had, from its very nature, the slightest effect or force, beyond that of an inane assent to its ingenuity. We say nothing of the imitation of Collins’ “Ode to the Passions”—this is too obvious to need a word of comment.