The reflection which first suggests itself to us after a consideration of this poem, is that the author preferred rather to indulge her inclination for roving from topic to topic, than to confine herself to any exact method. She does not so much consider the power of imagination or its effect upon life as she does the places and persons upon which this faculty of the mind would choose to expand itself. The single word, therefore, which constitutes the title, might be regarded as too pretensive, as demanding too much, more than it is within the capacity or education of the writer to give. Her modes of thought seem to be too independent of the influence of “Association,” and it would confuse a philosophical thinker to follow the diversities of her fancy. Perhaps, however, the person who reads only to be amused, would derive more gratification from Miss Poulter’s disregard of rules than were she more correct and less fervid. The poem opens with a picture of sunset after a storm, and this affords an apt and natural illustration for the Power of the Imagination. The first topic pursued is the fact that childhood is but little under the influence of Imagination, being led away by the pleasures of the present moment and apt to resign itself wholly to the object by which it is temporarily attracted. Illustrative of this is the following admirably drawn scene— See, from his sheltering roof, the infant boy Rush with delight, to snatch the promised joy; Allowed for once to stray where’er he please, And live one day of liberty and ease. His frugal basket to his girdle hung, His little rod across his shoulder flung, With eager haste he starts at dawn of day, Yet every trifle lures him from his way; An opening rose, a gaudy butterfly, Turn his light steps and fix his wandering eye; He plucks ripe berries blushing in the hedge, And pungent cresses from the watery sedge. At length he gains the bank, and seeks to fill His little scrip, and prove his infant skill; He marks the fish approach in long array— Then, stamps the ground, to see them glide away. But lo! one speckled wanderer lurks behind, ’Mid the tall reeds that skirt the stream confined: It comes—it bites—he finds himself possest Of one small trout, less wary than the rest: With trembling hands he grasps his finny spoil, The rich reward of one long day of toil. For some short moments yet he keeps his seat Close to the brook, and laves his weary feet; Wide from his face his auburn locks he throws, That playful airs may fan his little brows; Then upward springs, and hums a blithesome lay, To cheat fatigue, and charm his lengthened way. Hark! while across the verdant lawn he skips, The half-told tale is muttered from his lips;