Even with a thought, The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct As water is in water. His abstractions are often exalted into cherubs and seraphs. It is the "cherub Beauty sits on Nature's rustic shrine;" "heaven-descended Charity;" "Constancy, heaven-born queen;" Liberty, "heaven-descending queen." Take away from him these aerial beings and their harps, and you will rob him of his best treasures. He holds nearly the same place among our poets, that Peters does among our painters. He too is best known by-- The angel's floating pomp, the seraph's glowing grace; and he too, instead of that gravity and depth of tone which might seem most accordant to his subjects, treats them with a lightness of pencil that is not far removed from flimsiness. In the thirteenth Ode, on the late Duchess of Devonshire, the only lady of distinguished rank to whom the poets of modern times have loved to pay their homage, and in the sixteenth, which he entitles Palinodia, he provokes a comparison with Mr. Coleridge. One or two extracts from each will shew the difference between the artificial heat of the schools and the warmth of a real enthusiasm. Art thou not she whom fav'ring fate In all her splendour drest, To show in how supreme a state A mortal might be blest? Bade beauty, elegance, and health, Patrician birth, patrician wealth, Their blessings on her darling shed; Bade Hymen, of that generous race Who freedom's fairest annals grace, Give to thy love th'illustrious head. _Mason._ Light as a dream, your days their circlets ran, From all that teaches brotherhood to man Far, far removed; from want, from hope, from fear, Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, Obeisant praises sooth'd your infant heart: Emblasonments and old ancestral crests, With many a bright obtrusive form of art, Detain'd your eye from nature; stately vests, That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, Were your's unearn'd by toil. _Coleridge, Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Gloucester._ Say did I err, chaste Liberty, When, warm with youthful fire, I gave the vernal fruits to thee, That ripen'd on my lyre? When, round thy twin-born sister's shrine I taught the flowers of verse to twine And blend in one their fresh perfume; Forbade them, vagrant and disjoin'd, To give to every wanton wind Their fragrance and their bloom? _Mason._