The measure chosen for this poem is that which we now almost confine to elegy. This choice does not appear very judicious; for, although our elegiac stanza possesses a strength and fulness which renders it not unsuitable to heroic subjects, yet, in a piece of considerable length, every returning measure must become tiresome from its frequent repetitions. And this is not the worst effect of returning stanzas, in a long work. The necessity of comprizing a sentence within the limits of the measure is the tyranny of Procrustes to thought. For the sake of a disagreeable uniformity, expression must constantly be cramped or extended. In general, the latter expedient will be practised, as the easiest; and thus both sentiment and language will be enfeebled by unmeaning expletives. This, indeed, in some measure, is the effect of rhyme couplets; and still more of the Latin hexameter and pentameter. In our author, a redundancy of thought, running out into parentheses, seems to have been produced, or at least encouraged by the measure. But I think he has generally preserved a force and majesty of expression. It would have been highly injudicious for one who has rejected all poetical machinery, to have begun his poem with the ancient form of invoking a Muse. Indeed, in all modern writers this invocation appears little better than an unmeaning ceremony, practised by rote from ancient custom; and very properly makes a part of the _receipt for an epic poem_ humourously laid down after the exact model of mechanical imitation, in the Spectator. Our author, with simple and unaffected dignity, thus opens at once into his subject: Of all the Lombards, by their trophies known, Who sought fame soon, and had her favour long, King ARIBERT best seem’d to fill the throne, And bred most business for heroick song. This conquering monarch, we are soon acquainted, was blest with an only child, the heroine of the story, Recorded RHODALIND! whose high renown Who miss in books not luckily have read; Or vex’d with living beauties of their own Have shunn’d the wise records of lovers dead. Descriptions of female beauty have engaged the powers of poets in every age, who have exhausted all nature for imagery to heighten their painting; yet the picture has ever been extremely faint and inadequate. Our poet judiciously confines his description of Rhodalind to the qualities of her mind, contenting himself with general praises, though in the high-flown gallantry of the times, of her personal charms. Her looks like empire shew’d, great above pride; Since pride ill counterfeits excessive height: But Nature publish’d what she fain would hide, Who for her deeds, not beauty, lov’d the light. To make her lowly mind’s appearance less, She us’d some outward greatness for disguise; Esteem’d as pride the cloyst’ral lowliness, And thought them proud who even the proud despise. ...