perceive the tendency of this glorious _abandon_. To elevate immeasurably all the energies of mind—but again—so to mingle the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the lowest possible bathos, baldness, and utter imbecility, as to render it not a matter of doubt, but of certainty, that the average results of mind in such a _school_, will be found inferior to those results in one (ceteris paribus) more artificial. Such, we think, is the view of the older English Poetry, in which a very calm examination will bear us out. The quaintness in manner of which we were just speaking, is an adventitious advantage. It formed no portion of the poet's intention. Words and their rhythm have varied. Verses which affect us to day with a vivid delight, and which delight in some instances, may be traced to this one source of grotesqueness and to none other, must have worn in the days of their construction an air of a very common-place nature. This is no argument, it will be said, against the poems _now_. Certainly not—we mean it for the poets _then_. The notion of _power_, of excessive _power_, in the English antique writers should be put in its proper light. This is all we desire to see done. We cannot bring ourselves to believe that the selections made use of in the _Book of Gems_, are such as will impart to a poetical reader the highest possible idea of the beauty of the _school_. Better extracts might be made. Yet if the intention were merely to show the _character_ of the school the attempt is entirely successful. There are long passages now before us of the most utterly despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond their simple antiquity. And it is almost needless to say that there are many passages too of a glorious strength—a radiant loveliness, making the blood tingle in our veins as we peruse them. The criticisms of the Editor do not please us in a great degree. He seems to have fallen into the common cant in such cases. In one instance the American Monthly accords with him in an unjust opinion touching some verses by Sir Henry Wotton, on the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I, and about which it is said that “there are few finer things in our language.” Our readers will agree with us, we believe, that this praise is exaggerated. We quote the lines in full. You meaner beauties of the night That poorly satisfy our eyes, More by your number than your light, You common people of the skies What are you when the sun shall rise? You curious chaunters of the wood That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents; what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets, that first appear By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the rose is blown?