It will be seen by this sketch that the poem is of a didactic nature, and not a fable or story; yet it is not wanting in stories of the most interesting kind,--such as the lovers of Cowper and Goldsmith will recognise as something familiar and congenial to them. We might instance the Ruined Cottage, and the Solitary's own story, in the first half of the work; and the second half, as being almost a continued cluster of narration. But the prevailing charm of the poem is, perhaps, that, conversational as it is in its plan, the dialogue throughout is carried on in the very heart of the most romantic scenery which the poet's native hills could supply; and which, by the perpetual references made to it either in the way of illustration or for variety and pleasurable description's sake, is brought before us as we read. We breathe in the fresh air, as we do while reading Walton's Complete Angler; only the country about us is as much bolder than Walton's, as the thoughts and speculations, which form the matter of the poem, exceed the trifling pastime and low-pitched conversation of his humble fishermen. We give the description of the "two huge peaks," which from some other vale peered into that in which the Solitary is entertaining the poet and companion. "Those," says their host, ----if here you dwelt, would be Your prized Companions.--Many are the notes Which in his tuneful course the wind draws forth From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores; And well those lofty Brethren bear their part In the wild concert--chiefly when the storm Rides high; then all the upper air they fill With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, Like smoke, along the level of the blast In mighty current; theirs, too, is the song Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; And in the grim and breathless hour of noon, Methinks that I have heard them echo back The thunder's greeting:--nor have Nature's laws Left them ungifted with a power to yield Music of finer frame; a harmony, So do I call it, though it be the hand Of silence, though there be no voice;--the clouds, The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, Motions of moonlight, all come thither--touch, And have an answer--thither come, and shape A language not unwelcome to sick hearts And idle spirits:--there the sun himself At the calm close of summer's longest day Rests his substantial Orb;--between those heights And on the top of either pinnacle, More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, Sparkle the Stars as of their station proud. Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man Than the mute agent stirring there:--alone Here do I sit and watch.--p. 84.