Very true--by mentioning them only once. _Scott_ Nature is rich in a variety of minute but striking circumstances; some of which engage the attention of one observer, and some that of another. _Ritson_ This lover of truth never uttered a truer speech. Give me a lie wth a spirit in it. * * * * * Air, earth, and ocean, smile immense.---- _Scott_ The bombastic "immense smile of air, &c.," better omitted. _Ritson_ Qute Miltonic--"enormous bliss"--and both, I presume, alike _caviare_ to the Quaker. * * * * * He comes! he comes! in every breeze the power Of philosophic melancholy comes! His near approach, the sudden-starting tear, The glowing cheek, the mild dejected air, The soften'd feature, and the beating heart, Pierced deep with many a virtuous pang, declare. _Scott_ This fine picture is greatly injured by a few words. The power should have been said to come "upon the breeze;" not "in every breeze;" an expression which indicates a multiplicity of approaches. If he came "in every breeze," he must have been always coming-- _Ritson_ --and so he was. * * * * * ----The branching Oronoque Rolls a brown deluge, and the native drives To dwell aloft on life-sufficing trees, At once his dome, his robe, his food, and arms. Swell'd by a thousand streams, impetuous hurl'd From all the roaring Andes, huge descends The mighty Orellana. _Scarce the Muse Dares stretch her wing_ o'er this enormous mass Of rushing water: _scarce she dares attempt_ The sea-like Plata; to whose dread expanse, Continuous depth, and wond'rous length of course, Our floods are rills. With unabated force In silent dignity they sweep along, And traverse realms unknown, and blooming wilds, And fruitful desarts, worlds of solitude, Where the sun smiles, and seasons teem, in vain, Unseen and unenjoy'd. Forsaking these, O'er peopled plains they fair-diffusive flow, And many a nation feed, and circle safe In their fair bosom many a happy isle, The seat of blameless Pan, yet undisturb'd By Christian crimes, and Europe's cruel sons. Thus pouring on, they proudly seek the deep, Whose vanquish'd tide, recoiling from the shock, Yields to this liquid weight of half the globe, And Ocean trembles for his green domain. _Scott_ Poets not unfrequently aim at aggrandising their subject, by avowing their inability to describe it. This is a puerile and inadequate expedient. Thomson has here, perhaps inadvertently, descended to this feeble art of exaggeration. _Ritson_