n we have of it to a couple of my
friends, persons of taste living in this country, who are determined,
the first time they are called up to London, to turn aside to visit it;
which I said they might without scruple do, if they mentioned my name to
the gardener. My sister begs me to say, that she is aware how long she
has been in your debt, and that she should have written before now, but
that, as I have, latterly, been in frequent communication with
Coleorton, she thought it as well to defer answering your letter. Do you
see the _Courier_ newspaper at Dunmow? I ask on account of a little poem
upon the comet, which I have read in it to-day. Though with several
defects, and some feeble and constrained expressions, it has great
merit, and is far superior to the run, not merely of newspaper, but of
modern poetry in general. I half suspect it to be Coleridge's, for
though it is, in parts, inferior to him, I know no other writer of the
day who can do so well. It consists of five stanzas, in the measure of
the 'Fairy Queen.' It is to be found in last Saturday's paper, November
16th. If you don't see the _Courier_ we will transcribe it for you. As
so much of this letter is taken up with my verses, I will e'en trespass
still further on your indulgence, and conclude with a sonnet, which I
wrote some time ago upon the poet, John Dyer. If you have not read the
'Fleece,' I would strongly recommend it to you. The character of Dyer,
as a patriot, a citizen, and a tender-hearted friend of humanity was, in
some respects, injurious to him as a poet, and has induced him to dwell,
in his poem, upon processes which, however important in themselves,
were unsusceptible of being poetically treated. Accordingly, his poem
is, in several places, dry and heavy; but its beauties are innumerable,
and of a high order. In point of _Imagination_ and purity of style, I am
not sure that he is not superior to any writer in verse since the time
of Milton.

SONNET.

Bard of the Fleece! whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less by musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, deep embayed, &c. &c.

In the above is one whole line from the 'Fleece,' and two other
expressions. When you read the 'Fleece' you will recognise them. I
remain, my dear Lady Beaumont,

Your sincere friend,
W. WORDSWORTH.[3