e may be intending, before three winters, with their
long nights, are gone, he will find himself in possession of more than
mere materials for a volume of poems that will meet with general
acceptation, and give him a permanent place by the side of him he loves
so well--Robert Bloomfield.

Ebenezer Elliott (of whom more another day)[A] claims with pride to be
the Poet of the Poor--and the poor might well be proud, did they know
it, that they have such a poet. Not a few of them know it now, and many
will know it in future; for a muse of fire like his will yet send its
illumination "into dark deep holds." May it consume all the noxious
vapours that infest such regions--and purify the atmosphere--till the
air breathed there be the breath of life. But the poor have other poets
besides him--Crabbe and Burns. We again mention their names--and no
more. Kindly spirits were they both; but Burns had experienced all his
poetry--and therefore his poetry is an embodiment of national character.
We say it not in disparagement or reproof of Ebenezer--conspicuous over
all--for let all men speak as they think or feel--but how gentle in all
his noblest inspirations was Robin! He did not shun sins or sorrows; but
he told the truth of the poor man's life, when he showed that it was, on
the whole, virtuous and happy--bear witness those immortal strains, "The
Twa Dogs," "The Vision," "The Cottar's Saturday Night," the sangs voiced
all braid Scotland thorough by her boys and virgins, say rather her lads
and lasses--while the lark sings aloft and the linnet below, the mavis
in the golden broom accompanying the music in the golden cloud. We
desire--not in wilful delusion, but in earnest hope, in devout
trust--that poetry shall show that the paths of the peasant poor are
paths of pleasantness and peace. If they should seem in that light even
pleasanter and more peaceful than they ever now can be below the sun,
think not that any evil can arise "to mortal man who liveth here by
toil" from such representations--for imagination and reality are not two
different things--they blend in life; but there the darker shadows do
often, alas! prevail--and sometimes may be felt even by the hand;
whereas in poetry the lights are triumphant--and gazing on the glory
men's hearts burn within them--and they carry the joy in among their own
griefs, till despondency gives way to exultation, and the day's darg of
this worky world is lightened by a dawn of dreams.

[Fo