Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.'--p. 8.

Here Apollo's _fire_ produces a _pyre_, a silvery pyre of clouds,
_wherein_ a spirit may _win_ oblivion and melt his essence _fine_, and
scented _eglantine_ gives sweets to the _sun_, and cold springs had
_run_ into the _grass_, and then the pulse of the _mass_ pulsed
_tenfold_ to feel the glories _old_ of the new-born day, &c.

One example more.

'Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth.'--p. 17.

_Lodge, dodge_--_heaven, leaven_--_earth, birth_; such, in six words, is
the sum and substance of six lines.

We come now to the author's taste in versification. He cannot indeed
write a sentence, but perhaps he may be able to spin a line. Let us see.
The following are specimens of his prosodial notions of our English
heroic metre.

'Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite.'--p. 4.

'So plenteously all weed-hidden roots.'--p. 6.

'Of some strange history, potent to send.'--p. 18.

'Before the deep intoxication.'--p. 27.

'Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion.'--p. 33.

'The stubborn canvass for my voyage prepared--.'--p. 39.

'"Endymion! the cave is secreter
Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise
Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys
And trembles through my labyrinthine hair."'--p. 48.

By this time our readers must be pretty well satisfied as to the meaning
of his sentences and the structure of his lines: we now present them
with some of the new words with which, in imitation of Mr. Leigh Hunt,
he adorns our language.

We are told that 'turtles _passion_ their voices,' (p. 15); that 'an
arbour was _nested_,' (p. 23); and a lady's locks '_gordian'd_ up,' (p.
32); and to supply the place of the nouns thus verbalized Mr. Keats,
with great fecundity, spawns new ones; such as 'men-slugs an