ut their texture, however, was very properly the work
of female powers, as the act of spinning the thread of life in another
mythology. Theft is always dangerous; Gray has made weavers of
slaughtered bards by a fiction outrageous and incongruous. They are then
called upon to "weave the warp, and weave the woof," perhaps, with no
great propriety; for it is by crossing the _woof_ with the _warp_ that
men _weave_ the _web_ or piece; and the first line was dearly bought by
the admission of its wretched correspondent, "give ample room and verge
enough[198]." He has, however, no other line as bad.

The third stanza of the second ternary is commended, I think, beyond its
merit. The personification is indistinct. _Thirst_ and _hunger_ are not
alike; and their features, to make the imagery perfect, should have been
discriminated. We are told, in the same stanza, how _towers_ are _fed_.
But I will no longer look for particular faults; yet let it be observed,
that the ode might have been concluded with an action of better example;
but suicide is always to be had without expense of thought.

These odes are marked by glittering accumulations of ungraceful
ornaments; they strike, rather than please; the images are magnified by
affectation; the language is laboured into harshness. The mind of the
writer seems to work with unnatural violence. "Double, double, toil and
trouble." He has a kind of strutting dignity, and is tall by walking on
tiptoe. His art and his struggle are too visible, and there is too
little appearance of ease and nature[199].

To say that he has no beauties, would be unjust; a man like him, of
great learning and great industry, could not but produce something
valuable. When he pleases least, it can only be said that a good design
was ill-directed.

His translations of Northern and Welsh poetry deserve praise; the
imagery is preserved, perhaps often improved; but the language is unlike
the language of other poets.

In the character of his Elegy I rejoice to concur with the common
reader; for, by the common sense of readers uncorrupted with literary
prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of
learning, must be finally decided all claim to poetical honours. The
Church-yard abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and
with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas
beginning "Yet even these bones," are to me original: I have never seen
the notions in