The Chief-justice Was Rich, Quiet, And Infamous.

Oh, Wherefore Come Ye Forth In Triumph From The North, With Your Hands, And Your Feet, And Your Raiment All Red? And Wherefore Doth Your Rout Send Forth A Joyous Shout? And Whence Be The Grapes Of The Wine-press Which Ye Tread?

The Merit Of Poetry, In Its Wildest Forms, Still Consists In Its Truth-truth Conveyed To The Understanding, Not Directly By The Words, But Circuitously By Means Of Imaginative Associations, Which Serve As Its Conductors.

Re: Robert Montgomery's Poems His Writing Bears The Same Relation To Poetry Which A Turkey Carpet Bears To A Picture. There Are Colours In The Turkey Carpet Out Of Which A Picture Might Be Made. There Are Words In Mr. Montgomery's Writing Which, When Disposed In Certain Orders And Combinations,have Made, And Will Make Again, Good Poetry. But, As They Now Stand, They Seem To Be Put Together On Principle In Such A Manner As To Give No Image Of Anything In The Heavens Above, Or In The Earth Beneath, Or In The Waters Under The Earth.

History Begins In Novel And Ends In Essay.

We Never Could Clearly Understand How It Is That Egotism, So Unpopular In Conversation, Should Be So Popular In Writing.