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Here we find that _doubly_ pitying Nature is very kind to the traveller,
but that this traveller has a _wounded heart_ and _plods_ his road
_forlorn_. In the next line but one we discover that--
'No _sad vacuities_ his heart _annoy_;
Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers _joy_.'
The flowers, though they have lost themselves, or are lost, exhale their
idle sweets for him; the _spire peeps_ for him; sod-seats, forests,
clouds, nature's charities, and babbling brooks, all are to him luxury
and friendship. He is the happiest of mortals, and plods, is forlorn,
and has a wounded heart. How often shall we in vain advise those, who
are so delighted with their own thoughts that they cannot forbear from
putting them into rhyme, to examine those thoughts till they themselves
understand them? No man will ever be a poet, till his mind be
sufficiently powerful to sustain this labour.--_The Monthly Review_.

_An Evening Walk_. An Epistle; in Verse. Addressed to a Young Lady, from
the Lakes of the North of England. By W. Wordsworth, B.A. of St. John's,
Cambridge.


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