And view the close wherein the cow did feed
Whence they were milk'd; gross pie-crust will grow wise,
And pickled cucumbers, sans doubt, philosophize.
Poor young Beattie has something in the same strain of thought.
A certain High Priest could explain
How the soul is but nerve at the most.
And how Milton had glands in his brain
Which secreted the Paradise Lost.
In looking over this account of Henry More's strange poems, I do not perceive that any thing too harsh has been said of their defects, and yet it leaves a more unfevourable opinion of the author's talents, than I feel myself, or by any means wish to communicate. It is generally acknowledged that a man may write good verses, and yet be no poet; it is not so generally acknowledged that he may be a poet and yet write bad ones. Three fourths of the English poets have had less genius than Henry
