The critic's first labor is the task of distinguishing between men, as history and their works display them, and the ideals which one and another have conspired to urge upon his acceptance.

Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed, thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou, too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away?

The poet who does not revere his art, and believe in its sovereignty, is not born to wear the purple.

Alas, by what rude fate Our lives, like ships at sea, an instant meet, Then part forever on their courses fleet.

Men are egotists, and not all tolerant of one man's selfhood; they do not always deem the amities elective.

Natural emotion is the soul of poetry, as melody is of music; the same faults are engendered by over-study of either art; there is a lack of sincerity, of irresistible impulse in both the poet and the, composer.

Fashion is a potency in art, making it hard to judge between the temporary and the lasting.