O Winter, ruler of the inverted year!

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

The few that pray at all pray oft amiss.

Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.

The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read; and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.

A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct; The language plain, and incidents well link'd; Tell not as new what ev'ry body knows; and, new or old, still hasten to a close.

The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.