Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.

These ears, alas! for other notes repine;

A different object do these eyes require;

My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;

And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.

Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,

And newborn pleasure brings to happier men;

The fields to all their wonted tribute bear,

To warm their little loves the birds complain.

I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more because I weep in vain,

and adds the following remark:—‘It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet, which is of any value, is the lines printed in italics. It is equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word “fruitless” for “fruitlessly”, which is so far a defect, the language of these lines does in no respect differ from that of prose.’

An idealist defending his system by the fact, that when asleep we often believe ourselves awake, was well answered by his plain neighbour, ‘Ah, but when awake do we ever believe ourselves asleep?’—Things identical must be convertible. The preceding passage seems to rest on a similar sophism. For the question is not, whether there may not occur in prose an order of words, which would be equally proper in a poem; nor whether there are[63] not beautiful lines and sentences of frequent occurrence in good poems, which would be equally becoming as well as beautiful in good prose; for neither the one nor the other has ever been either denied or doubted by any one. The true question must be, whether there are not modes of expression, a construction, and an order of sentences, which are in their fit and natural place in a serious prose composition, but would be disproportionate and 

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