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The poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley, of which, for the first time in this country, a miniature collection has in the following pages been made, displays the greatest depth of feeling, alternating with puerile conceit, and common-place declamation. His command of language was, perhaps, as great, as that of any modern poet; but, either carelessness, or want of sustained power, continually plunged his ideas into impenetrable obscurities of expression, from which, not all the efforts made by the reader can at times extricate them. He seems, in many instances to have had a most refined ear for all the touching rusic of versification, and yet many of his very best poems, (as to depth of thought, and power of imagination,) might be read as prose. His most prevalent fault is a want of accuracy and clearness in expressing his ideas. Still, there is a charm not easily described about his writings which redeems the errors more obvious to criticism, and which will ever render him a favorite with the lover of genuine poetry, though he may never be an object of general admiration—for the public cannot cull flowers and select the riper from the cruder fruits. They must have all the sweets of poetry served up in order, and adorned with art. Had the brie. span of Shelley's life been lengthened out, there can be no doubt that the efforts of his more matured years would have outshon in brilliancy even those of hio

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