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 and through it more easily. To go again for an illustration to Wordsworth; our great poet, since Milton, by his performance, as Keats, I think, is our great poet by his gift and promise; in one of his stanzas to the Cuckoo, we have:

And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

Here the lyrical cry, though taking the simple ballad-form, is as grand as the lyrical cry coming in poetry of an ampler form, as grand as the

An innocent life, yet far astray!

of Ruth; as the

There is a comfort in the strength of love

of Michael. In this way, by the occurrence of this lyrical cry, the ballad-poets themselves rise sometimes, though not so often as one might perhaps have hoped, to the grand style.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Or ere they see Sir Patrick Spence Come sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand, Wi' their gold combs in their hair, Waiting for their ain dear lords, For they'll see them nae mair.

But from this impressiveness of the ballad-form, when its subject-matter fills it over and over again, is, indeed, in itself, all in