Certainly the ideas of eloquence, of untroubled repose, of placid eyes,
on the lambent beauty of which it is sweet to gaze, harmonize admirably
with the idea of a sentry.
We would not be understood, however, to say, that Mr. Robert Montgomery
cannot make similitudes for himself. A very few lines further on, we
find one {203}which has every mark of originality, and on which, we will
be bound, none of the poets whom he has plundered will ever think of
making reprisals:
“The soul, aspiring, pants its source to mount,