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“The child of Fancy oft in silence broods
#O'er the mit treasures of his pregnant breast
NEveR were the predictions of a prophet more fully verified than the anticipations of ultimate fame entertained by William Wordsworth. Through half a century he bravely and perseveringly contended against the bitter animadversions of the most highly esteemed critic of the age and the chilling neglect of the public : trusting to the genius which inspired him, and confiding in the certain triumph of the truthful and the beautiful;-never did the lamp even flicker, but burnt steadily, brightly, intensely on. Whilst living, he had little more than the gratification of seeing his works appreciated by the discerning few: hit: with the oailing power of that which is really good, the irole is hows; or extended that he has a hundred readers where, flood-toanty years ago, he had one. .." . . . . . .
In compliance with this vastly, ingreased demand;...we put forth a cheap edition of his Poetry, availing ourselves of every piece which expired copyright places within our reach.