Thomas Warton's prose works are confused and desultory. His poetry is like a new medal, spotted with artificial rust; yet there is no man of his generation to whom our literature is so much indebted, except Percy. He bore a great part in what may be called our Poetical Reformation — in recalling us from a blind faith in Idols, to the study of the true books. It is delightful to hear how all Wychamists speak of this happy-natured man, who carried with him a boy's heart to the grave. — We still want a life of Warton, which should relate all his good-tempered oddities.