Mr. Richardson appears the poet of feeling; one who loves to view Nature in her mildly attractive graces, and to describe the varied conditions of the heart with a fancy mellowed by unaffected melancholy. He is never strained through labor; or tempestuous through the unfettered ravings of a wild imagination. We may compare his poetry to a sweet romantic stream, that winds its limpid current in all the loveliness of a sequestered calm: rippling gently to the fanning breezes, but still flowing on in its ever beautiful self-will. His verse is equable, without being monotonous, and pathetic without being drivelling — something very rare in these days of everlasting chime. We never find any glaring error, grossness, or affectation. Mr. Richardson seems to write, not because he wishes to show himself a poet, but because he cannot help feeling as one: thus his language is inspired by the subject, and his poetry becomes the interpreter of his heart. No man was ever yet a real poet without this portion of feeling.