Joy is often a great source of the sublime; the suddenness of its ventings would alone suffice to make it so.

What can be more sublime than the triumphant Psalms of David, intoxicated as they are with an almost delirium of transport?
Even in the gloomiest passages of the poets, where we recognize sublimity, we do not often find melancholy.

We are stricken by terror, appalled by awe, but seldom softened into sadness.

In fact, melancholy rather belongs to another class of feelings than those excited by a sublime passage or those which engender its composition.

On one hand, in the loftiest flights of Homer, Milton, and Shakspeare, we will challenge a critic to discover this "green sickness" which Mr.Moore would convert into the magnificence of the plague.