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Much of it is conventional and "wooden," to be sure, like much of Wordsworth's poetry; but when, after reading the rimed essays and the artificial couplets of Johnson's age, we turn suddenly to Cowper's description of homely scenes, of woods and brooks, of plowmen and teamsters and the letter carrier on his rounds, we realize that we are at the dawn of a better day in poetry: He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks: News from all nations lumbering at his back.
Then, having turn'd him on his back, I strapp'd Delia's kerchief tight across his mouth, and took the lantern from his hand. Not a word was said. Sure, the poor old man's wits were shaken, for he lay meek as a mouse, and star'd up at me, while I unstrapp'd his belt and bound his feet with it. His hands I truss'd up behind him with his own neckcloth; and catching up the lantern, left him there.
John Digby's dragoons about us: and before the two villains were bound, comes a half dozen more, leading in Captain Settle, that had taken to his heels at the first blow and climb'd the hill, all tied as he was about the hands, and was caught in his endeavor to clamber on Molly's back. So he and Black Dick and Jeremy Toy were strapp'd up: but Reuben Gedges we left on the road for a corpse.
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