care The feastings of his soul in bookish hours. This was his spring of life, when hopes were gay, Or in the world, or in the churches mart, Cheer the brave man retir'd; while mind up soars Thro' worlds on worlds, beyond the reach of fear. But I have wander'd: let me then recount A little freedom, with its tale of slavery: Passion's and reason's struggle; where, tho' oft Reason claims empire, passion governs still; Believing much, yet doubting not a little; Till sickness comes, and with it gloom of thought;→ When man, quite wearied with a world, perhaps, Not moving to his mind, a foolish world, Seeks inward stillness, and lies quiet down. ART. IX. The Peasant's Fate; a rural Poem, with miscellaneous Pieces. By W. HOLLOWAY. 12mo. TO that class of gentle readers who are capable of receiving entertainment from natural descriptions of common objects and characters, in easy flowing verse, which will neither awaken from languor by striking beauties, nor rouse to displeasure by glaring faults, we may recommend this little volume. To those who consider negative excellence in poetry, as positive defect; who deem that unworthy of being read, which will instantly be forgotten, we cannot say much in its behalf. The depopulation of the country from several small farms being converted into one large one, from the calamities of war, and the advances of luxury, is the general theme of the poem; which, unfortunately, excites in us a recollection of that of the Deserted Village. A feeble outline of a parish workhouse, which recalls the painfully distinct one drawn by the energetic pencil of Crabbe, and a lifeless sketch of a native village, which obtrudes itself into comparison with the rich and highly-finished picture of Rogers, raise a smile at the deficient judgment, or abounding vanity of our author. His descriptions of the former happiness of the English peasantry, as he tells us, refer to no distant feudal times, but only to that period, "When ev'ry road of ground maintain❜d its man." From crafty foxes and marauders bold; The helpless lambs, with tender toil, would guide To shelt'ring bush, or hay-stack's sunny side: In herbs and simples he was skill'd full well, He taught their virtues crude disease to quell; And, on the festive eve of shearing, heard His praise proclaim'd, his noblest, best re ward! By rains confin'd, the sounding flail he there." The smaller pieces are undeserving of particular notice. ART. X. The Island of Innocence. A poetical Epistle to a Friend. By PETER PINDAR, Esq. Part the First. 4to. pp. 17. THROUGH the chequered pages of Peter Pindar's works, are scattered here and there some delicate and beautiful passages; and it cannot be doubted, had this author dedicated those powers to simple and pathetic poetry which he has wasted upon broad satire and ribaldry, but that his works might have at once delighted the imagination, and improved the heart. "The Island of Innocence is addressed to a gentleman whom the author of this poem met by the merest accident, on a small island situated near the Gulph of Mexico. His companions were his wife, a most lovely woman, and four beautiful children, whose history would form an interesting romance: persecuted by their parents for a mutual love attachment, they forsook their native country, (America) to seek some distant asylum. On their voyage they were wrecked; but fortunately escaped with their lives, and preserved their property. Finding the little island on which they were thrown, to be in possession of a few inhabitants of the most perfect simplicity of manners, and the most lively friendship; pleased also with the salubrity, as well as the beauty and fertility of the spot, they adopted the resolution of ing their days in this remote corner of the globe; convinced that the most perfect happiness resides oftener in simplicity than splendour. Their opinion soon become realized fond of the innocent natives, and equally beloved again, the delightful little republic flourished under their auspices, and restored the golden age. pass To thee, my FRIEND, amid that peaceful ISLE Where bounteous NATURE blooms with sweetest smile; ART. XI. notes Of rapture warble from a thousand throats; And blest, from vale to vale the cooing dove Wings with his mate, and teaches man to To THEE, I yield the MUSE's artless line, The poet proceeds in the same serious strain, to describe the various occupations and amusements in which he sup poses his friend, his friend's wife, and children to be engaged. These bloodless pastimes are contrasted with the barba rous field-sports in which Britons delight; and the poet invokes humanity to soften the hearts of his countrymen, that they may spare the poor animals who harmlessly range around them. While imploring mercy for the animal creation, Peter forgets how little he extends towards "the brutes of Paternoster-row." Egypt: a Poem; descriptive of that Country and its Inhabitants; written during the late Campaign. Bu M. M. CLIFFORD, Esq. of the Twelfth, or Prince of Wales's Light Dragoons. 8vo. pp. 79. THE circumstances under which this poem was produced would apologise for a more faulty composition. It was composed during the avocations of military duty, in a small tent on the sands of Egypt, amidst the orange-groves of Rosetta, or on the tempestuous bosom of the Mediterranean; and the author has allowed it to retain the same simple dress it first bore; "a dress which may best unfold the feelings that excited, and the train of ideas that contributed to its execution." The poem is without order or plan but contains passages of more than or dinary merit." Say, ancient Nile! thou tutelary stream, Nor starung, view, along thy banks, unfurl'd claim Their faded laurels, and diminish'd fame, Nor joy'd to seek, by ill success depress'd, Unwelcome refuge in their country's breast; Compell'd to leave, to rival hands resign'd, Cairo's proud walls and empire, far behind. We have a country too, and proudly trace New scenes of pleasure in her fond embrace. Ah, fancy-woven bliss! ah, happy sounds! The name of home in every charm abounds; Calls up the fond idea's lengthen'd train, Joys warmly hoped, and scarcely dreaded pain; Paints, 'mid the breezy lawns and shady bowers, Scenes of domestic bliss, and roscat hours; Paints too thy forms, bright tutelary maids! To deck the mazes of our English shades. Ah! mid the beauties of my native isle, Where courteous nature wears a social smile, Say, while afar these desert wilds I roam, Does one soft bosom wish her wanderer home? Heave, when the full eye drops the trickling tear, Gaze fondly round, and wish her soldier near? Musing, I nurse awhile the flattering theme, Start from my trance, and find it all à dream. There are some fine lines in the picture of the effects of heat. -Through the tædium of a summer's day, Unclouded suns emit their fiercest ray, Wide o'er the whole a power inclement reigns, And burns, with ceaseless glow, the fissured plains, Earth starting, shrinks beneath the vivid glare, Perturb'd and putrid, from the solar glow. Lifts his dim eye, and man's compassion claims; The wild ox lashes oft his glowing side, Sports o'er the plain, and rushes to the tide; Man suffers most of all; his inmost soul Throbs with the pressure of the stern control; His temples sink with unaccustom'd weight, His sinews slacken, and his veins dilate, Swift through his frame he feels delirium run, Convuls'd and furious with excessive sun." But flies, as afraid of its sound. But it is not the gloom that embosoms the grove, Nor its mildness that seizes the soul, 'Tis the Muse, who alone can all distance remove, Bear the mind, thus enraptured, to regions above, And endear, by her lessons, the whole. Yes, these are thy valleys, and these are thy dells, Whence history adds to her store, Some Muse on each rude-pointed precipice dwells, Ennobles each valley, and mournfully tells, Of scenes she will sing of no more." As in the Almada-Hill of Mickle, we have history here, where we expected description. The poet, indeed, must paint with a master's hand who should attempt even to sketch a likeness of Cintra. This metre, which Capt. Clifford has chosen, has become very undeservedly popular. It always tempts the writer to introduce monosyllabic epithets. For ages have lapsed since the gaunt Moor has strode, Since the hoarse din of arms, and And thus is the ear perpetually jolted by upstart adjectives. This fault is com mon to almost all writers in the same stanza. Captain Clifford's ten syllable The concluding phrase is exception- verses are uniformly harmonious. ART. XII. Poems. By FRANCIS WRANGHAM, M. A. Member of Trinity College, Cambridge. 8vo. pp. 120. THE author of this little volume is well known to the literary world. At the University he distinguished himself, and obtained many academical honours, though from academical emoluments he was somewhat mysteriously debarred. His Rome is Fallen," and his collected Sermons have been deservedly popular; and he has found it expedient to assert, that he is not the author of the Pursuits of Literature. The present volume, though now first published, has been printed eight years: We have long been familiar with its merits. The first of these poems is a Seatonian prize poem upon the Restoration of the Jews. The second, upon the Destruction of Babylon, was an unsuccesful candidate for that prize the following year. Of these scriptural pieces, the second is by far the best; it opens with much effect. "And art thou then for ever set! Thy ray No more to rise and gild the front of day, Far-beaming BABYLON? Those massive gates, Through which to battle rush'd a hundred states; That cloud-topt wall, along whose giddy height Cars strove with rival cars in fearless flightWhat! Could not all protect thee? Ah! in vain Thy bulwarks frown'd defiance o'er the plain : Fondly in ancient majesty elate Thou sat'st, unconscious of impending fate : Nor brazen gates, nor adamantine wall, Could save a guilty people from their fall. Was it for this those wondrous turrets rose, Which taught thy feebled youth a scorn of foes? For this that earth her mineral stores resign'd; And the wan artist, child of sorrow, pin'd: Destin'd as death crept on with mortal stealth, And the flush'd hectic mimick'd rosy health; 'Mid gasping crowds to ply th' incessant loom, While morbid vapours linger'd in the gloom? Silent for seventy years, its frame unstrung, On Syrian bough Judaea's harp had hung: Deaf to their despots' voice, her tribes no subdued view'd: The courtly troop with gladden'd eye she Quaff then, BELSHAZZAR-quaff, Imperial The luscious draught and drain the maddening joy; To equal riot rouse thy languid board, Who shall controul thy raptures, or destroy? Give then the night, the poignant night, to joy. Ha! Why that start! Those horror gleaming eyes! That frozen cheek, whence life's warma crimson flies! |