Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt That should you close your eyes, you might alınost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd, You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, A most gentle maid Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than nature in the grove) Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes, P3 What What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, On blos'my twig still swinging from the breeze, To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends! farewell.' The Female Vagrant is an agonizing tale of individual wretchedness; highly coloured, though, alas! but too probable. Yet, as it seems to stamp a general stigma on all military transactions, which were never more important in free countries than at the present period, it will perhaps be asked whether the hardships described never happen during revolution, or in a nation subdued? The sufferings of individuals during war are dreadful; buc is it not better to try to prevent them from becoming general, or to render them transient by heroic and patriotic efforts, than to fly to them for ever? Distress from poverty and want is admirably described, in the true story of Goody Blake, and Harry Gill: but are we to imagine that Harry was bewitched by Goody Blake? The hardest hardest heart must be softened into pity for the poor old woman; and yet, if all the poor are to help themselves, and supply their wants from the possessions of their neighbours, what imaginary wants and real anarchy would it not create ? Goody Blake should have been relieved out of the two millions annually allowed by the state to the poor of this country, not by the plunder of an individual. Lines on the first mild day of March abound with beautiful sentiments from a polished mind. Simon Lee, the ld Huntsman, is the portrait, admirably painted, of every huntsman who, by toil, age, and infirmities, is rendered unable to guide and govern his canine family. Anecdote for Fathers. Of this the dialogue is ingenious and natural: but the object of the child's choice, and the inferences, are not quite obvious. We are seven :-innocent and pretty infantine prattle. On an early Spring. The first stanza of this little poem seems unworthy of the rest, which contain reflections truly pious and philosophical. The Thorn. All our author's pictures, in colouring, are dark as those of Rembrandt or Spanioletto. The last of the Fleck is more gloomy than the rest. We are not told how the wretched hero of this piece became so poor. He had, indeed, ten children: but so have many cottagers; and ere the tenth child is born, the eldest begin to work, and help, at least, to maintain themselves. No oppression is pointed out; nor are any means suggested for his relief. If the author be a wealthy man, he ought not to have suffered this poor peasant to part with the last of the flock. What but an Agrarian law can prevent poverty from visiting the door of the indolent, injudicious, extravagant, and, perhaps, vicious? and is it certain that rigid equality of property as well as of laws could remedy this evil? The Dungeon. Here candour and tenderness for criminals. seem pushed to excess. Have not jails been built on the humane Mr. Howard's plan, which have almost ruined some counties, and which look more like palaces than habitations for the perpetrators of crimes? Yet, have fewer crimes been committed in consequence of the erection of those magnificent. structures, at an expence which would have maintained many in innocence and comfort out of a jail, if they have been driven to theft by want? The mad Mother; admirable painting! in Michael Angelo's bold and masterly manner. The Idiot Boy leads the reader on from anxiety to distress, and from distress to terror, by incidents and alarms which, P4 though though of the most mean and ignoble kind, interest, frighten, and terrify, almost to torture, during the perusal of more than a hundred stanzas. Lines written near Richmond-literally "most musical, most melancholy!" Expostulation and Reply. The author tells us that these lines, and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of moral philosophy.' These two pieces will afford our readers an opportunity of judging of the author's poetical talents, in a more modern and less gloomy style than his Ballads : "Why William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? "Where are your books? that light bequeath'd Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd "You look round on your mother earth, "The eye it cannot chuse but see, "Nor less I deem that there are powers, "Think you, mid all this mighty sum That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away." AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, Why all this toil and trouble?" Up! up my friend, and quit your books, • The The sun above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife, Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music; on my life There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! • She has a world of ready wealth, Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, • Sweet is the lore which nature brings; Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things; Enough of science and of art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart 1 The Old Man travelling, a Sketch, finely drawn: but the termination seems pointed against the war; from which, however, we are now no more able to separate ourselves, than Hercules was to free himself from the shirt of Nessus. The old traveller's son might have died by disease. Each ballad is a tale of woe. The style and versification are those of our antient ditties: but much polished, and more constantly excellent. In old songs, we have only a fine line or stanza now and then; here we meet with few that are feeble-but it is poesie larmoiante. The author is more plaintive than Gray himself, The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman: another tale of woe of the most afflicting and harrowing kind. The want of humanity here falls not on wicked Europeans, but on the innocent Indian savages, who enjoy unlimited freedom and liberty, unbridled by kings, magistrates, or laws. The Convict. What a description! and what misplaced commiseration, on one condemned by the laws of his country, |