But never more shall smile beam thereupon,
For thou art lost beyond recovering!
To life of scorn can thy young spirit cling,
To kindred and to friends a lothful stain,
A beacon set each lover's heart to wring?
It may not be a momentary pain—
One penance undergone, and thou art pure again!'

"She look'd into his face, and there beheld
The still, unmoving darkness of his eye;
She thought of that could never be cancell'd,
And lay in calm and sweet benignity;
Down by her side her arms outstretched lie,
Her beauteous breast was fairer than the snow,—
And then, with stifled sob and broken sigh,
Its fascinating mould was heaving so,—
Never was movement seen so sweetly come and

go

"He drew his bloody poniard from his waist,
And press'd against her breast its point of steel;
No single boon she to his ear address'd;
Calm did she lie as one who did not feel!
No shiver once did agony reveal;

Scarce did she move a finger by her side,

!

Though her heart's blood around her did congeal:
With mild, but steady look, his face she eyed,
And once upon her tongue his name in whisper died.
"With gloomy mien, and unrelenting heart,
O'er her he hung, and watch'd her life's decay!
He mark'd the pulse's last convulsive start,
And the sweet breath in fetches waste away.
Just ere the last, these words she did assay:
'Now all is past-unblameable I die.'
Then her pale lips did close no more for aye,
A dim blue haze set slowly o'er her eye,

And low on purpled couch that mountain flower did lie.”

We have already observed, that The Poetic Mirror is divided into two portions,-not indeed by any mechanical arrangement of the articles, nor probably with any design on the part of the author: we have so far spoken of those productions which have at least some likeness in point of style to the writers proposed to be imitated: we now arrive at those which we consider only burlesques, amounting even to the vulgarity of mere parody, for no nearer could Mr. approach his original: his system is now changed; for finding how unequal he was to the task he had undertaken, if he followed up the plan on which he

had commenced with Mr. Scott and Mr. Hogg, he disregards all the passages in the nobler poets of our day which evidence their superiority to those he has already attempted, and instead of copying or imitating what is beautiful, he selects only what is peculiar, and most open to ridicule. Our readers, we are sure, will not have forgotten the exquisite romantic poem of Christabel, an account of which we inserted in No. V. Vol. III., which, as we then observed, contains more delightful passages than have ever before been included in so small a compass: in what light the writer of The Poetic Mirror views it, may be gathered from the extracts we shall give from his imitation: it is entituled Isabelle, a name nearly idem sonans with Christabel; thus indicating in the outset the true nature of this poetaster's essay. It has not the glimpse of a fable, and consists merely of the stringing together of a few stanzas of incoherent

nonsense.

"Can there be a moon in heaven to-night,

That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light?
The air is whiten'd by some spell,

For there is no moon, I know it well:
On this third day, the sages say,

("Tis wonderful how well they know,)
The moon is journeying far away,
Bright somewhere in a heaven below.

"It is a strange and lovely night,
A greyish pale, but not white!
Is it rain, or is it dew,

That falls so thick I see its hue?

In rays it follows, one, two, three,
Down the air so merrily,

Said Isabelle, so let it be!

Why does the Lady Isabelle

Sit in the damp and dewy dell

Counting the racks of drizzly rain,

And how often the Rail cries over again?

For she's harping, harping in the brake,

Craik, craik-Craik, craik.

Ten times nine, and thrice eleven ;

That last call was an hundred and seven.
Craik, craik-the hour is near-

Let it come, I have no fear!

Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis, Such doings in a night like this! CRIT. REV. VOL. 1V. Nov. 1816.

30

"Sounds the river harsh and loud?
The stream sounds harsh, but not loud.
There is a cloud that seems to hover,
By western hill, the church-yard over,-
What is it like?-Tis like a whale;
'Tis like a shark with half the tail,
Not half, but third and more;
Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar;
It's face is raised-it cometh here;
Let it come-there is no fear.

There's two for heaven, and ten for hell,
Let it come-'tis well-'tis well!
Said the Lady Isabelle."

Really there is no criticizing such stuff as this: it is about the most miserable attempt of the kind we ever re collect to have read. When applied to individuals, ridicule creates a fictitious personage for a laughing-stock, with such a distant likeness to the original as will just serve for recognition; and when applied to literature, it raises an imaginary work, with all the faults and singularities grossly exaggerated: if it is handled with seasoned wit and satire, the weapon is irresistible; but without them, it is a twoedged sword in the hands of a clown-he only cuts his own fingers. Even a few years ago, when the public would not have been extremely fastidious as to the mode in which a certain class of poets were brought into disrepute, this effort by our nameless detractor would not have been endured; but, thanks to the good sense of the reading class of society, and to the recently-created taste for the productions of our elder and better poets, that favourable opportunity for a satirist is gone by; and though it is still very easy to render good poetry ludicrous, yet it is very difficult, in the present day, to make even the uneducated receive ridicule without distrust: whenever ridicule is resorted to, we may be tolerably sure that it is the dernier resort; and that the employer of it feels that other modes of attack would be unavailing.

In this volume, besides those we have referred to, there are three fragments charged upon Mr. Wordsworth, two upon Mr. Southey, and three or four upon Mr. Wilson, the author of the Isle of Palms, the City of the Plague, &c.— There is nothing in the history of literature that gives us greater pleasure than the growing estimation in which the productions of the first named of these gentlemen are

held. The principles upon which he started as an author were so repugnant to what had until then almost appropriated to itself the name of poetry, that he had many difficulties and repugnances to overcome:-those who had habitually considered poetry to depend more upon the language, than upon the thought that language conveyed-who had been accustomed to admire full-sounding bombastic lines as the very quintessence of excellencecould not at first relish productions composed of the real language of men in a state of vivid sensation, which is the very foundation of the system of Mr. Wordsworth: they who had been used to hear the most familiar expressions tricked in the ponderous trappings of phraseology, for a time could endure nothing else; but within the last few years a rapid improvement in this respect has taken place, and the public begin to perceive that they had been misled by those who had little else but words to give them: a vocabulary would supply all the materials for their effusions; and if a thought now and then did creep in almost without the knowledge of the author," he thank'd his stars, for he was in good luck." Were we disposed, we have not room here to discuss this subject further without excluding too much of the very valuable performance on our table, the author of which professes to supply two new portions of Mr. Wordsworth's "Recluse," one part of which, it will be recollected, was formed by "The Excursion." One of these new portions is called "The Stranger," and the other "The Flying Tailor:" they are both either dull exaggerations of peculiarities, or unhappy endeavours to be humorous, without the slightest understanding or relish of the admirable qualities of the author he tries to follow. Mr.seems to have a most acute sense for discovering singularities, which others would pass by without observation; pour les ordures il a des lumieres que les autres n'ont pas. Our readers may form a judgment of the whole by the following extract, which we assure them is the most favourable we could select.

"Here then we pause-and need no farther go;
We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail.
Now let me trace the effect upon his mind.
Of this despised profession. Deem not thou,—
O rashly deem not, that his bovish days
Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore
With bashful feeling of apprenticeship
The name of Tailor,deem not that his soul

Derived no genial influence from a life,
Which, although haply adverse in the main

To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power,
Yet in its ordinary forms possess'd

A constant influence o'er bis passing thoughts,
Moulded his appetences and his will,
And wrought out, by the work of sympathy,
Between his bodily and mental form,
Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity!
Perfect-complete-and fading not away.
While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit,
Shaping of various garments, to his mind
An image rose of every character

For whom each special article was framed,—
Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So, at last, his soul
Was like a storehouse, fill'd with images,

By musing hours of solitude supplied.
Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut
Of villager's uncouth habiliments
With greater readiness, than did his mind
Frame corresponding images of those

Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper
In many a mystic notch for aye retained.
Hence, more than any man I ever knew,
Did he possess the power intuitive
Of diving into character. A pair
Of breeches to his philosophic eye
Were not what unto other folks they seem,
Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw
The symbol of the soul-mysterious, high
Hieroglyphics! such as Egypt's Priest
Adored upon the holy Pyramid,
Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old,
But raised by wise philosophy, that sought
By darkness to illumine, and to spread
Knowledge by dim concealment-process high
Of man's imaginative, deathless soul."

The performances in which Mr. Sonthey is ridiculed, are entituled "Peter of Barnet," and "The Curse of the Laureate, Carmen Judiciale." We should like to hear our intelligent author explain the distinction he professes to have made between the productions of Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Southey that their styles are essentially different no man can doubt, but he has not found it; and Peter of Barnet" is just like "The Stranger," and "The Stranger" just like "Peter of Barnet." It seems quite enough for him to tell his readers, in the table of contents, that the