"Ye gentle Pow'rs, (if any such there be,
And, if there be not, 'tis a sweet mistake
To think there be) that day by day, unseen,
Where souls, unanimous and link'd in love,
In sober converse spend the vacant hour,
Hover above, and in the cup of life
A cordial pour which all its bitter drowns,
And gives the hasty minutes as they pass
Unwonted fragrance; come and aid my song.
In that clear fountain of eternal love
Which flows for aye at the right hand of him,
The great Incomprehensible ye serve,
Dip my advent'rous pen, that nothing vile,
Of the chaste eye or ear unworthy, may
In this my early song be seen or heard."

The subjoined address to the nightingale is from the same section.

"Now I steal along the woody lane,

To hear thy song so various, gentle bird,
Sweet queen of night, transporting Philomel.
I name thee not to give my feeble line
A grace else wanted, for I love thy song,
And often have I stood to hear it sung,
When the clear moon, with Cytherean smile
Emerging from an eastern cloud, has shot
A look of pure benevolence and joy
Into the heart of night. Yes, I have stood
And mark'd thy varied note, and frequent pause,
Thy brisk and melancholy mood, with soul
Sincerely pleas'd. And O, methought, no note
Can equal thine, sweet bird, of all that sing
How easily the chief! Yet have I heard
What pleases me still more-the human voice
In serious sweetness flowing from the heart
Of unaffected woman. I could hark
Till the round world dissolv'd, to the

pure strain
Love teaches, gentle modesty inspires."

Our last extract immediately follows a description of the employments of the "garden-loving maid," intended for his favourite sister Catharine.

"In such a silent, cool, and wholesome hour,
The author of the world from heaven came
To walk in Paradise, well pleas'd to mark
The harmless deeds of new-created man.

And sure the silent, cool, and wholesome hour
May still delight him, our atonement made.
Who knows but as we walk he walks unseen,
And sees, and well approves the cheerful talk
The fair one loves. He breathes upon the pink,
And gives it odour; touches the sweet rose,
And makes it glow; beckons the evening dew,
And sheds it on the lupin and the pea:
Then smiles on her, and beautifies her cheek
With gay good humour, happiness, and health.
So all are passing sweet, and the young Eve
Feels all her pains rewarded, all her joys
Perfect and unimpair'd. But who can love,
Of heav'nly temper, to frequent your walks,
Ye fashion-loving belles? The human soul
Your pestilent amusements hates; how then
Shall he approve, who cannot look on guilt?"

The second poem in the same volume is of a narrative description, and entitled Adriano, or the first of June. It is perhaps (not even excepting his tragedy, which will be noticed afterwards,) the most eccentric of all his poems. The peculiarity alluded to consists in the fearless admixture of prose ideas, circumstances, and expressions, with poetical ones. The fault (so far as it is a fault) is, not that his images and descriptions are familiar, but that they are too familiar for poetry. Still it is a truly pleasing composition-we ourselves, at least, have not spent many half hours more agreeably than that which we past in its perusal. The story need not be detailed-suffice to say, that the prominent events are a birth-day, a wreck, two rescues,the annunciation of a legacy, and a couple of weddings, (with the anticipation of a third) all occurring within the space of one day, and for the most part delightfully told in the semicolloquial manner of the writer, with the occasional interposition of long moral discussions in the form of dialogue. We give one specimen, descriptive of the feelings of the dramatis personæ on a supposed domestic calamity.

"O grief, thou blessing and thou curse, how fair,
How charming art thou, sitting thus in state

Upon the eyelid of ingenuous youth,

Wat'ring the roses of a healthful cheek
With dews of silver! O for Lely's art,

To touch the canvass with a tender hand,
And give a faithful portrait of thy charms,
Seen through the veil of grief, sweet maid, Sophia.
O for the pen of Milton, to describe

Thy winning sadness, thy subduing sigh,
Gentle Maria; to describe thy pains,
Assiduous Fred'rick, to alleviate grief,
And hang a smile upon thy Anna's brow;
To paint the sweet composure of thy looks,
Experienc'd Adriano, thy attempt

To waken cheerfulness, and frequent eye
Stealing aside in pity to Maria.

"Be comforted," he said, and in the sound
Was music ev'ry ear was pleas'd to hear.
But thy availing voice was not like his,
Who bade the deep be still, and it obey'd.

A transient gleam of peace one moment shone,

But sorrow came the next."

His tragedy of Sir Thomas More is written, for the most part, in the same style as the poems just mentioned. Though it does not, as may be easily supposed, rank with our higher dramas, yet it contains much of tenderness and beauty, and many graceful passages; and the admirable character of Sir Thomas More,

"Journeying on life's common way In cheerful godliness,"

is obviously delineated con amore.

The poem which opens the third volume, entitled, Tears of Affection, was written on the death of his favourite sister. It is full of innocent tenderness-yet we cannot help observing, though unwillingly, that it displays an unmanly despondency, an extravagance of grief, to which the author's principles ought surely to have applied a corrective. He has fallen into the same fault as Young, whose continued and somewhat unworthy complaints injure the effect of his animated morality and religious aspirations. We quote the following as a specimen of the author's imitations of Cowper.

"Therefore shall you,

Ye gentle doves, familiar to the hand,

Whom goodness long experienc'd has made tame
And nothing fearful of the touch of man,

Under my roof still live, and still enjoy
Provision plenteous. Isabel your lives
Redeem'd for pity, and the debt forgave:
Dying herself, your liberty she ask'd
Of thirsty violence; and ye shall fall,
When nature pleases, without shedding blood.
And thou too, tabby fav'rite, tho' thy eye

Stranger to tears, no sorrow has express'd,
Still sporting on the hearth, tho' Isabel,
Thy fond protectress, is thy friend no more,
Thou, gentle kitten, shalt no morning-meal
With slender tone petitionary ask,
But I will yield it. Sit upon my knee,
And whisper pleasure, gratitude, and love,
For favour well bestow'd: thy silky neck
Still offer to the pressure of my hand,
And fear no evil: frisk upon the floor,
And cuff the cushion or suspended cork
Till riot make thee weary: slumber then
In the warm sunbeam on the window's ledge,
Till from thy fur the spark electric spring;
Or dose upon the elbow of my chair,
Or on my shoulder, or my knee, while I,
Lost in some dream of happiness deceas'd,
Steal from reflection pleasure, and beguile
A morning's march across the vale of life
By musing upon comforts now no more.
Or if sweet sleep not please thee, with the cord
And dangling tassel of the curtain play,

Or seize the grumbling hornet, or pert wasp,
Intruding ever, while I smile remote

At danger brav'd by vent'rous ignorance,

And anger ill-escap'd."

The inscription written by the author for his sister's monument, is quoted from the biographical sketch prefixed to the volumes.

"Farewell, sweet maid! whom, as bleak winter sears

The fragrant bud of Spring, too early blown,
Untimely death has nipt. Here take thy rest,
Inviolable here! while we, than thou

Less favour'd, through the irksome vale of life
Toil on in tears without thee. Yet not long
Shall death divide us-Rapid is the flight

Of life, more rapid than the turtle's wing,

And soon our bones shall meet. Here may we sleep!
Here wake together! and, by his " dear might,"
Who conquer'd Death for sinful man, ascend
Together hence to an eternal home!"

The Favorite Village, the last in order of our author's poems, and which, on account of its peculiar nature, we have reserved for the most copious extracts, is occupied with a de

scription of the varied beauties and pleasures of the author's sequestered place of habitation, and its surrounding district, as diversified by the successive seasons of the year; resembling a good deal in its plan the poem of The Village Curate, but differing from it in its prevailing character, which is almost exclusively of description. Its style is more neat, equable, and polished, than that of any of his other works; and the author, being engaged among his favorite objects, and being, from the nature of his design, secure from interruption in his pursuit, writes with an ease and a zest which generally secure success to his endeavours.

The first extract which we shall give is in the author's bolder manner. (Canto I.)

"How awful this proud height, this brow of brows,

Which every steep surmounts, and awes sublime
The subject downs below! Nature wears here
Her boldest countenance. The tumid earth
Seems as of yore it had the phrenzy fit
Of ocean caught, and its uplifted sward
Perform'd a billowy dance, to whose vast wave
The proudest surges of the bellowing deep
Are little, as to his profounder swell
The shallow rippling of the wrinkled pool.
Enormous family, gigantic host,
Nation of mountains, sublime people, say,
At what great festival did your high brows
And ample foreheads dignify the dance?
When welcom'd ye rebounding the great God
In mercy present? Or, if wrath came down,
When boil'd so furiously your molten sward,
Fus'd at the touch of his indignant foot?
When did the God, departing, with a frown
Congeal and frost-fix your prodigious limbs,
Leaving remembrance, which no time shall 'rase
Of ire omnipotent here dealt around?

Or if at first with wonder-working hand

He form'd you thus, say where is the vast scoop,
By which these ample vales and combs profound
Were hollow'd? Where is the stupendous axe
Which cleft the shoulders of yon bulky cliffs?
Who the vast host of precipices link'd,
To fetter frantic ocean to his seat?
Where is the mighty delving tool that pil'd
High as the clouds this lofty mount supreme,
And you his twin companion, way between