superstition. We are anxious that such an aim should experi ence no failure; nor can it indeed do so, if there be safety in relying upon the effects of rectitude of intention coupled with the zealous application of the best means.

The first poem in the volume is called the Christian. It is in eight books. It points out methodically and fully the bene fits arising from Christianity-in particular, the superiority of its efficacy over that of the ancient systems of philosophy, in subduing the passions and humanizing mankind: it gives likewise what may be esteemed a Life of our SAVIOUR, and of his disciples and apostles. There is an article called the dying Prostitute, which would be highly serviceable to society—if those would read it who stand most in need of its pious precepts and sound practical admonitions. The pernicious effects of duelling are well depicted in Augustus and Sophronia, an affair of honor being considered as nothing better than a very fine name given to a very foul deed. The perusal of the Forsaken Maid might be useful to some of the Shuffletons of the day. And the paraphrases of scripture passages, particularly of our Saviour's sermon on the Mount, display a knowledge worthy a man of good sense, with an ardor that would have become even a disciple. The exordium to Richmond Hill, the place of Lord Crawford's residence, runs thus:

"Thy hill, Parnassus, and Castalia's stream,
Of Pagan poets long have been the theme.
Yet not thy hill, Parnassus, lovelier rais'd
Its brow, than thine, O Richmond, though unprais'd
In equal song: yet not thy waters flow'd,
Though near the temple of a fancied God,
Castalia, sweeter than, O Thames, flow thine,
With no peculiar auspices divine.

Hail, honor'd mount! inspirer of my lays!
Friend of the bard, and worthy of his praise!
Oft when to thee from London's fogs I stray,
When spleen and moping discontent would prey
Upon my falling spirits, when the blood,
Lazy, has almost in its vessels stood,
As if forgetful of its wonted course,
The mind deprived of all its active force
Of penetrating thought, and life would seem.
A cheerless subject, or insipid theme;
No verse produc'd to soothe the sullen woe,
Spontaneous, rolling in harmonious flow:
Oft when to thee my listless steps I bent,

Thou nurse of health! thou foe to discontent!
Oft has my mind depress'd new vigor found,
As if the Muse her inspiration round,

As on a favor'd, hallow'd mount, had thrown
Enamour'd, and had made it all her own.
Oft as I snatch with vent'rous hands the lyre,
My bosom throbbing with extatic fire,
With new ideas crowding on the brain,
A num'rous, splendid, and a lively train,
My eyes in bright poetic phrenzy roll,
And inspiration rushes on my soul.

What sweet sensations! how sublime! how great!
I tread in air! above a mortal state!

Here many a bard, along thy gentle stream,
O Thames, has dwelt upon his winning theme.
With all the muse's inspiration fraught,

Here, oft illustrious Dryden rang'd and thought.
Aloft she rais'd him from the vulgar throng,
And bade his lines majestic roll along,
In all the full luxuriant harmony of song.
Here, of inferior genius, tho' 'twas great,
Pope woo'd retirement in his classic seat;
With fainter strokes he mov'd th' obedient heart,
With less of nature-studied more of art.
Here Thomson dwelt, with genuine fancy blest,
The milk of human kindness in his breast;
Where tuneful Collins, of congenial mind,

Oft roam'd, in sweetest amity combin'd."

The author has preferred verse to prose for the expression of his ideas. His reason for this preference is founded on the superior aid which the former lends to the memory of young people, and of uninstructed people of all ages. He seems to have been but little moved by the advice offered him by one of the society of Friends.

"Some years ago, an old and much esteemed Quaker waited on me to supply me with some books and facts relative to the slavetrade, against which I was then writing, and said: 'My friend, I love thee for thy generous indignation against the slave-trade, thou art right there; but, for thy soul's sake beware,-beware of poetry, for sometimes the preachers are nothing to the poets."

Preface to the Poems.

ART. X. Original Poems, and a Play.

NOOTH.

10s.

By CHARLOTTE. London: Longman and Co., 1815. pp. 156.

THIS volume is dedicated to the Duke of Kent, and we understand that it is the first avowed production of a lady, whose recently deceased father held an appointment in the household of His Royal Highness, and had attained to considerable eminence in his profession as a surgeon. The name of Nooth has long been well known to men of science, from having been given to a pneumatic machine invented by Dr. Nooth, who was many years physician to the army in Canada and at Gibraltar, and uncle to the present claimant on the indulgence of the public.

According to our established custom we give to our readers the preface, which acknowledges in suitable terms, the obliga tion due to the numerous subscribers to the work, whose titles and names occupy fourteen pages of close printing; and are highly creditable to the liberality of the friends of an unfortunate branch of a respectable family.

Preface.

"The writer of the following pages could only account for their having been collected into a volume, by relating a tale of domestic sorrow, which would sadden the humane, and weary the attention of the indifferent reader. The poetical attempts now offered to the protection of the public, were, however, all written previous to the circumstances which may excuse the form of their publication, and while hope, and the frequent gratification of the social feeling, among persons of taste and vivacity, gave wings to the fancy and buoyancy to the mind.

The feelings of gratitude for the generous patronage which this little book has already received, are too deeply felt, and too intimately connected with a recent affliction, to allow of the ornaments of verse.

Should the charge of presumption be affixed to the undertaking, it may, perhaps, be admitted in mitigation of the severity of judg ment, that as this is the first, so, should encouragement be withheld, it will certainly be the last trespass upon the attention of the public. 47, Gloucester Street, Queen Square,

London, June 3, 1815."

The fifty-two first pages of the book contain original poems on various subjects, most of them bearing the stamp of reality: the translations from the French, Italian, and Spanish, occupy sixteen pages, and the remainder of the volume is filled by

sixteen pages of Irish ballads and a tragic play, which we will notice hereafter.

Among the miscellaneous articles of this work, are dispersed some pieces of a satirical cast, which indicate that tone of good company, to which uncultivated genius, however brightly it may flash from the obscure walks of life, can never attain, and the lines of a more serious cast appear to be the effusions of real feeling, without being set off by the false glitter of Della Cruscan sentimentality. In this daring and inventive age, the merit of abstaining from innovation in language is no small praise; and a close and simple style of writing levies no unreasonable claim upon our time and attention, if it aim not at dazzling and amazing the fancy, or "taking the prisoned soul to lap it in Elysium," which is always the attempt, and sometimes the success, of those visionary and impassioned bards of later days, who soar beyond the reach of tame realities, and sometimes "greatly fall" from heights to which more humble geniuses dare not lift their unaspiring eyes.

The merits of this volume will be most fairly ascertained by specimens of each manner of verse contained in it. The limits allowed to such an article must, however, so far circumscribe our selection, as to guide us in our choice rather by the brevity than the merit of the pieces we present to our readers, whom we refer to the book itself for several poems of superior

interest.

The following lines, which begin the volume, we recollect to have seen in the Morning Chronicle, March 1814,

The Melo-drame.

"What have we here! half solemn and half gay,
Not quite a pantomime, nor quite a play;
This something-nothing-full of noise and show,
Anomalous display of mirth and woe;

Full of confusion, bustle and surprises,
Escapes, encounters, blunders and disguises!
Is this a comedy? where lies the wit?
In vain I've watch'd to catch one lucky hit.
A tragedy! say where is pathos shown?
Can the spectator make the grief his own,
Hang with mute earnestness on ev'ry line,
And own the touch of sympathy divine?
Feel virtuous indignation fire his breast,
And his cheek glow for innocence oppress'd;
Does he one moment steal from self away,
And lend his whole existence to the play?

Such was the scene," when o'er her barb'rous foes"

By "learning's triumph," first the stage arose;

Her empire o'er the polish'd world when gain'd,
The tragic and the comic muse maintain'd;
Enchanting sisters! as by Reynolds' art
Pourtray'd, so graven on each feeling heart;
Each with attraction all her own is fair,
And Garrick stands suspended 'twixt the pair ;
With doubting face, he seems to pause between,
Yet wins them both, like Shakspeare and like Kean.
But who is she, with pompous air and gait,

And dwarfish stature clad in mimic state?

She sings she dances-and she speaks-but hark!
Ere you the meaning of her words can mark,
Trumpets and neighing steeds her accents drown,
And who is she-the favourite of the town?
Enquire not of her pedigree or race,

Some likeness to her sisters you may trace;
But such a kindred as she dares not claim,
Degen'rate branch-and Melo-drame her name."

Written at Sea. Off the Isle of Man.

"I see the white waves that dash over the prow,
I hear the sails shiver, and rend from the mast;
Once my bosom knew fear, but I heed it not now,

I have said " Farewell Emma,” that look was the last. I see danger menace from each darken'd brow,

I hear all alarm'd that the gale freshens fast, Once I dreaded the mariner's warning, but now

I have said "Farewell Emma," that look was the last.

I feel the ship labour and rock in the sea,

And I list to the breakers, and loud rushing blast, Once the voice of the tempest had terrors for me,

I have said "Farewell Emma," that look was the last.

Let others in plans for their safety agree,

My time of heart-piercing solicitude's past, What I am, I enjoy not, nor care what to be,

I have said "Farewell Emma," that look was the last.”

STANZAS,

From the Spanish of Quevedo.

"Since I thine angel-face have seen,
All other things have changed been ;
The Sun no longer brings me day,
Nor roses do I seek in May.
Aurora need not blush for me,
Since it has been my lot to see
A tint that makes her colour pale,
And beams that o'er her light prevail.