In the eighth book, Brahma and Ithream return from their work of destruction, and rejoin the powers of Satan. The former, at the desire of his monarch, gives a magnificent narration of the success of his exploits, and describes the progress of the conflagration, and the last struggles of nature. The earth, at last, is reduced to one general mass, and appears like an ocean of melted glass, without inequality or shore.

Such is the outline of the portion of Armageddon now be fore us. It is perhaps sufficient to awaken the curiosity of our readers, if, indeed, that has not already been done by the notice of Mr. Cumberland, who, in the first number of his Review, gave an account of the author's design. His expectations, sanguine as they were, would not have been disappointed, had he lived to witness the maturity of those exertions which his goodness induced him to foster. A few extracts will, however, convey a better idea of Mr. Townsend's powers, than we have been able to furnish by our analysis of his story.

The following is the representation of the descent of the Messiah to Armageddon, in order to judge the universe. It exhibits great majesty and beauty, though a few of the lines are careless and prosaic :

Through the vaulted arch,
Upborne on fiery wing, an angel form
In rapid flight was seen; and, swift as thought,
Sped o'er the gazing hosts, and loud exclaimed-
"God comes to judge the world, and minister
True judgment in his righteousness! the Lord
Descendeth from the heav'ns! himself is judge!"
And, suddenly, a strong and mighty wind
The mountains rent, and into pieces brake
The rocks before the Lord, howling around
Through the deep caves: not on the winged blast
He came, nor on the terrors of the storm,
Or earthquake, that o'erthrew the yielding plain
Of Armageddon; not upon the flash

That, pouring 'mid the new-made fragments, shone
Upon the ruins, melting every rock

Before him; beaming with immortal love,
The majesty of beauty, and the strength
Of honor, girt with radiance as a robe
Of light, and glorified in mortal form,

The opening heav'ns he bowed; descending low,
Borne on his throne of glory to the scene
Of judgment; streaming fire beneath his feet
Its nameless splendors waved, yet not dispersed
The darkness, but its gleaming lightnings spread

Wide in the front, and darting on the soil

Revealed the trembling nations; round the throne
Th' admiring day-spring knew its place, and threw,
In floating lustre, a serener light

Than that of midnight moons; full o'er his head
The high pavilion bent, with waters dark
And covering clouds encircled, as the sea
Blends with the stormy sky at distance seen,
Girding the earth; Justice and Mercy shone
On either side resplendent; and around
Ten thousand times ten thousand of the host
Of cherubim and mightiest seraphim,
In fiery orbits glowed, with purple light
The vaulted arch adorn, and pour around
The brightness of their beauty.

--

Book I.

PP. 31-33.

We must make room for the splendid description of the central world on which Brahma and Ithream rested.

Perpetual spring was here,
Perpetual day; the lovely Paradise

Of all the angelic squadrons of the heavens!
Here yielding groves, and fields, and all the plants
That garnish earth were seen, though nobler far
Than earthly flowers or groves, their varied tribes
Appear in kind profusion, to delight

The roving eye; th' enamelled plains were deck'd
With shades unknown to man; the seasons poured
Their mingling beauties, and attempered sweets
luxuriance, but withheld their storms,
In fear to violate the calm repose

In gay

That ruled the waving streams, the fragrant air,
And hills of softest green, that boast the charm
Of bending lotos, amaranth, and rose,

And herbs of blooming pride; the crystal seas,
By daring barks unploughed, were richly gemmed
In sparkling colors of ten thousand flowers,
Deep-rooted in the mild unruffled beds
That bound with silver edge the painted plains,
Reflected on the bright and silent tide;
The lustre-beaming atmosphere above
Shone on the peaceful ocean, and illum'd
The blue foundations of the glassy depths,
Or played among the foliage that adorned
The verdant gulphs; the ripening fruitage swelled,
And round the solitary arbours twined;
The pendent blossom and the opening bud
Profusely scattered o'er the bended boughs
Their grateful sweets; th' united seasons danced

Round the deserted scene, and graced the bowers
In every shadowy vale, with every hue

And fairest broidery of great Nature's hand.
Book V. pp. 171–173.

We add the following description of the bed of the Pacific Ocean, after its waters have been dried up by the last conflagration:

Above the dark foundations of the main
Glittered the coral palaces, th' abode

Of countless insects, shewed in varying curves
Of white and purest purple-once the base
Of islands, spangling the Pacific realms
With golden foliage, and the sweets of spring,
When once their mighty monarch tranquil rolled
His sheltering waves along their flowery mounds;
Now, of his power bereft, confused and torn,
Or scattered o'er the broken rocks they fall,
The first dread trophy of the spoiler fire!
With these the tottering relics and the domes
Of earth's primeval kings, and mouldering towers,
Erected ere the flood of waters whelmed
The pristine globe!

The branching forests of the lowest deep
Clothed the black rocks beneath them, where no beam
Of the light-giving sun, or midnight moon,
Had pierced th' unfathomed caverns, or disturbed
Their vast inhabitants; no voice of man
Had echoed through the desolate abyss;

Though many a wreck, and many a drowning corpse,
Descending through the green and stormy flood,
With death-fixed eye, unconscious of its grave,
Glared wildly on the large Leviathan,
That wondering gazed upon the human form,
As slowly stalking o'er the humid soil
He moved; half-reasoning of the distant land,
Whence came his ghastly and mysterious prey,
The mighty sea-snake his procumbent length
In tortured volumes turned; the long-lost wealth,
Deep-buried in the bosom of the tide,

By Avarice' iron heart through life deplored,
Shone through the wide destruction of the deep,
As gems that sparkle o'er their owner's bier;
And shattered fleets, forsaken by mankind,
Hurl their consuming fragments through the air,
Lighting the general ruin with their flame,
Dim torches pointing to a new-made grave.

Book VIII. p. 287-289.

From these extracts our readers will perceive that Mr. Townsend's chief merit lies in the description of extended and magnificent scenery. He errs, indeed, in the profusion of his glitter; and he fatigues us by his want of contrast, and not allow ing seasons for repose. This fault, however, which time will correct, arises in a good degree from the aerial nature of his subject. The conduct of his story, too, we think is not altoge ther judicious. The same ground is trodden in the song of Jediel, and the narrative of Brahma; and the episode, in which the latter is concerned, is of a length very disproportioned to the poem. Indeed, the dissertation of that singular personage, whilst resting in the sun, appears out of both time and character. A malignant spirit, sent on a great work of destruction, might indeed sit down, and give a narrative of circumstances relating to the system he was about to destroy; but that he should be eloquent in praise of its virtue, and rapturous in his description of its happiness, is not at all probable. The whole narration might, without the least impropriety, have been transferred to Jediel in the mouth of the present speaker, it is dra matically absurd. Mr. Townsend has succeeded the least in the scenes laid in the infernal worid. He appears to have followed the Pilgrim's Progress more than Milton; and hence his hell is that of a pious enthusiast, rather than of a sublime poet. But his brighter visions want only a little more distinct, ness to render them exquisite.-We heartily wish him health to complete his work, in the full confidence that he will shine more as he advances farther; and that he will succeed in refuting the fashionable doctrine, that the age is too refined, and its criticism too severe, to admit of the bolder efforts of original genius.

Should any of our readers have a wish to see a comparison regularly instituted between this poet and Milton, we assure them that the task would not be difficult, and beg they will amuse themselves in performing it. They will find the former not less a patriot than the latter, and a good deal more loyal. Never, indeed, were the praises of Great Britain, and of the illustrious House of Brunswick, sung in strains loftier or more earnest, than those that issue from the mouth of Brahma, though but a demon: would that the poet had made him an angel! And those who have been accustomed to extol the advantages resulting from our insular situation will rejoice to hear, that, at the consummation of all things, Britain is not to be consumed like other countries with fire, but swallowed up at once in the ocean; while it will be consolatory to the gentlemen of the Common Hall of the City of London to learn that, be the result of the present war what it may, they run no risk of being forced out of the frying-pan into the fire.

ART. II.-Maria; or the Hollanders: by Louis Bonaparte. In three Volumes. London. Colburn. 1815.

WERE it not for the interest excited by the name prefixed to this work, we should not have thought of introducing it to the notice of our readers. It is, however, very curious and edifying to observe how empiricism detects itself even in this age of quackery; and how the favorites of fortune discover their unworthiness of the attention they have attracted. Thus, the mad ambition of Napoleon discovered to Europe the slender foundations on which his fame had been erected—a fame which might otherwise have been regarded as the effect of great but perverted intellects; and thus, poor Louis, who is said to be the most inoffensive of his family, has, in this little work, exposed the full extent of his feebleness-which before was known only to his own particular friends.

This production of ci-devant royalty has the rare merit of originality in its design-it is a Dutch Romance, and its persons the most sentimental of Hollanders! Its opening scene is laid in the most beautiful spot in the neighbourhood of Amsterdam -a noble mansion of unspeakable beauty-in which an incomparable sister, and a pair of most ineffably attached lovers reside. The sister, however, is completely inistress, for "the children," as she terms her brother and "the celestial Maria," can exchange neither a smile nor a flower without her especial permission. This divine lady, in one of her condescending moods, actually informs her brother Julius, that she is a widow. -that her husband was a Dutch Admiral, very brave, sentimental and refined—and that he perished" in a frightful tem pest:" and having from painful experience discovered that lovers are liable to be separated for ever, she prudently resolves not to suffer the young couple to be united. At last, however, she thinks better of the matter, and every thing is arranged for the union; when war breaks out between France and Holland, and Julius is detained at Lisle, and compelled, by the conscription" no doubt, to join the French armies. The ladies set out for Paris to procure his liberation-but in vain-he is forced to depart with the revolutionary bands, having, however, been specially allowed by his wonderful sister to embrace Maria. In the night following, a very affecting incident occurs-the heroine bursts into Hermacintha's chamber, clings round her neck, and begs she will allow her to be married immediatelyno matter to whom; but that prudent guardian merely suffers her to cry herself to sleep. In the mean time, the lover goes to the wars, and performs, of course, prodigies of valor, actually