Literary Review.

Be niggards of advice on no pretence,
For the worst avarice is that of fenfe.
With mean complacence ne'er betray your trust,
Nor be fo civil as to prove unjuft.

Fear not the anger of the wife to raise,

Those beft can bear reproof who merit praise.

POPE'S ESSAY ON CRITICISM.

An Epifle to a Friend, with other Poems. By the Author of "The Pleafures of Memory." pp. 47. 4to. 2s. 6d. Cadell and Davies, 1798.

T is at all times incumbent on authors to confider the extent of their reputation, and to know-that whatever doth not add to their fame, muft infallibly leffen it. Had this circumftance occurred to Mr. Rogers, the author of The Pleafures of Memory, we do not think that he would have put upon us the very painful duty of cenfuring him for the prefent publication. If indeed, confcious as he must be that his works will defcend to pofterity, he meant merely to add to the bulk of those works, by the performance now before us, he has undoubtedly done as much, and as certainly no more than he intended. But we cannot think fo of this poet; and therefore. although we may find fomething to commend in these pages, let it be remembered that as a whole, we cannot view them in any other light than as detracting from the established merit of their author.

Seeing very little worth notice in the "Epistle to a Friend," we present the ensuing fmall poems to the readers of this miscellany.

VOL. IV,

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE.

"On thee, bleft youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.
Each foft enchantment of the foul is her's;
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.
As on the moves with hefitating grace,

She wins affurance from his foothing voice;
And, with a look the pencil could not trace,
Smiles thro' her blushes, and confirms the choice.
Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !
To thee the turns-forgive a virgin's fears!
To thee the turns with fureft, tendereft claim;
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears!
At each response the facred rite requires,

From her full bofom burfts the unbidden figh,
A ftrange myfterious awe the scene inspires;
And on her lips the trembling accents die.
O'er her fair face what wild emotions play!
What lights and shades in sweet confufion blend!
Soon fhall they fly, glad harbingers of day,
And fettled funfhine on her foul defcend!

Ah! foon, thine own confeft, ecstatic thought!
That hand fhall ftrew each flinty path with flowers;
And those blue eyes, with mildest luftre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domeftic hours !"

A FAREWELL.

"Once more, enchanting girl, adieu!
I must be gone, while yet I may.
Oft fhall I weep to think of you;
But here I will not, cannot ftay.

The fweet expreffion of that face,
For ever fhifting, yet the fame,
Ah no, I dare not turn to trace,
It melts my foul, it fires my frame!
Yet give me, give me, ere I go,
One little lock of thofe fo bleft,
That lend your cheek a warmer glow,
And on your white neck love to reft.

Say,

-Say, when to kindle foft delight,

That hand has chanc'd with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite

A figh fo fhort, and yet fo fweet?

O fay-but no, it must not be,
Adieu, enchanting girl, adieu!
-Yet ftill, methinks, you frown on me;
Or never could I fly from you."

TO THE KNAT.

"When by the greenwood fide, at fummer eve,
Poetic vifions charm my clofing eye;
And fairy-fcenes, that fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of fweeteft minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in bufy queft of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brufh from my lids the hues of heav'n away,
And all is folitude, and all is night!
-Ah! now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unfheaths its terrors in the fultry air!
No guardian fylph, in golden panoply,

Lifts the broad fhield, and points the fparkling fpear.
Now near and nearer ruth thy whirring wings,
Thy dragon-fcales ftill wet with human gore:

Hark, thy fhrill horn its fearful larum flings!

-I wake in horror, and "dare fleep no more!"

Thefe pieces which are entitled to our praise as compofitions of elegance and feeling, are however in no refpect fuperior to those which may now be met with among the poetry of our periodical works. Elegance is, indeed, almoft the only attribute of the modern mufe.

Naucratia; or Naval Dominion: a Poem. By Henry James Pye, Efq. Nicol.

THE poet Laureat is particularly happy in the choice of his subject. At all times our naval dominion has been the pride and boast of our countrymen. Now, our eyes are more efpecially directed to her efforts. Threatened with an invasion, our navy conftitutes our

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chief

chief bulwark. To its valour we look up with no ordinary expectation; nor fhall we look in vain.

The poem is divided into three books. The bard takes an ample fweep into the history of Britain. He enumerates in animated and flowing verfe, our various naval triumphs. We could fele&t many beautiful pasfages. But we must refrain from numerous quotations. Our limits will not permit it. We however will prefent the reader with two fpecimens, which will afford

him an idea of the manner in which the whole poem is executed. The first shall be a description of the British failor, and will not fail of commanding our appro

bation.

""Tis not the oak whose hardy branches wave O'er Britan's cliffs, and all her tempests brave; 'Tis not the ore her iron bowels yield, The cordage growing on her fertile field, That form her naval ftrength.

-'Tis the bold race

Laughing at toil, and gay in danger's face,
Who quit with joy, when fame and glory lead,
Their richest pafture and their greenest mead,
The perils of the ftormy deep to dare,
And jocund own their dearest pleasures there.
One common zeal the manly race inspires,
One common cause cach ardent bofom fires,
From the bold youth whose agile limbs afcend
The giddy maft when angry winds contend,
And while the yard dips low its pointed arm,
Clings to the cord, and fings amidst the storm,
To the experienced chief, who knows to guide
The labouring veffel through the rolling tide;
Or when contending (quadrons fierce engage,
Directs the battle's thunder where to rage:-
All, all alike with cool unfeign'd delight
Brave the tempestuous gale, and court the fight.
Britain! with jealous industry maintain
The facred fources of this generous train,
Daring beyond what fable fings of old,
Yet mild in conquest, and humane as bold;

Now

Now rushing on the foe with frown fevere,
Now mov'd to mercy by compaffion's tear.-
Fierce as the ruthless elements they brave

When their wrong'd country calls them to the wave;
Mild as the fofteit breeze that fans thy ifle,
When footh'd by peace and wooing beauty's smile.
A race peculiar to thy happy coaft,

But loft by folly once, for ever loft.
Ne'er from the lap of luxury and cafe
Shall spring the hardy warrior of the feas.-
A toilfome youth the mariner must form,

Nurs'd on the wave, and cradled in the ftorm."

The fecond fpecimen fhall contain the poet's fpirited apostrophe to our naval heroes.

"Imperial mistress of the briny plains,
Without a rival, now Britannia reigns.
Where'er in warlike pomp her barks appear,
Abath'd her recreant foes avow their fear,

On Gallia's threat'ning boafts, with fcornful frown,
From her white cliffs the looks indignant down;
And while her fleet each clime remote explores,
While wide increafing commerce fpreads her ftores,
Wealth, fcience, courage, mingled flowers beftow
To deck the naval crown on George's brow.

Ye laurel'd chiefs, who rais'd his billowy reign!
Ye living heroes, who that power maintain !
Whofe actions of renown my voice has fung
In feeble accents with a faltering tongue,
Forgive the daring effort, nor repine,
Though but recorded in a verfe like mine.
The proudest mufe who foars on fiction's wings
Dims the bright luftre of the deeds fhe fings,
The minstrels of the epic fong of old,
Who mighty acts of fabled chiefs unfold,
What feeds of fame for others have they fown,
Whofe glorious works ennobled but their own?-
Your worth on that eternal base shall live,
Nor fiction can deftroy nor fiction give;