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-Say, when to kindle soft delight,

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

A figh so short, and yet so sweet?
O fay—but no, it must not be,

Adieu, enchanting girl, adieu !
Yet still, methinks, you frown on me;
Or never could I fly from you."

« When by the greenwood Gide, at summer eve,

Poetic visions charm my closing eye;
And fairy-scenes, that fancy loves to weave,

Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,

Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heav'n away,

And all is folitude, and all is night!
-Ah! now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,

Unsheaths its rerrors in the sultry air!
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,

Lifts the broad shield, and points the sparkling spear.
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,

Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore:
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum Alings!

-I wake in horror, and “ dare sleep no more !" These pieces which are entitled to our praise as compofitions of elegance and feeling, are however in no respect superior to those which may now be met with among the poetry of our periodical works. Elegance is, indeed, almost the only attribute of the modern muse.

Naucratia; or Naval Dominion : a Poem. By Henry

James Pye, Esq. 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 especially directed to her efforts. Threatened with an invasion, our navy constitutes our


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

The poem is divided into three books. The bard takes an ample sweep into the history of Britain. He enumerates in animated and flowing verse, our various naval triumphs. We could select many beautiful parsages. But we must refrain from numerous quotations. Our limits will not permit it. We however will present the reader with two specimens, which will afford him an idea of the manner in which the whole


is executed. The first shall be a description of the British Sailor, and will not fail of commanding our approbation.

« 'Tis not the oak whose hardy branches wave
O'er Britan's cliffs, and all her tempefts brave;
'Tis not the ore her iron bowels yield,
The cordage growing on her fertile field,
That form her naval strength.-'Tis the bold race
Laughing at toil, and gay in danger's face,
Who quit with joy, when fame and glory lead,
Their richest pasture and their greeneit mead,
The perils of the stormy deep to dare,
And jocund own their dearest pleasures there.
One common zeal the manly race inspires,
One common cause cach ardent bosom fires,
From the bold youth whose agile limbs ascend
The giddy malt when angry winds contend,
And while the yard dips low its pointed arm,
Clings to the cord, and sings amidit the storm,
To the experienced chief, who knows to guide
The labouring vefsel through the rolling tide;
Or when contending {quadrons fierce engage,
Directs the bartle'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 sacred sources of this generous train,
Daring beyond what fable sings of old,
Yet mild in conquest, and humane as bold;


Now rushing on the foe with frown severe,
Now mov'd to mercy by compaflion's tear.-
Fierce as the ruthless elements they brave
When their wrong'd country calls them to the wave;
Mild as the softeit breeze that faus thy itle,
When sooth'd by peace and wooing beauty's smile.
A race peculiar to thy happy coast,
But loft by folly once, for ever loft.
Ne'er from the lap of luxury and case
Shall spring the hardy warrior of the seas.-
A toilfome youth the mariner must form,
Nurs’d on the wave, and cradled in the storm.”

The second specimen shall contain the poet's spirited 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,
Abalh'd her recreant foes avow their fear,
On Gallia's threai’ning boasts, with scornful frown,
From her white cliffs the looks indignant down ;
And while her fleet each clime remote explores,
While wide increasing commerce spreads her ftores,
Wealth, science, courage, mingled flowers bestow
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 sung
In feeble accents with a faltering tongue,
Forgive the during effort, nor repine,
Though but recorded in a verse like mine.
The proudest muse who foars on fiction's wings
Dims the bright lustre of the deeds she sings,
The minikrels of the epic song of old,
Who mighty acts of fabled chiefs unfold,
What feeds of fame for others have they town,
Whose glorious works ennobled but their own
Your worth on that eternal base shall live,
Nor fiction can destroy nor fiction give;


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an answer, politely fignifying, “ That they did not think it would succeed in representation.”

“ With this answer the Translator refted fully satisfied,” until he saw the Stranger" announced for representation : but, when he saw it acted, with scarcely ang alteration from his own manuscrips, except in the names of the characters, and with the addition of a song, and fome dancing, entirely unconnected with the subject, he could not help feeling that he had been ungenerouly treated."

66 On comparing all circumstances,” he thinks be may “stand excused for supposing that a manager who writes hinsel,' may fometimes (as Sir FRETFUL PLAGIARY says) serve the thoughts of others as gypfies do ítolen children: disfigure them to make then pass for his own.”

This translation, we are informed, is “ printed from the copy which was sent to the managers," and “ most of the nonfente, which was hissed on the stage, is omitted." The Translator has also ventured to deviate from the original plot in one delicate particular. He has not made the wife actually commit that crime which is a stain to the female character, though she was on the brink of ruin, by eloping from her husband.-This liberty he trusts will be excused; partly because he feels that, according to the dictates of nature, reconciliation would in such circumstances be more easily obtained : but chiefly, because he considered it as more confiftent with the moral sentiment, and more congenial to the heart of an English audience, than the forgiveness of a wife who had been actually guilty.”

So much for the justice of managers and the encouragement of genius !--Eight or ten days was certainly a fufficient length of time, in which to mutilate, change the characters of, and introduce a song into a dramatic piece :-one stanza of which fong, however, if not a direct theft, is a palpable plagiariim from Mr. Tickell.

This play, neither in its acted nor printed state, is properly adapted to the English stage. It poffefses al! the weight without any of the intereft of tragedy. With the exception of its moral, all the objections adduced in our Dramatic Review attach with equal firength to the printed copy, and we again assert, it never cun become a standard favourite with the Public.


He's Much to Blame, a Comedy ; in Five Afts. pp. 96.

8vo, Robinsons. IN this degenerate age, the perufal of a legitimate co

medy is a trear which we do not experience every day.- Mr. Holcroft is the reputed author of this play · if he be really so, we think him much to blame in not avowing it, as it is unquestionably a much better piece than any which have received the sanction of his name.

He's Much to Blame is a comedy--it is not a five-act farce. We present our Readers with the following scenes :

Sir G. Nay then, I am on the wing! " Maria, (advancing) Whither?

« Sir G. Ah! Have I found you again ? So much the better ! I have been thinking of you this half hour.

Mar. Ay? That must have been a prodigious effort ! « Sir G. What?

“ Mar. To think of one person før so great a length of time.

6 Sir G. True. Were you my bitterest enemy, you could not have uttered a more galling truth. I am glad I have met with you, however,

Mar. So am I. 'Tis my errand here. Sir G. You now, I hope, will let me see your face?

Mar. I might, perhaps, were it but possible to see your heart.

Sir G. No, no: that cannot be. I have no heart. “ Mar. I am sorry for it!

« Sur G. Su am í. But come, I wish to be better acquainted with you.

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