the goodness of the roet's neart. He commences by a retrospect of the lamentable state of freedom in England, dwells upon the value of the appointment of justices; then draws the character which a justice ought to bear, enumerates the reasons why he should lean to the side of mercy and make allowances for the errors of poor human nature. His apology for the vagrant is a delicious bit "The child of misery, baptiz'd in tears ;" and his appeals for protection of the poor are admirable. His tale, "Owen of Carron," was the last of his works. It is founded upon the ancient and more pathetic ballad of "Gil Morrice," and records the story of a Highland maid, who gives her heart to one who is not chosen for her, and whose rival procures his assassination. But, as we have intimated, it is rather sound practical sense, gentle and amiable thoughts, or the results of experience learnt with a kindly reading in the great school of the world-the actual and every day world-in the form of easy and agreeable verse, than the exercise of the high and enduring attributes of the poet, which have given fame to the name of Langhorne. He rarely warms into enthusiasm. "Tenderness," says one of his biographers, "seems to have been his peculiar characteristic;" but even this quality rarely assumes the winning and impressive influence that touches the heart. The great defects of his poetry arise from the redundancy of ornament which he appeared to consider essential in producing a vivid impression upon the mind of his reader. He is rarely content to picture nature in her own plain but most attractive garb; and often fails in his attempts to lead votaries to her shrine by dressing her in THE gipsy-race my pity rarely move; Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love. For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snuggling, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call. Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait, Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? Far other treatment she who breathless lay, Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increas'd by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, The ruffian officer oppos'd her stay, And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless had she strove. Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expir'd-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear-for by my soul's last sigh, That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." Too late!-his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assign'd the jail, The living object of thy honest rage, Old in parochial crimes, and steel'd with age, The grave churchwarden !—unabash'd he bears Weekly to church his book of wicked prayers; And pours, with all the blasphemy of praise, His creeping soul in Sternhold's creeping lays! ODE TO THE RIVER EDEN. BEAUTIFUL Eden! parent stream, In pensive thought their poet stray'd; Bright through the trembling shade. Yet shall they paint those scenes again, The azure worlds below survey'd: When time tripp'd o'er yon bank of flowers, The poplar tall, that waving near Would whisper to thy murmurs free; Burnish their green locks in the sun; Or at the last lone hour of day, But, Fancy, can thy mimic power My full heart pour'd the lover's tale, O goddess of the crystal bow, That dwell'st the golden meads among; In vain the maids of memory fair And in thy breast this moral find— INSCRIPTION ON A STUDY DOOR. O THOU that shalt presume to tread With folly's lore, thy youth has taught- |