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Wits we can expect none of those im- great poets, to say that he is a writer palpable gossamer-links, which are too of the same kind as Milton and Shakes fine for the touch of reason, but which speare, is absurd: verse is common to

wave visibly before the eye of fancy, them, and verse is all which they have pertaml form perceptible connections be in common.” He is the poet of the

tween remote ideas-we seek in them, town and of the schools--exquisite in from the for pone of that iridescent colouring of satire and ethics, in mock-heroics and

truth, for which the eye must be pro- vers de societé, in a prologue or a reflecd neta bea perly stationed to bring out its beauty tive epistle, in an epitaph or an epigram

they deal in none of those imagina--but these are not the moulds into

tire comparisons, resemblances, sym- which the highest order of poets natuthe arch

pathies, antipathies, relations, disso- rally cast their ore. Baser materials pances, and indemonstrable attribu- than “thoughts that breatheand words tives

, with which the inner sense is that burn” will do to be so worked up; to accord, and in which the mind is to and in Pope's poetical temperament be have faith, as long as the world of fic had no such pulses as must have throb tion is the region we tread in, but which bed along

every vein of him who clothWe are not found to carry into actual ed passion with all the magnificence of life and expose to the work-day

world's imagination in Lear, and wantoned carse and churlish rubs they knew with the many-twinkling wings of fanpothing of that glamour which hallows cy in the Midsummer-Night's Dream things of every-day's growth, and of and the Tempest. even-beaten pathway occurrences,

“ It is remarkable,” says Wordswhich makes us love the moonlight worth, “ that excepting a passage or for better reasons than that of its al- two in the Windsor Forest of Pope, lowing us to dispense with a lantern, - and some delightful pictures in the which shews us more in Stonehenge poems of Lady Winchelsea, the poetry

a great many large stones and a of the period intervening between the great deal of greensward, which sees publication of the Paradise Lost and something beyond much valuable tim- the Seasons, does not contain a single ber

, while we rove in mid-day dark- new image of external nature, and Dess beneath the "extravagant arms" scarcely presents a familiar one, from of the Norman Conqueror's forest, and which it can be inferred that the

eye which can exalt a daisy or a primrose of the Poet had been steadily fixed upintoa

potent talisman, having command on his object, much less that his feel over the treasures in the cells of me- ings had urged him to work upon it in mory, or of affection, while to the true the genuine spirit of imagination.”

We cannot complain of any such

omission now, in the general spirit of a primrose by a river's brim, A yellow primrose is to him,

the poetry of the age. We have reAnd it is nothing more."

turned to drink at the old cisterns, and

have found the springs as copious and Undoubtedly Pope is the greatest of as fresh as they were in the olden time. all those of our writers of verse, who The author before us, putting forth no owe scarce any part of their fame to pretensions to be ranked among the their accurate pencilling after nature, greater lights of the poetic sky, is, notor to the rich visions conjured up amid withstanding, fully participant in what the halo-light of imagination. Never Southey calls the great revival of our theless

, he is never undeserving of at- days. Her talent of observation has tention, for, independently of his skill not been idle, nor has that of imagina

versification, there is, as Southey tion been suffered to rust. We speak says in his Preface to .Specimens of of the writer of the book as a female ; the later English Poets, that hasty for however the delicacy, the purity, but clever coup-d’xil of this depart- the enthusiasm for home and homement of our literature," a bottom of born happiness, so apparent in every sound sense in him.

In the Anglo- page of "Ellen Fitzarthur," may have Gallican school, (such it merits to be convinced us of it, yet here, in the called, for our palates were then spoilt “ Conte à mon Chien," we have the for the racy taste of our ancestors, by explicit avowal. We were prepared to a foolish deference to France,) Pope expect something good from the pen must be allowed to be the very first in which produced the work we spoke of, excellence, -" but to class him with and are not disappointed. The execu

prosaic man,

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tion of “ Ellen Fitzarthur” was beauti. We will not abridge the plot of the
ful; it was indeed far beyond the me- piece, but will introduce our readers to
rits of the mere story itself. Like the the characters. “A narrow path, like
doors of the Temple of the Sun in Ovid, a pale grey thread” lcads to the cottage,
the skill of the artificer was greater and half way down this little frequent-
than the intrinsic worth of the metal ed walk,
on which the workman displayed it.
The ground-work of the story was de Is gazing on the scene below;

“ a traveller now fective in novelty. This is by no means In coarse and

tatter'd garb is he, the case in many of the poems of the And he looks like one return'd from sea, present little book; and the same taste- Whose sallow cheek, and wither'd form, ful eye for the picturesque, and the Have borne the brunt of sun and storm. same command of the vivid language

P. 4 of poetry, are happily exerted on less pre-occupied subjects.

After a pause, the lonely man" deThe longest composition in it is the scends the path, (half-path, half

. first, and it gives the name to the book. stair,”) and stands before the cot and

its inmates. It is a pathetic narrative, in which the Tale which the Widow tells is only a “ Close by the open door is placed part. We select the following as a A high-back'd wicker chair, -- "tis faced specimen of the sort of sketching which To the bright sunset. There sits one the hand of this tasteful artist so freely Whose eyes towards that setting sun produces. The effect of the evenings Are turn d in vain—its lustre falls light of summer in a rocky glen is de- Unheeded on those sightless balls; scribed in the outset, and the scene of But, on the silver hairs that stray

From her plaited coif, the evening ray the story is thus laid :

Reposes, and with mellow light 46 Half down one rifted side was seen

Edges the folds of her kerchief white.

That aged matron's chair beside, A little shelf, a platform green,

A little damsel, azure-eyed A nook of smiling solitude,

And golden-hair'd, sings merrily, Lodged there in Nature's frolic mood.

The while her restless fingers ply There, many an ash and aspen grey, The tedious woof of edging fine ; From rent and fissure forced its way,

And, as across the lengthening line, And where the bare grey rock peeped With lightning speed the bobbins fly, through,

The little maid sings merrily.”—Pp. 6, 7.
Lichens of every tint and hue
Marbled its sides; and mossy stains

To those who shall deliver them-
Enseam'd their vegetable veins.

selves up to the pathos of the story, The streamlet gush'd from that rocky wall, we announce that there is a turning And close beside its sparkling fall

point of consolation in it. Although A little cot, like a martin's nest,

there is much sowing in tears, yet the Clung to that lonely place of rest. The living rock its walls supplied

poor widow is allowed to reap some North, east, and south ; the western side, three interlocutors in this cheerful

little harvest in joy. We leave the With fragments of the pale grey stone,

state. Was rudely built, whose silv'ry tone Contrasted with its chaste repose

“ A blackbird in that sunny nook The hollyhock and briar rose.

Hangs in his wicker cage but look!
Beneath the thatch, where woodbines clung, What youthful form is her's; whose care
In wicker cage a blackbird hung;

Has newly hung the favourite there?
And a ceaseless murmur met the ear, 'Tis Agnes !_Hark that peal of bells
From the busy hum of a beehive near. The Sabbath invitation swells,
In many a crevice of the rock,

And forth they come, the happy three,
The wall-flower and far-fragrant stock The re-united family.
Sprung up; and every here and there, The son leads on, with cautious pace,
Collected with industrious care,

His old blind parent, in whose face,
A little patch of shallow mould

Age-worn and care-worn though it be, Was gay with flowers; there, spiked with The bright reflection you may see gold,

Of new-born happiness. And she,
Tall rockets bloomed, and borage blue, With restless joy who bounds along,
And pinks, and sweet valerian grew; Beginning of the oft-checkd song,
Here thyme, and pennyroyal green, (Check'd by remembrance of the day)
And balm and marjoram were seen ; A moment then less wildly gay,
And many a herb, of virtues known She moves demurely on her way,
To rustic pharmacy alone.”-Pp. 2, 3. Clasping her new-found father's hand...

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But who can silence at command

effects of the sudden sunshine on the a The soaring sky-lark's rapturous strain ? birds--the passing of a train of cows

The mountain rue-buck, who can rein ? from the pasture--and lastly, of a ex Agnes' gay spirit bursts again Discretion's bonds--a cobweb chain !

flock of sheep, which And off she starts in frolic glee,

56 wind into the stream of light Like fawn from short restraint set free."

That pours across the road,

And all the moving mass is bright
P. 67.

In one broad yellow flood.
"The April Day,” even without the
date of “ 20th, 1820,” would, from its
freshness and accuracy, have suggested

The shepherd saunters last—but why,

Comes with him, the supposition that it was from actual

pace pace, observation. No heedless or unskilful

That ewe ? and why, so piteously, could have caught the marks and Swung in his careless hand, she sees,

Looks up the creature's face ? eye i tokens, which must have been noted

(Poor ewe !), a dead cold weight, down at the minute they occurred. The little one, her soft warm fleece « All day the low-hung clouds have dropt But yesterday, no happier dam

So fondly cherish'd late.
Their garner'd fullness down ;
All day that soft grey mist hath wrapt

Ranged o'er those pastures wide
Hill, valley, grove, and town.

Than she, fond creature! when the lamb There has not been a sound to-day

Was sporting by her side. To break the calm of nature;

It was a new-born thing—the rain Nor motion, I might alınost say,

Pour'd down all night-it's bed Of life or living creature:

Was drench'd and cold. Morn came again, Of waving bough, or warbling bird,

But the young lamb was dead. Or cattle faintly lowing;

Yet the poor mother's fond distress I could have half believed I heard

It's every art had tried The leaves and blossoms growing.

To shield, with sleepless tenderness, I stood to hearI love it well,

The weak one at her side. The rain's continuous sound,

Round it all night, she gather'd warm Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,

Her woolly limbs her head Down straight into the ground.

Close curved across its feeble form; For leafy thickness is not yet

Day dawn'd, and it was dead. Earth's naked breast to skreen,

She saw it dead---she felt, she knew Though every dripping branch is set

It had no strength, no breath, -With shoots of tender green.

Yet how should she conceive, poor ewe! Sure, since I look'd at early morn,

The mystery of death ? Those honeysuckle buds

It lay before her stiff and cold... Have swellid to double growth; that thorn

Yet fondly she essay'd Hath put forth larger studs ;

To cherish it in love's warm fold, That lilac's cleaving cones have burst,

Then restless trial made; The milk-white flowers revealing;

Moving, with still reverted face, Even now, upon my senses first

And low complaining bleat, Methinks their sweets are stealing :

To entice from their damp resting-place, The very earth, the steamy air,

Those little stiffening feet. Is all with fragrance rife!

All would not do, when all was tried--And grace and beauty every where

Love's last fond lure was vain ; Are flushing into life.

So quietly by its dead side, Down, down they come-those fruitful

She laid her down again.”---Pp.75—78. stores!

The rest of the volume is occupied Those earth-rejoicing drops !

by the Sea of Life-William and Jean, A momentary deluge pours,

a most touching narrative-Conte å Then thins, decreases, stops.

mon Chien, of which the half-sportive, And, ere the dimples on the stream half-serious introduction is admirable ;

Have circled out of sight,
Lo! from the west, a parting gleam

it is addressed to her old spaniel, with Breaks forth, of amber light.

whom she is in the habit of holding 11'

a colloquy:

Ay, let them laugh who understand But yet behold-abrupt and loud,

No utterance, save of human speech... Comes down the glittering rain ;

We have a language at command The farewell of a passing cloud

They cannot feel, we cannot teach. The fringes of its train.”_Pp. 70–73. Yes, thy dark eye informeth mine

With sense than words more eloquent, Want of space forbids us from pur- Thy very ears, so long and fine, suing the details of the picture-the Are flexibly intelligent.”...P. 126.

At the end are two dramatic sketches, his presence, though not seen, is felt« Pride and Passion,” and “ Editha.” the fall of dew is never visible to the The former approaches the verge of eye during the night, but the dawn horror ; but in the latter, although our insensibly arrives, and the renovating seel tus tears are called for, they are such as drops are found hanging on every leaf

. cease to flow when we look upward, However dark be the night of grief, there is no bitterness in them. It is when the good are mourning for the same miz an exemplification of earthly instabi- good, there is sure to be such a morn lity, and of the fragility of all that is of present refreshment and glaclness of dear o beautiful and graceful in this world; heart, and hope of enjoying the perbut beside the death-bed of the inno- fect day. cent, there is the angel of peace, and

THE BEECHEN WOOD. A SONG.

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How dark and dismal, my Jessy dear,

Were the road of life to me without thee!
Wherever I wander, far or near,
My heart is fill’d with thoughts about thee.

When the western sky is crimson-hued,

And the twilight star shines o'er thee,
Come down, love, to the beechen wood,

And I'll be waiting for thee !
The lark he rises up with the sun,

And soars, and soars, till heaven is ringing;
But better I love the blackbird dun,
From the twilight coppice softly singing.

When the western sky, &c.
Long is the lonesome night to me;

of the daylight I often weary;
But, oh! when the sun sinks o'er the sea,
My bosom burns till I meet my deary.

When the western sky, &c.
Oh, what were all the wealth of earth!

Oh, what were all its honours splendid !
The proudest lot, or the loftiest birth,
If not with love like mine attended !

When the western sky, &c.
Though far from me shine grandeur's ray,

Content, I envy none I see, love;
And though toil be mine the live-long day,
I've the evening hope of meeting thee, love!

When the western sky is crimson huel,

And the twilight star shines o'er thee,
Come down, love, to the beechen wood,

And I'll be waiting for thee!

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TOWNSEND'S TOUR THROUGH IRELAND AND GREAT BRITAIN. One of the great and conspicuous districts where others imagine that no excellencies of this Magazine is, its literature whatever exists. Not a pro

near approach to omnipresence. We vincial press poursoutits brochures, but į penetrate into regions unknown, save slap! a copy comes in to us, very free

to the plodding gazetteer ; we illumi- quently with a review ready written, pate obscure districts, which would oiling over the author with the goodly burst on the ear of the incredulous chrism of flattery, or cutting him up public with a sound of perplexing no- with the most savage and unrelenting velty. Gentle reader, did you ever cruelty. We, of course, frequently hear of such a place as the jaw-break- ling the provincial book into the fire, ing town of Llanwrst, for instance ? and consign no less frequently the proWe bet six to four you never did vincial critic to purposes more easily and yet we have three correspondents conjectured than decorously expresssleeping in one bed there, who write ed. And on the contrary, we some the most pathetic poetry possible. Did times admit them into our pages, and you suspect the existence of such a sometimes disregarding the reviewer, place as Aghabullague? Decidedly in partibus barbarorum, do up an afnot! and yet there we have a contribu- fair ourselves in the twinkling of a tor whose genius is particularly splen- bed-post. Thus, for instance, who did on topics of political economy. You would ever have heard of Dr Morris's may have perhaps heard of there be elegant letters, which issued from the ing a University at Aberdeen, in a press of Aberysthwith, had not a silly distant and confused murmur, little leek-eater transmitted usa copy, which suspecting, however, that from that we reviewed to the general satisfaction Panglossian mint of doctors of canon of the population of these kingdoms? and civil law, we derive articles of a A provincial press in Yorkshire exhipeculiar salmon-tasted jocosity. In bited Archdeacon Wrangham's elegant like manner, from Orkney to Wight, translation of the Odes of Horace-we from the Giant's Causeway to Glan- held it up to the admiration of our gariffe, we have trusty subjects, who good friend the public. The circumpour their tributary rivulets into our stance of his printing his pretty poetry magnificent reservoir, whence we dis- at the private press of Sir Egerton tribute them in kindly streams over Breeches, did not hinder us from exthe land. This subject we some time patiating on the great merits of that since have explained so much to our eminent Heavy Dragoon Minstrel, own satisfaction, and consequently Lieutenant Edward Quillinan of the that of the public, that there is no Fourth, or King's Own. Who ever need of expatiating any longer on it heard of there being a press in the city here. But as it is a point of great ge- of Cork? yet we actually, last year, neral interest—of paramount political demonstrated the fact, by our briefcriimportance of &c. &c. &c. as we tique on the excellent and loyal little may say, we shall most probably re- pamphlet of John Lord Carbery, which cur to it, and treat it with that due came to light in that most meritorigravity and regularity which its weight ous and cattle-slaughtering city. But calls for.

we should be as tedious as Joe Hume The advantages arising from this himself, were we to enumerate all the are various, but so obvious, that the similar instances. Truce then with meanest capacity in the country can prefaces, and let ús come to the point, at once appreciate them ; so plain, that towards which we have been moving even Peter Moore, or Kit Hutchinson,' with ambling pace. would not, we think, be much puz We are just going to add a fresh zled to see the great value of our ubic proof of our universal comprehension quity. Among other things, we get of the literary world around us. There intelligence of the state of literature in is another pamphlet® issuing from

A Tour through Ireland and the Northern parts of Great Britain, with Remarks on the Geological Štructure of the Places visited, made for the purpose of forming some jadgment respecting the Nature and Extent of the Coal Formation in Ireland. Cork Edwards and Savage. 1821. pp. 80. Vol. XI.

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