The DEATH of URIAH, a POEM.-BY KENNETH BRUCE, Esq.Sherwood and Co.

It is a favourite doctrine with those traders in literature, booksellers and publishers-that poetry is quite a drug, and that of the poems now published, nine-tenths pass quietly to the tomb of all the Capulets: the conclusion to be drawn is, that these unfortunates are abortions, who die in the birth, only because they are not worthy to live. It is never doubted that the public taste is always correct, or that that many-headed monster is the only judge whose decisions are always infallible. Our opinions, we confess, are quite the other way. lieve that the major part, or even any considerable proportion of the reading public, are adequate judges of poetical merit, or give always a just award; and we hold that the present age surpasses, in the number and excellence of its poetical productions, the Augustan age of Rome. Aye! and the Augustan age (as it has been called) of England

too.

We do not be

Even the fugitive pieces which constantly meet the eye, from the diurnal and periodical press, are blossoms so fair to the eye, and so sweet to the sense, that past literature appears, in the comparison, to be like a desert to a flower-garden. In speaking of the number of poems which are published, only to perish-we forget the much greater number of prose works which share the same fate: nor reflect that, of the mass of critics, who point, or who pervert public taste, not one of a hundred is himself a poet, or can compose a line of poetry. Again -all the world reads prose, and almost all the world writes it; but it is another taste which relishes-it is a finer spirit which inspires-poetry. You may dig clay from any hole with which to fabricate a critic-it is a vein of finer mould which enters into the composition of a poet.

We are led to these reflections from long observation, that while some poems are puffed to the skies, and have what is called a run-others of far higher merit are neglected, or never heard of.

It is with these remarks that we choose to introduce to our readers, one of the most promising poems we have lately met with, because our attention was attracted to it only very lately, It had till then escaped our critical eye, but we do not find our omission singular, as we hear it has also escape the notice of almost all our contemporaries. We are not fond of prophesying. We only say for ourselves that we admire it, and if it is not generally read, the public taste is not ours. We regard it indeed as a curiosity, because, considering that the subject is hackneyed, and we may say, has been so for ages, that it is surrounded with apparent difficulties, and encumbered with real prejudices, which we do not think it very easy to encounter-the manner in which the author has gone through his task is bold and original. The ground he treads, is beset with snares and pit-falls, but he does not seem aware of it, yet he never tripsobstructions present themselves on this hand and on that, against which you are sure he must run his head every moment, but he doubles these projections with the greatest naivete, and threads his way through brakes and briars without a scratch. From its title we expected to find it a stale and tasteless diatribe on the character of David, if not on the au

thority of the scriptures. It is not so. He, on the contrary, adheres steadily to the Sacred History, not only in all his facts, but in all his reasonings his details are curious, his inferences new; yet so natural, as to command immediate belief. The crime of David is indeed presented in hideous features, but not more hideous than it undoubtedly was; and there is a tone of virtuous indignation and pure morality running through the whole, as creditable to the author's heart as head. Sympathy with the injured husband-horror and indignation against his destroyer-loathing and disgust with the faithless Bathsheba, are the feelings kept up from beginning to end, with an intensity of interest we have not often felt. Our attention never for a moment flags, and we follow the plot to its final denoument, when the violence of the excitement has become so great, and the conflict of our feelings so oppressive, that we fetch a long-drawn breath to restore respiration.

The form being a continued narrative throughout, it is not easy to give extracts. But we shall take one or two almost at random, while we point out, without remark, in the order in which they lie, some of the principal beauties in the work.

The Proem-Evening, in an Oriental city and clime, is a delicate picture :

IT was in JUDAH!-that delightful clime

Renown'd in story,-sacred through all time:
'Twas evening,- and the glowing Orb of day,
In azure skies, sank gloriously away;
And living Nature-from the fervid heat
Respiring free-seem'd all abroad-to greet
The ambient air so soft, so fresh, so calm,
Inspiring renovated life- and there the balm
From grove and garden,―tree,--and fruit and flower,
In arbour,-gay parterre, and blooming bower,
Begemm'd with trembling drops of diamond dew,
Loaded the sense, with odours ever new.

The feelings of the parties after perpetration of the crime, which eventually is the cause of so much misery

Alas! there was a tremor at the heart,

And each was cold,-and both were glad to part;
Uriah's voice-was heard in every sound;
Uriah's footstep shook the palace round;
Uriah-seem'd to glide at every door;

Or stood where mortal never stood before:
And ev❜n whereon the guilty pair did lie,
All underneath the Royal canopy,
Uriah-drew the glittering hangings by!
Each had some secret ponderings within;

Both fear'd-but neither dared to say-'twas sin;

'Twas not repentance, but they felt just then,

Though once- -they could not that night sin again.

The state of David's mind, is a true picture of guilty remorse

Through the dark atmosphere, the live-long night,
In David's palace,-gleam'd the taper's light,
For he was wakeful;-Sleep nor sought, nor found,
But, restless, paced the Royal chamber round.
Shame, lust, and conscience,-held disputed sway;
He wish'd--paus'd-ponder'd-but he did not pray;

Uriah's journey from the camp, and anticipating of connubial affection and welcome from a fond and faithful wife is another gem

How would she welcome him, from dangers past,
How would she pray, that they might prove the last!
How would she round the gallant soldier twine!
And oh! her tears of joy, how sparkling shine.
And how, with importunity express-

Hopes, fears, and wishes, in each fond caress, And feel no shame-and feel no feeling less: And wash his weary feet, and chafe his brow; And say,"How shall we part again? oh! how?" Joab's character and fate-the death of Uriah-Joab's recognition of the body-Sepulture of the dead in the field of battle-the King's second message to Joab

"More strong against the gates,-against the wall

Advance fresh legions,-for fresh succours call:
Which, when at length proud Ammon faints before,
Fam'd RABBAH then,-shall famous be no more!
Raz'd to the dust, her palaces shall lie,

And not one column catch the trav'ller's eye;
And of her stately towers, the topmost stone
Shall be a tomb, to rest-her dead upon;

Her wall impregnable-a ruin'd heap,

'Neath which her slaughter'd sons in death shall sleep.
Her sons! ah! who shall tell their cruel fate,
The unknown pains, which on my fury wait?
Cleft to the heart, the iron axe shall swing-
The sinews start-the flesh in torture wring-
The iron harrow tear it from the bone,
And drenching floods of crimson, flow anon;
But chief their hated limbs to grind and gnaw,
And rend the quiv'ring nerves-the sweeping saw.
They boast of arms! and deep into their soul
Shall armour enter in-nor that the whole ;-
For through the fiery kiln shall Ammon pass,
Fann'd to the temperament-of burning brass;
By molten furnaces, the gauntlet rùn.--
Too happy in the race, if Death be won,
Where glowing pavements underneath him lie,
And gleaming overhead, th' ignited sky,
Like as when, by the elemental blast,
Charg'd with electric thunder, there is cast
Sulphuric vapours, whose fermenting breast
Hangs a dark cloud of ruddy amethist;
So, wrapp'd in fiery atmosphere around,
Sublimed intensely,--and in slavery bound
To pain, in this epitome of hell,

Servant of servants-shall proud Ammon dwell!”
So spake, ferocious, the Barbaric King;
Let not the hideous tale raise wondering,
For the same man, who melts at Beauty's eye,
Pierc'd with a glance, and soften'd with a sigh;
And woo'd to gentleness,-th' intestine storm
Hush'd to serenity, by some fair form;

Shall instant turn, and glut himself with pain,
Feast on a pang, and riot 'mid the slain :-

Now Blood, now Beauty ;-madd'ning in his brain.

For Lust and Cruelty, are near of kin,

Twin branches of the ancient Stock of Sin.

We have left ourselves no space to remark on the notes or introduction which accompany this Work, though they are not the least valuable. The composition is nervous; the reasoning close and powerful, the information curious, and often original. We particularly refer to notes A, B, E, H, L, N, Q, R, and to the introduction, the leading idea of which, touching the use of sacred history, is to us entirely novel.

To conclude, the characteristics of this author, are force, feeling, and originality. We believe this will be admitted by every genuine lover of poetry, and are of opinion that, the "Death of Uriah" will be read, when many of the more pretending and ephemeral and butterfly productions which catch the public ear, are forgotten.

POETIC SCENES.-No. III.

The following Scene is after Appius has seen Virginius first.

SCENE IV. HALL IN APPIUS'S HOUSE.

APPIUS and PUNCTILIO entering.

App. GOOD MORROW, Punctilio, I rejoice to see you.
Well, have ye seen the mighty multitude?

Punc. And shar'd the grace of their dread sovereignty.

I've scatter'd threescore ducats in your favour.

In

App. The rogues would run them in arrears to truth
my behalf. The Gods are merciful.

4.

Punc. Their thirsty gullets jarring, roar'd out "Appius,"
Who, but the breath before, cudgels a-tilt,

Belouted me, and bellow'd out “Dentatus.”

App. Who cannot guide, must humour his proud steed.
So we must humour well the guideless mob.

But hence these heavy thoughts; of them anon.
Punctilio, I'm in love.

Punc. My lord-in love!

App. Aye, to the chin immers'd: but yesterday
I had a heart that would have brav'd the world

To move it at the peril of my peace;

That proudly scorn'd the subtlety of charms,
Despising love, as a frail libertine.

That heart-a maid, in sooth, a very girl,

Has robb'd me of, and mocks me with the theft;

For she did simply tell me, that “Julius

Was her betrothed husband," and did smile
Most pitifully too, to hear how much

I loved her.

Punc. "Twas all deceit, be sworn.

App. Nay, say not so, or perish honesty.
Know ye Virginia, the centurion's daughter?
What rose-bud, peeping through the pearly dew,
Smiles sweeter?

Punc. If Fame, but seldom known to err,
Speak true, she is indeed the paragon
Of every grace that may adorn a woman.

But can you condescend to honour, nay, to love,
A mere plebeian?

App. Oh! I love her-I cannot say how much.
Beyond the measur'd limit of conception;

Far, far beyond the compass of a thought,

Or the capacity of tongue to tell.

He who has lov'd like me can only know.
Know ye love, Punctilio?

Punc. I know the boy,-pouting honey-bubble.
In tender age he is the ladies' toy,

Their lap-nurs'd cur, elf of their dreams,
And idol of their fancy. Born in conception,
The chub puts on a thousand natures, but,
E'er a little month of statute-wooing
Hath rounded in a dimple on each cheek,
He scowls beneath a tyrant's surly frown;
Then, like most creatures of female tutelage,
His will is absolute. Virtue he knows not,
Vice he owns not; and in his antic sports,
Roguery to him's instinctive revel.

Sometimes, as humour works, he'll wanton with
The coy affections of a May-day maid;
Perhaps betray them to some worthless clown,
Bedizen'd in his Bavaray! Maybe

Some portly knight o' city corporation,
Or antiquated parish pedagogue.
Sometimes he will infatuate fourscore,
And send the crutched dotard hot a wooing.
Sometimes again he'll act th' incendiary,
And, lurking in the purlieus of the brain,
Diffuse of plots and jealousies among
Th' unwary senses: next, by advantage
Of the consternation, a thief he'll be,

And mulct you of your wits; then, to be merciful,

Turn cut-throat! Such a rogue is Love!

App. Then, by Love's God, I'd slice a thousand throats,

Were they array'd between me and my love.

Punc. But does my lord forget the Roman law

Of interdict, fram'd wisely to secure

The noble vein from vile contamination

Of plebeian blood? You would not marry her?