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1 'No sailor came; the months in terror fled!
Then news arriv'd; he fought, and he was Dea»>

'At the lone cottage Lucy lives, and still
WaU s, for her weekly pittance, to the mill;
A mean seraglio there her Father keeps,
Whose mirth insults her, as she stands and weeps J
And sees the plenty, while compell'd to stay,
Her Father's pride, become his harlot's prey.

* Throughout the lanes, she glides at evening's close.
There softly lulls her infant to repose;

Then sits and gazes but with viewless look,

As gilds the Moon the rimpling (if the brook;

Then sings her vespers, but in voice so low, .

She hears their murmurs as the waters flow;

And she too murmurs and begins to Rnd

The solemn wanderings of a wounded mind;

Visions of terror, views of woe succeed,

The mind's impatience, to the body's need;

By turns,to that, by turns to this a prey.

She knows what reason yields and dreads what madness may/

We insert the whole story of Richard Monday, which we consider as excellent in all its parts and of which the catastrophe in particular will be allowed to shew an intimate knowlege of human nature:

* To name an infant, met our village-sires,
Assembled all, as such event requires;
Frequent and full, the rural sages sate.

And speakers many, urg'd the long debate,—
Some harden'd knaves, who rov'd the country round,
Had left a babe within the parish bound,—
First, of the fact they question'd—" Was it true I"
The child was brought—41 What then remain'd to do ?'*
• «* Was't dead or living?" This was fairly prov'd,
'Twas pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt remov'd;
Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call,
Was long a question, and it pos'd them all;
For he who lent a name to babe unknown,
Censorious men might take it for his own;
They look'd about, they ask'd the name of all.
And not one Richard answer'd to the call;
Next they enquir'd the day, when passing bjr,
Th' unlucky peasant heard the itranger's cry;
This known; how food and raiment they might grre,
Was next debated—for the rogue would live;
At last with all their words and work content, ( ^

Back to their homes, the prudent Vestry went, >
And Richard Monday to the workhouse sent. J
There wm in- pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed.
And duly took his beating* and hit bread;

. Patient Patient in all controul, in all abuse,

tie found contempt and kicking have their use:

Sad, silent, supple; bending to the blow,

A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low;

His pliant soul gave way to all things base,

He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace;

It seem'd so well his passions he supprest,

No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast;

Him, might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat,

He was a foot-stool for the beggar's feet;

His were the legs that ran at all commands;

They us'd, on all occasions, Richard's hands;

His very soul was not his own; he stole

As others orderM, and without a dole 5

In all disputes, on either part he lied,

And ftecly pledg'd his oath on either side;

In all rebellions, Richard join'd the rest,

In all detections, Richard first confest;.

Yet though disgrae'd, he watch'd his time so well.

He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;

Base was his usage, vile his whole employ,

And all despis'd and fed the pliant boy:

At length, 'tis time he should abroad be sent,"

Was whisper'd near him,—and abroad he went;

One morn they call'd him, Richard answer'd not,

They doom'd him hanging, and in time forgot,—

Yet miss'd him long, as each throughout the clan

Found he "had better spar'd a better man."

* Now Richard's talents for the world were fit,
He'd no small cunning and had some small wit;
Had that calm look that seem'd to all assent,
And that complacent speech, that nothing meant;
He'd but one care and that he strove to hide,
How best for Richard Monday to provide;

.Steel through opposing plate9 the magnet draws,
And steelly atoms culls from dust and straws;
And thus our Hero, to his interest true,
Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew;
But still more sure about the world to go,
This fortune's child, had neither friend nor foe.

* Long lost to us, at tast our man we trace.
Sir Richard Monday, died at Monday-place;
Hi? Lady's worth, his Daughter's we peruse,
And find his Grandsons all as rich as Jews;
He gave reforming Charities a sum,

And bought the blessings of the blind and dumb;

Bequeath'd to missions, money from the stockj,

And Bibles issu'd from his private box;

But to his native place, severely just,

He left a pittance bound ia rigid trust; .

Two paltry pounds on every quarter's-day» . •

(At church produc'd) for forty loaves should pay;
A stinted gift, that to the parish shows,
He kept in mind, their bounty and their blows.

We must not with-hold the masterly delineation of the village atheist, whose untutored children close the list of the baptized:

» Last In my List, five untaught Lads appear}
Their Father dead, Compassion 6ent them here:
For still that rustic Infidel denied,
To ha»e their Names with solemn Rite applied:
His. a lone House, by Dead-man's Dyke-way stood |
And his, a nightly Haunt m Lonely-wood;
Each Village Inn has heard the Ruffian boast,
That he bcliev'd ' in neither God nor Ghost;
• That when the Sod upon the Sinner press'd,
He, like the Saint, had everlasting Rest;
That never Priest believ'd his Doctrine true*
But would for Profit own himself a Jew,
Or worship Wood and Stone, as honest Heathen do;
That Fools alone, on future Worlds rely,
Arid all who die for Faith, deserve to die.'

'These Maxims,—part th' Attorney's Clerk profess'd,
His own transcendent Genius found the rest.
Our pious Matrons heard, and much amaz'd
Gaz'd on the Man and trembled as they gaz'd J *
And now his Face explor'd and now his Feet,
Man's dreaded Foe, in tin's Bad Man, to meet:
But him our Drunkard* as their Champion rais'd,
Their Bishop czll'd, and as their Hero pntis'd;
Though most, when sober, and the rest, when sick,
Had little question, whence his Bishoprick.

• But he, triumphant Spirit ! all things dar'd,
He poach'd the Wood and on the Warren snar'd }
'Twas his, at Cards, each Novice to trepan,
And call the Wants of Rogues the Right of Man }
Wild as the Winds, he let his Offspring rove,
And deem'd the Marriage- Bond the Bane of Love.

4 What Age and Sickness for a Man so bold,
Had done, we know not;—none beheld him old:
By Night as Business urg'd, he sought the Wood, ■
The Ditch was deep, the Rain had caus'd a Flood;
The Foot-Bridge fail'd, he plung'd beneath the Deep,
And slept, if Truth were his, th' eternal Sleep.'

The description of Phcebe Dawson, in her days of youth and prosperity, is beautiful and animated: her altered state, after an unhappy marriage, is equally affecting: but we have too much description and too little story, and we must bring

our our extracts to ah end, with a strong conviction that few readers of the specimens here selected will rest satisfied without becoming acquainted with the entire poem.


The verses in p. 209 are intitled to very high praise. • The motto*, although it gave occasion to them, does not altogether express the sense of the writer; who meant to observe that some of our best acquisitions, and some of our nobler conquests, are rendered ineffectual by the passing away of opportunities, and the changes made by time; an argument that such acquirements and moral habits are reserved for a state of being, in which they may have uses here denied them.' (Pref. xxii.) We think that the same train of ideas likewise naturally suggests another moral respecting our conduct in society : but indeed it abounds with lessons the most awful and impressive, to every mind that is capable of serious reflection:

'When all the fiercer Passions cease» «

(The Glory and Disgrace of Youth,)
When the deluded Soul in Peace,

Can listen to the Voice of Truth;
When we are taught, in whom to trustj

And how to spare, to spend, to give;
(Our Prudence kind, our Pity just)

'Tis then we rightly learn to live.

* Its Weakness when the Body feels,

Nor Danger in Contempt defies;
To Reason, when Desire appeals,

When on Experience Hope relies;
When every passing Hour we prize,

Nor rashly on our-Follies spend.
But use it as it quickly flies,

With sober Aim to serious End:
When Prudence bounds our utmost Views,

And bids us Wrath and Wrong forgave J"
When we can calmly gain or lose,
■ 'Tis then we rightly learn to live.

* Yet thus when we our Way discern,

And can upon our Care depend,
To travel safely, when we learn,

Behold! we're near our Journey's End.

" §>uid juvat trrores, mersa jam puppe, fatcri?
%>uid lacrymn delicta juvant comtniiia stcutg f"

In the first line, crrore is unaccountably printed for errorts; and fuppi stands for puppe, three times in the volume. Authors are not. aware how much their works are disfigured by mistakes of this nature.

Rbv. June, 1808. N We've We've trod the Maze of Error round,

Lung wand'ring in the winding Glade}
And now the Torch of Truth is found,

It only shews us where we stray'd:
Light for ourselves, what is it worth

When we no more our Way can choose?
For ot' ers when we hold it forth,

They iii their Pride, the Boon refuw.

'By long Experience taught, we now

Can rightly judge of Friends and Foes,
Can all the Worth of these allow,

And all their Faul's discern in those;
Rrlcntle.is Hatred, erfing Love,
/' We can for xaocd Truth *orego;

We can the warmest Friei.d reprove.

And I'fj- to prai-t the fiercest Foe:
To what r fft ct J our Friends are gone,
B' yond £ i-proof, Regard, or Care;
And of our Fnes rerr.ains there one.
i.' The mild relenting Thoughts to share?

'Now 'tis our Boast that we can quell

The wildest Passions m their Rage;
Can their destructive Force repel,

And their impetuous Wrath assuage:
Ah! Virtue, dost thou arm when now»

This bold rebellious Race are fled;
When all these Tyrants rest, and thou

Art warring with the mighty Dead?
Revenge, Ambition, Scorn, and Pride,

And strong Desire and fierce Disdain,
The Giant-Brood by thee defied,

Lo! Time's resistless Strokes have slain.'

The conclusion is scarcely equal to this forcible and striking exordium.

/ « The Birth of Flattery' is nearly as good as most of the 'allegories which have been composed since the days of Spenser.—* Sir Eustace Grey,' and « the Hall of Justice/ are very tragical stories, related with all the force and simplicity of the ballad style, while they are quite free from the insipid affectation by which that style has been too frequently disgraced in the hands of its modern imitators.—In order to leave his readers with an agreeable impression, Mr. C. has closed his volume with the sweetest of all subjects, * Woman V in a paraphrase on the African traveller Ledyard's celebrated eulogy, including an allusion to the negro-woman's song recorded by Mungo Park. The turn given to it in the following verses is ingenious and pleasing:

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