profession of the ingenious author, even had he omitted his M.D. in the title-page.

Art. 26. The Age of Folly: a Poem. 4to. 2s. Clarke, Bondstreet. 1797.

pru

This poem, though not entirely destitute of merit, is not entitled to great praise.-The follies and vices of mankind have in all ages proved a copious theme for the declamation of moralists, and the ridicule of wits; and though much has been written on the subject, it is not yet exhausted. The present author, in the distribution of his satire, if not always just, is at least impartial; neither rank, nor age, nor sex, seems to escape him; and he pays little attention to the dential maxim of not speaking evil of dignities. He expresses himself with great severity against some of our lords spiritual as well as temporal, and does not treat the patriotic leaders in the House of Commons with much more respect, It may not always be safe to follow him in his invectives against persons in elevated stations: but we may, without any risk, copy the censure which he passes on the present fashionable taste for those gloomy, terrific, and horrid scenes, which constitute the chief merit of some modern publications, both abroad and at home:

• Another race of authors claims regard,
Who common scenes of common life discard
Who bounds of probability o'er leap,

And conjure Dæmons, from the vasty deep!
How smoothly flows, the mild instructive page,
When shades, and spectres, every thought engage:
When Daggers, Death, and Inquisitions dire,
Fill the wild brain with energetic fire:
When shrouded sprites, with skeletons arise,
And blue mould candles,-nature's place supplies.
Then does it please the poet's eye to see,
Some deep read miss,-in horrid mystery,
Trim her pale lamp, and fearful look around,
Starting with terror, at each fancied sound:
But still resolved, the Ghostly race to run,
She reads, and trembles, till the bell tolls one!
Avaunt ye shapes, that Grub-street story owns,
Y'clept Raw Head, and mighty Bloody Bones.
No more Tom Hickathrift, shall claim the bays,
Nor giant killing Johnny, look for praise.
For if to stretch the eyes like saucers wide,
To freeze the blood, and o'er the passions stride;
To cause the hair like quills to perch on end,
And horrid thoughts, with horrid actions blend.
If such is merit,-candour's self must own
The Monk of LEWIS, conscious stands alone,
Unless we bring to fill a second place,

The tales of Radcliffe wrapt in mystic grace.'

As we are of consequence enough to be noticed by this general satirist, it would be unfair if we endeavoured to suppress the honour

7

able

able mention which he has made of us; particularly as the lines are not the worst in the poem.

No longer bards in flowing robes array'd,

Their brows with wreaths-and locks with chaplets braid,
No princess now-presents the laurel'd crown,
Nor throned sages look with rapture down.
No more the harp, with dulcet note inspires,
No longer virgins-strike their golden lyres.
But, sad reverse!-fell ills invade the wight,
Who dares in these degenerate days to write.
The brown bobb'd critic-deck'd in blue dy'd hose,
With pen in hand, and spectacles on nose;
Each month reviews, some offspring of the day,
A quire of poesy, or a modern play!'

We have sometimes thought that it would be happy for these witty authors, if they considered that nothing is so infectious as satire; and perhaps it may be suspected that we are not quite free from the contagion, when we observe that there is a grammatical fault in the following lines:

But what avails it, worthy brother P—e,

Small gains, I ween, it brings to you or I'

Perhaps, it might be said, in defence of the author, that, as sense is frequently sacrificed to rhime, no good reason can be assigned why grammar should claim an exception.

We fear that the representation in this poem of the low state of our theatrical amusements, together with the decline of taste in the audience, is too just; but we cannot say much in favour of the author's versification, which is, in general, tame and languid, and often careless and incorrect: but he certainly possesses powers of discrimination, accompanied with some pretensions to wit.

Art. 27. Quebec Hill; or, Canadian Scenery. A Poem in Two
Parts. By J. Mackay. 4to. 2s. 6d. Richardson. 1797.
To the admirers of the romantic scenery and the sublime views
of Nature which America exhibits, a poem descriptive of the wild
beauties of Canada, if executed with strength and fidelity, must be
an acceptable present: but we are sorry to observe that the author of
the work before us does not appear to be greatly animated by poetic
genius. There are few persons who can behold any striking appear-
ance in Nature without emotion, and that emotion generally commu-
nicates itself in a suitable warmth of expression,-frequently obscure
and irregular, indeed, but always strong and impressive. Yet in what
languid strains does Mr. Mackay describe the Falls of Montmorency!
See, o'er the stream, where wide extends Beaupré,
Hemm'd in by woods, and profitably gay.
There, Montmorency's Falls attract the ear,
In fancy, still the foaming flood I hear:
The rapid stream rolls with diminish'd might,
As if appalled by the giddy height;

But when, at length, more active, down it pours,
Like bursting thunder are its mighty roars:

Impell'd,

Let us now see whether he be more successful in his representation of a Canadian winter;

How black appear the dark dismantled woods,
In striking contrast to the frozen floods;
These, clad in snow, reflect a dazzling light,
Those, wrapp'd in gloom, relieve the weary sight.
Let each beware, who, with unseason'd eyes
Meets those bright beams, that, snow-reflected, rise;
For now the Sun, unclouded, drives his car,
Thro' purest air, where seldom shades appear;
His radiant beams, uncheck'd, more dazzling flow,
Blaze on the ice, and glitter on the snow:
Save, when the tempest gathers on the day,
Obscures the skies, and checks the solar ray;
Terrific grandeur! when dark show'rs descend,
Upon the pinions of the raging wind;
Howling amain thro' yonder woodland wastes,
That wave their hoary branches in the blasts;
While former snows in circling eddies rise,
And meet the falling torrents in the skies!
The shiv'ring savage loiters in his shed †,
Unable thro' the depths of snow to wade;
His useless bow lies careless by, unstrung,
Or to the humble roof is pendant hung;
Supinely feasting on his former toil,
He longs again the stately deer to foil;
Or, if he ventures in the woods, to trace
The recent footsteps, or assume the chace,
Short can he stray, the dreary groves around
The utmost verge of his excursions bound.
The greedy wolf, with caution, treads the wild,
Where, 'gainst the roe, he doubtful conflict held
The artful carcajou, with circling tail,
Can scarcely longer o'er the elk prevail;
The sleepy bear is to his den confin'd,

With nodding crest, unequal moves the hind;

:

• * When the cold is most intense in Canada, the sky is generally unclouded on these occasions the organs of sight, especially of strangers, are much impaired by the flood of light to which they are exposed, unless provided with some shade, such as green or black gauze &c to blunt its splendor.'

Meaning the Indians that live in the woods arround and below Quebec. In the upper country, where the winter is more mild, and the snows are less deep, the savages range through the woods at this season of the year much as usual.’

The hungry tygers still more fierce appear,
And savage howlings fill the ambient air.

The northern winds now sweep along the woods,
Fraught with the ardour of the frozen floods,
That stretch along the pole, keen as the gales,
That spread athwart Siberia's cheerless vales.
Out from the arctic pole the potent blasts,
Swift wing their flight, and o'er the dreary wastes,
Both land and sea, that form the utmost north,
Now link'd together, howling, they rush forth
To where, as yet, the agitated main

Disowns the bonds that Greenland's shores enchain;
A while, the ocean, mindful on defence,
With shifting billows blunts the cold intense :
Its surface thicken'd by the chill around,
More heavy, sinks into the depth profound;
And, as the billows from the wind recede,
Still warmer draughts the empty space pervade;
But when, in course, the waters all ascend,
And all confess the action of the wind,
More slow the surface from the blast recedes,
The cold the action of the tide impedes,
The restless floods become a solid plain,
And frigid fetters bind the torpid main.'

From these specimens, our readers will be enabled to form a judg, ment of the versification of this poem, which is throughout uniformly cold and spiritless.-The rhimes also are in most parts incorrect; and Mr. M-seems to think himself authorised to alter the accentual quantity of syllables as it may suit his convenience, of which the following line is an example,

A while respiting the unwary brood,"

This liberty has been taken by writers of superior genius,—to the disgrace of our poetry and the corruption of our language. Art. 28. Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer; by her Grandson, Charles Lloyd. Folio. 3s. 6d. sewed. Phillips. 1796. The filial and fraternal piety of the author, manifested in this elegant publication, is as commendable as his expression of his feelings and tenderness is peculiar. Our readers may judge of the merit of the poetry from the following sonnet :

My pleasant Home! where erst when sad and faint
I sought maternal friendship's sheltering arms,
My pleasant Home! where is the reverenc'd saint
Whose presence gave thee thy peculiar charms?
Ah me! when slow th' accustom'd doors unfold,
No more her looks affectionate and mild
Beam on my burthen'd heart! O, still and cold
The cherish'd spot where welcome sat and smil'd!

My spirit pines not nursing fancied ill;
'Tis not the fev'rish and romantic tie

Which now I weep dissever'd; not a form

That woke brief Passion's desultory shrill:

I mourn the cherisher of infancy!

The dear Protectress from life's morning storm!'

For a farther specimen of Mr. Lloyd's abilities in this walk of li terature, we may refer the reader's curiosity to our account of his volume of poems: see Rev. for September 1796, p. 106.

A commendatory sonnet, from the elegant pen of Mr. Coleridge, is prefixed to the present publication.

Art. 29. Poetry. By T. Morgan. 12mo. 2s. 6d. Boards. Lee and Hurst.

1797.

It is always with regret that we pass unqualified censure on any innocent production of the Muses: but impartiality induces us to declare that Mr. Morgan's poetry possesses very few claims to the praise of "lofty rhime." He modestly acknowleges in his preface, indeed, that in this volume he has not received the benefit of correction nor advice. He has trusted solely to the innocence and simplicity of the intention; and premises that one fortnight only was employed in selecting, arranging, and composing some of the pieces.'

Mr. M. professes to have taken Shenstone for his model; we therefore advise him to re-peruse, for more than a fortnight, the poems of Shenstone, before he again attempts to grasp the crook of the gentle and tuneful shepherd of the Leasowes; and also to study Byshe's "Art of Poetry," that he may improve his ear by the practice of similar sounds.

After all, however, we mean not to encourage young persons to quit any useful calling for this" idle trade;" as the poet of GooD SENSE has expressed it.

Art. 30. The Lion and Fawn, a Legend, presented on their Marriage to the Earl and Countess of Derby. 4to. IS. Debrett. This is a tribute of gratitude, to a lady with whose talents of amusement the public has long been delighted, and whose private character and history they have praised and admired.-This allegory, in the following stanzas, alludes to her situation with due delicacy and some ingenuity: the Fawn, on seeing the Lion approaching, thus exclaims, with mildness in her eyes and grace in her gesture, Gently she cried, with a diffident voice,

"Alas where can the stranger a confidence place

But where Power is intended to save?

To oppress, is the mark of the Mean and the Base,
To protect is the right of the Brave.”

Ev'ry fear he remov'd by persuasion so kind,

So impressive, so just, and sincere ;

That his proffers bespeaking so feeling a mind,
Banish'd all the distrust of the Fair.

• Nor