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slumber on in our present state, without being roused by the rebukes of conscience, or the terrors of eternity.

Thus may the pure and holy system of Christian faith and Christian practice be contaminated in all its parts; and thus may individuals either neglect, or transgress, as occasion requires, almost every law, which the Son God has laid down. If such laxity of principle and conduct be once admitted, it is easy to perceive, that human frailty and corruption could not well claim a greater licence for the indulgence of sinful passions and pursuits."P. 43.

The foron prescribed for self-examination is exceedingly good, the notes upon the whole service, and the private prayers which follow are written in the spirit of calın and Christian devotion. The whole is sufficiently concise, without omitting any important considerations. We recommend this Manual strongly to all, particularly to the congregations which are composed of those who move in the higher circles of life, and are frequently ignorant of the true principles and tendency of the Christian religion; from which circumstance it too often happens that when they begin to think seriously of their unchristian state, they Ay for succour to the opposite extreme of fanaticism, and be come too easy a prey to the designing cant of the puritanical party. We trust that Mr. Hewlett's book will have the circulation which it deserves : in his own chapel, when preached in the form of Sermons, the effect of his exhortation was very powerful.

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Art. X. Legend of Ionu, with other Poems. By IF ulter
Paterson. 8vo. 352 pp.

12s. Edinburgh, Constable;
London, Longman. 1812.
THIS Poem is written in direct imitation of the style of W.
Scott: and as an imitation it must be allowed to bave a very fair
proportion of merit. Mr. Paterson is both an elegant and
a pretty Poet, too fond however of those little concetti, which,
in the eyes of an English reader, seem only to excite a smile.
The story of the Legend of lona is not devoid of interest, and
may be read with pleasure. The miscellaneous Poems are more
original than the tale; as a specimen of Mr. Paterson's powers,
we shall select a few lines at the close of the “ Holm-Glen,
descriptive of a hernit of ancient days, and of the wonders of
his cell.

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“ His harp, that erst had cheered his happier years,
Yet weaned his drooping age from half its tears ;

THERE is a felicit

Till, when subdued with age's last decay,
No more his fingers could its spirit sway,
Upon that sacred bough he hung its strings,
Where now the ivy-shade so closely clings:
And it is said that still the tree retains
The spirit of his harp's enchanting strains;
For oft when evening's feeble tints decay,
The nighted traveller, on his homeward way,
As o'er the Garple's ivied bridge he hies,
While the cold sweat-drops on his temples rise,
Hears the soft tones of music round him flow,
Winding the mazes of the glen below;
And charmed alike with pleasure and with dread,
Stands like a statue till the notes are fled,
Then homeward hies, with eager haste to tell

His wondrous stories of the Hermit's Cell.” P. 200.
Arş. XI. The Eden of Imagination. By J. H. Reynolds.

Cawthorn. 1814. afford pleasure: we call up with it a thousand recollections and anticipations, and l'ancy falls zealously to work to embody

“ Such sights as youthful poets dream

On summer eves by haunted stream." Something, in fact, more agreeable to our own ideas of a ter• restrial paradise, than we imagine our Poet is about to present us with : as Cowley sweetly observes,

" Phansie, wild dame, with much lascivious pride,
By twin-chamelions drawn, does gaily ride;
Her coach there follows, and throngs round about
Of shapes and airy forms an endless rout.
A sea rowls on with harmless fury here;

Straight 'tis a field, and trees, and herbs appear." And on reading the Poem we found our first feelings correct, This “ Eden” may be to Mr. Reynolds a very delightful spot, all that in imagination even he could hope for, but to us it is but a dull, melancholy place, to which even the harmony and delicacy of his numbers cannot reconcile us : so much indeed do we question its congeniality with the feelings and habits of the world, that we doubt, after this specimen of his ability, if any of our flourishing gentlemen of the hammer would be inclined to çmploy him to furnish a descriptive advertisement of some “de

lightful

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lightful cottage ornée, or one of their “ picturesque résidences,"
on the banks of an Irish bog. But with this perhaps we have
nothing to do ; and, with this exception, we have not of late been
more gratified with a trifle, than in the perusal of this little work.
The description of evening, with which it opens, exhibits at
oncé a very high poetical ability in the author. The sun has
just set.

• Each summer cloud that slowly sails away,
Bears a light lovely gladness from his ray ;
The sea still glows in all his golden pride,
As if the sun had melted in the tide;

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Thus at some moment, when our joys are bright,
We look on pleasure as a form of light';
And when the brilliance of the time is past,
Still on the mind the recollections last;
And memory's tint, unwilling to depart,

Casts a warm, mellow lustre O'er the heart."
This is equally just and elegant.

From what we can collect from scattered notices, Mr. Ref. nolds is a very young man; of his ultimate success as a Poet, a great deal will depend on himself: he has many of the requisites of a fine one; but study, and true study, is absolutely necessary to excellence. Art and nature must be alike within the

grasp

of a Poet. In the course of reading therefore to which Mr. Reynolds must of necessity submit, we would earnestly recommend to him a higher school than the modern: in bis " Library” we regretted to find him speaking of Milton and Spencer in mere regular common place commendation; this is the consequence of a superficial knowledge of their extraordinary excelłence: we hope some day to find him diseriminating, and dwelling with enthusiasm on their beauties, not, as now, giving pages to modern Poéts, and clubbing these masters of the divine art into one line, and shuffling them off in another as if uneasy under their weight. We have some confidence that this will be the case from the spirit in which he selects, and the spirit with which he commends Mr. Wordsworth, and from that truth with which he himself seems capable of examining nature. Our readers will discover in the concluding extracts, with which we shall now present them, that he has something, congenial in feeling even witk that extraordinary Poet.

... P'll tread the mazes of the winding way,

Breathe o'er again the pleasures of the day,
Twine the Foung shrubs that need the fresh'ning shower,
Andreard a moral is the smallest flower;

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There

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or, to come more home, ,

There view the linnet, startled at the breeze,
On wing of wildness, futter through the trees ;
And dearer are these lonely walks than all
The heartless pleasures of the crowded ball,
Where heated hands meet hands, to press and part
Where silence shews the coldness of the heart,
Or nonsense flits from lip to lip with ease,
In gilded lies, and jaded repartees.
These-these are joys surpassing human art,
Which cast a ray of sunshine on the heart,
Which hush each ruder passion in the breast,
And breathe of innocence, and whisper rest;
These give a pleasure of the purest kind,
And form at once the banquet of the mind."

Art. XII. An Ode. Martin. 1815.
If

we allowed our feelings as reviewers in the slightest degree to influence our judgment, we should of all men be the most certain enemies to the general dissemination of education; not that we could object to men merely being taught to read and write, but for the intimate connection which seems to exist bee tween writing and printing: the moment a young gentleman or ady can string together a few sentences, out they must come ; and we have of late years bad such an overflowing of these “ laborious effects of idleness,” that with nerves, from custom, something less tremblingly alive than they were wont, we cannot but confess we are sometimes terribly shaken at the sight of a new novel; and that a promised treat of hot pressed Fugitive Poetry, requires an extra cup of bark and port wine before we can venture to contend with it. An ode it is true is something less alarming; it shews an honest aim at something creditable, and is less likely to be made the channel of that mawkish sentiment, or the still more offensive ribaldry, which so frequently disgraces the publications we have alluded to. But anonymous poetry of any sort has nothing in it prepossessing to a reviewer.

We know not well how to describe the work before us. If the reader will call to his recollection the unsubstantial beings that pass before Bradamant, in the third book of Orlando Furioso, , the shadows that appear to Macbeth at the command of the witches; or indeed, and the resemblance H

is VOL. IV. JULY, 1815.

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is closer, the visions that disturb the repose of Richard in the 5th act, he will have a tolerably clear idea of the groundwork of the Ode before us, which is the personification of the passions that might be supposed to have agitated the mind of Buonaparte * immediately after bis abdication passing in succession be. fore him ; and it is a melancholy evidence of the eventful period in which we live, that before onr poets can celebrate the delivera:xe of mankind from this dreadful scourge, he is again on the scene of action, and again abdicates his usurped dominion.

The prototype however of the present work is unquestionably Collins's exquisite Ode on the Passions; and though it is not borne up by that poetic enthusiasm which delights and astonishes us in the original, thete is sufficient feeling and passion to elevate it much above the commoti poetry of the day. It may somewhat startle the reader perlaps to find Lore among the number, alighting too on the broken sceptre of Buonaparte to cheer his solitude, and calm his agonized brain. That the man is capable of feeling a pure and disinterested affection we should not be easily convinced; nor is there a single anecdote in his life that will justify even. a poet's supposition. This description indeed, which, taken by itself, is devoid neither of elegance nor spirit, beconies absurd only by its application.

• To save the monarch, Anger now was maddening,
To cheer a breast tormenting thoughts were saddening,

Soft music breath'd-an angel's sigh
Just melted from the morning sky,
And heaven's own light beam'd cheerfully.

Gay from above,
With laughing heart, and all enamouring eyes,

Descended Love!
His airy wings were of the sweetest dies,
Rich as the rainbow of the summer skies;
Or the briglit tints that play'd upon the wing
Of bee that hover'd, ligbítly murniuring,

O'er flowers of Paradise

His ringlet cluster'd brow
Shone in its whiteness like the mountain snow

On which the moonbeams rest;
Oh! it was clear as the wild sparkling stream, ;
That runs with morning rays upon its breast ;

And light as childhood's dream."

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The author has managed with considerable address not to allude to his hero by name,

ART.

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