which the two firft have been published in London. This part may be divided into four heads. The firft contains the proofs of revelation, drawn from its moral defign, from the authority affumed by our Saviour, from his precepts refpecting morals, and from his doctrine of a refurrection. Under the fecond head the principles and evidence of the Chriftian and Mohammedan fyftems are contrafted. The third head vindicates the genuineness of the book of Daniel and his prophetic character; and, under the fourth, are confidered the prophecies concerning Antichrift. Of these heads the first gave us the greatest fatisfaction. The fecond head has of late years been a favourite topic; but, in this country or in America, it is not worthy of fo much difcuffion; for no one is interested in the defence of the Koran, or is likely to become a convert to Islamism. The defects and abfurdities of that fyftem are obvious to the most illiterate Christians; and the introduction of so many anecdotes from the Arabian history, and of fo many paffages from the Koran, may be deem ed fuperfluous. Under the two other heads there is little novelty. The downfall of the papacy feems to have been produced in a very different manner from that which was prognofticated by most of the commentators on prophecy; and the next generation may perhaps find it expedient to invent or adopt a different key to unlock the myfteries of revelation.

Our author falls into the general opinion of the increase of infidelity in thefe times. This perfuafion refts on the great increase of infidel writers, and the greater liberties taken by them in attacking Chriftianity; but this may only prove that the anti-chriftian fpirit of fuppreffing the arguments of an adversary by force, and the finifter influence which, under the pretext of defending religion, violated the precepts of Chrift and his apostles, are gradually declining. It does not follow that infidels are more numerous, because they profess their opinions more openly.

To thofe who have perufed the two firft volumes, the prefent will be a pleafing acquifition; and the first part of thefe difcourfes will, from the fubject and the manner of treating it, be highly interefting to ferious readers.

Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems. Small 8vo. 5s. Boards. Arch. 1798.

THE majority of thefe poems, we are informed in the advertisement, are to be confidered as experiments.

They were written chiefly with a view to afcertain how far

the language of converfation in the middle and lower claffes of fociety is adapted to the purpofes of poetic pleasure.' P. i.

Of these experimental poems, the most important is the Idiot Boy, the ftory of which is fimply this. Betty Foy's neighbour Sufan Gale is indifpofed; and no one can conveniently be fent for the doctor but Betty's idiot boy. She therefore puts him upon her poney, at eight o'clock in the evening, gives him proper directions, and returns to take care of her fick neighbour. Johnny is expected with the doctor by eleven; but the clock ftrikes eleven, and twelve, and one, without the appearance either of Johnny or the doctor. Betty's restless fears become infupportable; and she now leaves her friend to look for her idiot fon. She goes to the doctor's house, but hears nothing of Johnny. About five o'clock, however, the finds him fitting quietly upon his feeding poney. As they go home they meet old Sufan, whofe apprehenfions have cured her, and brought her out to feek them; and they all return merrily together.

Upon this fubject the author has written nearly five hundred lines. With what fpirit the story is told, our extract will evince.

"Oh reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his horfe are doing!
What they've been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme,
A most delightful tale pursuing!
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks fo high that are,
To lay his hands upon a star,
And in his pocket bring it home.
Perhaps he's turned himself about,
His face unto his horfe's tail,
And still and mute, in wonder loft,
All like a filent horfeman-ghoft,
He travels on along the vale.

And now, perhaps, he's hunting fheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he !
Yon valley, that's fo trim and green,
In five months' time, fhould he be seen,
A defart wilderness will be.

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very foul of evil,
He's galloping away, away,
And fo he'll gallop on for aye,

The bane of all that dread the devil.

I to the mufes have been bound,

These fourteen years, by ftrong indentures; Oh gentle mufes ! let me tell

But half of what to him befel,

For fure he met with strange adventures.

Oh gentle mufes ! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my fuit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can, ye thus unfriended leave me ?
Ye muses! whom I love fo well.

Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
Which thunders down with headlong force,
Beneath the moon, yet fhining fair,
As careless as if nothing were,
Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horfe, that's feeding free,
He feems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of fuch we in romances read,

Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that's the very pony too.
Where is fhe, where is Betty Foy?
She hardly can sustain her fears;
The roaring water fall the hears,
And cannot find her idiot boy.

Your pony's worth his weight in gold,
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She's coming from among the trees,
And now, all full in view, fhe fees
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.
And Betty fees, the pony too;
Why ftand you thus good Betty Foy?
It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
'Tis he whom you fo long have loft,
He whom you love, your idiot boy,
She looks again-her arms are up-
She fcreams-fhe cannot move for joy;
She darts as with a torrent's force,
She almost has o'erturned the horse,
And fast she holds her idiot boy.
And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud,
Whether in cunning or in joy,
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,
To hear again her idiot boy.

1

No tale lefs deferved the labour that appears to have been bestowed upon this. It refembles a Flemish picture in the worthleffness of its defign and the excellence of its execution. From Flemish artists we are fatisfied with fuch pieces: who would not have lamented, if Corregio or Rafaelle had wasted their talents in painting Dutch boors or the humours of a Flemish wake?

The other ballads of this kind are as bald in ftory, and are not fo highly embellished in narration. With that which is entitled the Thorn, we were altogether difpleafed. The advertisement fays, it is not told in the perfon of the author, but in that of fome loquacious narrator. The author fhould have recollected that he who perfonates tirefome loquacity, becomes tiresome himself. The story of a man who fuffers the perpetual pain of cold, because an old woman prayed that he never might be warm, is perhaps a good flory for a ballad, because it is a well-known tale: but is the author certain that it is well authenticated?" and does not fuch an affertion promote the popular fuperftition of witchcraft?

In a very different ftyle of poetry, is the Rime of the Ancyent Marinere; a ballad (fays the advertisement)profeffedly written in imitation of the style, as well as of the spirit of the elder poets.' We are tolerably converfant with the early English poets; and can difcover no refemblance whatever, except in antiquated fpelling and a few obfolete words. This piece appears to us perfectly original in ftyle as well as in ftory. Many of the ftanzas are laboriously beautiful; but in connection they are abfurd or unintelligible. Our readers may exercise their ingenuity in attempting to unriddle what follows.

The roaring wind! it roar'd far off,

It did not come anear;

But with its found it fhook, the fails.
That were fo thin and fere.

The upper air burfts into life,

And a hundred fire-flags theen

The coming wind doth roar more loud;
The fails do figh, like fedge:

The rain pours down from one black cloud,
And the moon is at its edge.

Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,

And the moon is at its fide:

Like waters fhot from fome high crag,
The lightning falls with never a jag
A river steep and wide.

The ftrong wind reach'd the fhip: it roar'd
· And dropp'd down, like a stone!
Beneath the lightning and the moon

The dead men gave a groan.' P. 27.

We do not fufficiently understand the story to analyse it. It is a Dutch attempt at German fublimity. Genius has here been employed in producing a poem of little merit.

With pleasure we turn to the ferious pieces, the better part of the volume. The Fofter-Mother's Tale is in the best style of dramatic narrative. The Dungeon, and the Lines upon the Yew-tree Seat, are beautiful. The Tale of the Female Vagrant is written in the ftanza, not the ftyle, of Spenfer. We extract a part of this poem.

'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come ;
We had no hope, and no relief could gain.
But foon, with proud parade, the noisy drum
Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain,
My husband's arms now only ferved to strain
Me and his children hungering in his view:
In fuch dismay my prayers and tears were vain:
To join thofe miferable men he flew ;

And now to the fea-coaft, with numbers more, we drew,

There foul neglect for months and months we bore,
Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.
Green fields before us and our native fhore,

By fever, from polluted air incurred,

Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. Fondly we wished, and wifhed away, nor knew, 'Mid that long fickness, and those hopes deferr'd, That happier days we never more must view: The parting fignal streamed, at laft the land withdrew, CRIT, REY. VOL. XXIV. 08. 1798.

P