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Plays and Poems ; by Miss Hannah Brand. 8vo. 75. Beards.

Rivingtons. 1798. Of the three plays which appear in this volume, two are altered from the French, and the other was represented some years ago with little success upon one of the London theatres. They contain little that deserves censure, and nothing that we can particularise with praise. The annexed poems are few in number; and the following is a favourable specimen.


• Sweet morn of life! All hail, ye hours of ease!

When blooins the cheek with roseate, varying dyes;
When modeít grace exerts each power to please,

And streaming luftre radiates in the eyes.
Thy past hours, innocent; thy present, gay; :
Thy future, halcyon hope depicts without allay.
Day-spring of life ! oh, stay thy fleeting hours !

Thou fairy-reign of ev'ry pleasant thought !
Fancy, to cheer thy path, strews all her flowers,

And in her loom thy plan of years is wrought.
By thce for goodness is each heart caress'd;
The world, untried, is judg’d by that within thy breast.
Sweet state of youth! O harmony of soul!

Now cheerful dawns the day ; noon brightly beams;
And evening comes serene, nor cares control;

And night approaches with soft, infant dreams.
Çircling, the morn beholds th' accustom'd round,
Life's smiling charities awake, and joys abound.
Seafon of hope, and peace, and virtues, stay!

And for our bliss let inexperience rest;
For what can prudent foresight's beam display?

Why—the barb'd arrow pointed at our breast !-
Teach to suspect the heart we guileless trust,
And, ere we are betray'd, to think a friend unjust.
Thou candid age! with ardent friend hip fraught,

That fearless confidence to none denies :
Better sometimes deceiv'd-and, artless, taught

By thy own griefs the wisdom of the wise.
For fad experience, with sorrowing breath,
Sheds, weeping iheds, the pristine roses in hope's wreath.

Season belov'd! Ah, doom'd to pass away!

With all thy frefanels, all thy flatt'ring joys,
With blooming beauty's envy'd, powerful fway,

With laughing hours, the future ne'er annoys.
Ah! be thou spent as virtue bids to spend !
Then,-though we wish thy stay,no fighs thy reign shall end.'

P. 416. Matriculation. A Poem. 419. 15. 6d. Cadell and Davies. 1798.

We here find a ludicrous subject well treated in Miltonic verse. The author appears to poffeís genius, which we shall be glad to see employed on better subje&ts. We select the account of the freshinan's initiation.

Severest trials, confiets fore sustain'd.
with 'hardihood, and certain dangers met
with ready courage ; fierce resistance made
in honour's nice defence, befpeak the youth
the future college-hero. Thus begins
his strict novitiate, hard to be endur'd.
Behold him bidden to the fhatter'd rooms
of fome fly lurcher, oft employ'd before
the timid stranger or to hunt, or foil
with bottle frequent-doubling. Thoughtless he
of federated foes, nor dreams the glass
to him o'erflowing each succeeding round
with buzz, or sconce or bumper-toast, is pour'd
but with a motive generous as the juice.--
Too emulous he with veterans dares to cope,
opposing art with courage; and himself
unpractis'd in deceit, marks not around
cach hackney'd stratagem fuccessful. This
feigns illness, and a mingled potion fips.
Another, vig'lant of averted looks,
his glass foft-fliding 'neath the table pours,
and Turkey's richest manufacture, oft
diftain'd before, the purple juice diftains.
Whilft glass of finall dimensions fome retain,
or fill unbrimming, -- Others empty not,
or with a vain pretence, demand excuse.

Meanwhile the bottle circumambient,
replenifli'd oft, he temerarious bibs ;
nor feels with rapid ftride the rebel foe
advance to'erset the empire of the brain;
for wine betrays with confidence of strength,

• Symptoms of inebriety appear.
The party mark his elevated yoice,

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and rolling eyeballs. Now they charge amain,
fast-vollying; and could he with retreat
inglorious, that were vain, hemm’d round by foes.

• But he sustains the heat of battle well;
And e'en the veteran toaster half repents
the fierce engagement; for his vacant bin
scarcely sends forth supplies. But still enough
remains; for now at length by wine fubdu'd,

(whom will not wine subdue ?) the hero falls."
In the tenth page, we are sorry to observe a disgusting description
and an indecent fimile.
Mary the Ofier-Peeler, a fimple but true Story. A Poem. B

a Lady. Printed for the Benefit of the distreled Family described in it. 470.

White. 1798.
We will not criticise a poem pubirthed with fo benevolent an
intention. The following stanzas will show its merit, and explain
the nature of those distresses which the purchasers will assist in re-

• But of all the afflictions, that preft
Upon Mary, 'twas surely the worst,
To suffer five moons with a breast,
That with anguish was ready to burki.
As a lily opprest avith night dew,
She hung down her faint drooping head,
Her cheeks wore a deadly pale hue,
That once like twin roses were red.
• Her foul with such patience was fraught,
Not a plaint from her lips ever broke;
Tho' with what flie endur'd, you'd have thought
That filence herself wou'd have spoke.
In her


I have seen the tears ftand,
I have seen them fall fast on the ground;
Whilst the gratefully blest the hard hand,
That was carelessly probing her wound.
• Thro' sorrows, that may not be told,
Ten children to William fhe bore ;
Yet the sometimes in secret made bold
To pray, that she might have no more :
But beaven, as if wrath with her wish,
Soon sent her two babes at a birth,
Which emptied their never-full dith,

And drain'd them of all they were worth.'
Ode on the Fluctuations of Civil Society. To which is ad:led, en
Ode to Fortune. 8vo.

15. Debrett. 1797.
The author of these edes may perhaps write well at a future pe

P. 14,

riod; but he must learn to write more intelligibly. The following Stanza is not easily understood.

Oh Albion! isle,
Profp'rous that heard'st beneath her tow'ring wing,
Blaz’ning thy fons, the foulenkincling Nine;

Where now the smile,
Conscious that crown'd the rapture-quiv'ring string
True to a flight of fame almost divine?

Expectant of thy final doom,
Wear’st thou a deep portentous gloom?
Ev'ry heart, vindi&tive beating,

Wait on Phrenzy's sweeping Alight:
Error's maze, that mocks retreating,

Sears the angry balls of fight!
Valour, inglorious-doom'd, and Viêt'ry vain,

And Honour, grief-inwrapp'd, with moody brow,
And precure-fainting Commerce! fear-struck train;
Freedom! a realın abjur'd by thee, avow.

Not that a bold ferocious band

Should tempt defeat on Albion's strand
Can give a Briton páule - but left the fire
Tbat' moulds the Britishi heart, muft with thy fame expire!'

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3 Vols.

I 2170.

Role-mount Cofile ; or, False Report. A Novel By M. 1. Young,

1os. 6d. Boards.

Lane,' 1798. We cannot recommend this work either for entertainment or instruction. It is almost destitute of fable or of any excitenient to curiosity, if we except the introduction of a gang of Irith defenders, who rob and murder in a very sentimental styie, and one of whom becomes afterwards a personage of high consequence in the groupe of lords and dukes, having relinquished his youthful errori. Many characters are introduced, and coupled in love-matches, all which prove abundantly prosperous; but there are no traits in their history fo interesting as to compensate their vapid and common-place conversation, which occupies the greater part of the work. Ella ; or, He's always in the Way. By Maria Hunter, Authoress

of Fitzroy. 2 Vols. 12mo. 75. Board's, Lane. 1798. The plan of this novel has little regularity. It seems to have been intended only as a vehicle for the introduction of characters from what the authoress calls nature. Some of these, as well as the incidents, are delineated with the pen of a caricaturist; and, with the exception of a few just though trite reflections on education and seduction, the moral tendency of the work is not very obvious, The character of one of the managers of our theatres is, we hope, a gross misrepresentation,

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Tke Heir of Montague. A Novel. 3 Vols. 12mo. 105. 6d. Boards.

Lane. 1798. Although the characters in this novel are copies, and the incidents are of the common kind, it may be considered as usefully tending to expose the errors of youthful indiscretion and vulgar prejudices. Much of this, as of most modern novels, is thrown into the form of dialogue, probably from a supposition that it is easy to write in that way; but this, we are sorry to add, has been seldon justified by the specimens which have fallen in our way. Octavia. By Anna Maria Porter. 3 Vols, 12mo. 1os. 6d. Boards,

Longman. 1798. There is a lamentable affectation in the language of this novel; witness this description of the heroine.

• Oétavia the youngest was as beautiful as she was young : the graces of her figure dwelt not so much on the lovely roundness of her limbs, or the elegance of her height, as on the variety of its air, and the expreffion of its attitudes : every motion of her graceful neck and white arms were full of eloquence. Her form owned inore softness than dignity, more winningness than attraction ; and possessed also an air so variable, and yet so uniforınly lovely, that the more she was seen, the more she was admired. Air is often the only source of charm in form; for without it the finest limbs, the truest features, are insipid and powerless : faft.ion and symmetry may make a figure correct; but it is like the copy of a fine picture, where every object is exactly resembled, but in which the magic, the illufive touch of the master, is not discernible. Octa. via's figure defined air in every movement : yet this air was not one fixed character; it shifted like her animated mind, from grave to gay, from fimplicity to elevation ; from the grace of a goddess, and the witcheries of faihion, to the retiring sweetness of an Arçadian girl : but in all its changes it was irresistible; and Qctavia was lovely.' Vol. i. p. 8.

If the authoress however willies to be elegant in her own lane guage, she does not seem to think it necessary that the conversation of her characters Dould be fo.

The poetry contained in these volumes, though sometimes very incorrect, is superior to the profe.

• Ah! native stream, dear scene of former hours,
The thoughtless child, who lately on thy banks
Sanz cheerily, returns most alter'd now
For infancy is gone, and life's fair flowers
Have long since Mewn thote thorns their blooms concca'd.
Ah! as I pass amid these thick trees' ranks,
Listing the flow found of each yellowing bough,
I agh most heavily; recalling days

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