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The profits arising from the sale of this publication are intended to lay the foundation of a fund for the aid of industrious peasants and tradesmen who shall hereafter incline to become settlers,

or cultivators of waste land in any part of Great Britain. A prospectus of the proposed institution, which is called the Fund of Aid for Waste Land Cultivators, is annexed to the volume.

ART. XXIII. The Reign of Fancy, a Poem, with Notes, lyric Tales. By the Author "of the Pleasures of Nature." 12mo. pp. 179.

THE author of this little volume, Mr. Carey, acknowledges in his preface, that "The Reign of Fancy," (which was ace intended to have been published as he third part of the Pleasures of Naare) he has "given a loose to all the agaries of an ungovernable imaination: and that he now offers his cem to the public with a degree of iffidence and anxiety, bordering upon ter7."

There is indeed an incoherence in the accession of images, a wildness in the pem and want of plan, which, notwithanding some intrinsic beauties, might ell produce an anxiety for its fate in le mind of a modest author, not uncontious of its demerits. We are shocked t being told however, that this anxiety so intense as to "border upon tertr" and we feel it a duty incumbent aus very seriously to warn the author, ho probably is a young man, against affering himself to be thus made the port and plaything of hope and fear; assions, which, like-ey other, are rejudicial or conducive to happiness, actly as their influence on the soul is espotic and imperious, or controuled

by the dominion of reason.

We could select from this little volame several passages of much poetical beauty: the power of music to elevate the soul is thus described with delicacy and feeling:

"So, when the organ lifts the soul on
high,

And peals the soft, sweet music of the sky,
While rapt Attention lists seraphic strains,
Above, below, around enchantment reigns!
When Ocean's waves reflect the sun's

last light,
And Vesper leads the starry train of night,
Who swells the choral incense of the even,
Night's sacred melody the songs of heaven!

And whose the hand the woodland harp that wakes,

When eve's lone songstress warbles from
the brakes?

So softly swell the murmurs of the lyre,
Eölian spirits wander on the wire,
And love-sick virgins hang upon the strain,
And pity melts with ecstacy of pain;
A thousand sweets endear the hollow'd
ground,

A thousand fond illusions swarm around!
"Hence virtue more than mortal charms
acquires,

Hope borrows strength, and Science trims her
fires;
What time such pure intelligence is lent,
The mind grows conscious of her high de-

scent:

What is the spark of intellectual light?
Creation is too narrow for her flight!"

The following simile is pleasing, though perhaps it would have been more correct, had the mountain's torrent, instead of losing itself at last "midst fields and flowers," reposed within the margin of some peaceful and sequestered lake;

more,

"When all the bursts of passion are ne
And all the vanities of life are o'er,
Love rears his home beneath the greenwood
tree,

And sage Experience bears him company.
So pours the torrent with resistless force,
O'er many a mountain-precipice its course,
To lose itself at last 'mid fields and flowers,
Beneath the shade of solitary bowers."

The rhyme in the second couplet is bad.

We could select some other passages of equal merit, and yet the poem as a whole leaves no impression on the mind: it has melody to please the ear, but nothing to satisfy the understanding or engage the heart.

ART. XXIV. Poems, Elegiac and Miscellaneous; by MR. HACKETT. 12mo.

Pp. 184.

MR. HACKETT is his own reviewer; tells us, perhaps very truly, in the preface and in various scattered stanzas,

that his feelings are very refined, that his heart is exquisitely sensible, and so on, but that he is not blessed with a fer

Preserve the symbols of my woe
And catch my lightly-falling tears,
Till sorrow's fount extinct appears.
Then kindly give me all my store,

As tears can yield a balni to grief,
That I may shed them o'er and o'er,
And feel a soothing, sweet relief."

tile fancy. No one who reads these ele- We find several extravagant conceits giac moanings will question the sincerity in these poems: take the following air: of this last avowal, and giving Mr. Hack-Flow, silver stream! in murmurs flow, ett credit in the one case, it would be very unfair to withhold it from him in the other. We must confess, however, that marks of admiration, ahs! and ohs! dashes, pauses, mysterious pauses, afford not, in our opinion, any stronger evidence of fine feeling than they do of good taste. We see in these poems a great many prettinesses of expression, much alliterative labour, and such frequent attempts to produce a concordance of sound and sense, as indicate, that, for one voluntary contribution from the heart there has been many a severe assessment levied upon the head.

One of the sonnets begins thus :-
"Ah! why that gloom upon each crim-
son face,

Where sparkling tears their crystal course
pursue?

Rather should mirth each gladden'd feature grace,

And ev'ry feeling to the mien be true."

Another, written on a stormy night:"Loud howls the wind along the blacken'd sky,

And drives infuriate 'gainst the crystal pane, That, sounding, clashes with the big-dropt rain;

At which I shiv'ring, start-and heave a sigh."

This shivering is a beggarly feeling: the start is dramatic enough; and as to the sigh, it is kindly intended, no doubt, and may be admitted as evidence of exquisite sensibility! Mr. H. is very lavish of his sighs: well may he exclaim in an

address to Anna :

"If sorrow mark thee her devoted prey, Turn the soft lustre of thine eyes to me; I'll chase the sadness from thy breast away, And sigh enough, my lovely girl, for thee."" "Sighing never won a maid," says an old song: we suspect Mr. H. has at length discovered what will, by his address to the "Maid with a burning kiss." We are glad to see him in so jocund a humour on the occasion : "Though the mandates of destiny bid me depart From Albion's gay vallies and beautiful

plains, And tear me from objects endear'd to my heart,

On returning to London from a visit to the coast, Mr. H. expresses his regret that he has no longer an opportunity of swimming, in the following curious stanza:

"Nor with an eager and a panting heart

The silver surface of the surge divide; And by the dalliance of the finny art Beneath the ocean, for a time abide."

Mr. H. has had the courage to write an elegy on the death of Cowper; it is not without its prettinesses;

"Hark! how the Naiads of the silver waves

In murmurs, gentle as the dying air, Bemoan the minstrel from their pearly caves, And curl their eddies to the strains of care!"

We shall not stop to notice others of them, but it is impossible to pass over without censure the following stanza:

"Yet, sorrow knew him as her darling child,

And rudely lost him on her stormy waves, Deform'd his nature from a lambkin mild, To a fierce tyger that infuriate raves!"

If Cowper had been the rankest bigot and most unrelenting persecutor that the world ever saw, he could not have me rited a harsher character.

We must not occupy so much room in censure as to leave none for praise: we have pleasure in transcribing an elegy written on the marriage of a young lady, which bears the impression, we suspect, of no imaginary sorrow, no unreal regret. The subject of this dis appointment is occasionally alluded to elsewhere; and the allusion we observe is always devoid of that whining senti mental cant, which is easily distinguishable from the genuine unsophisticated feelings of the heart.

ELEGY,

In an instant I'd conquer my festering Written on the Marriage of a Young Loty

pains With the exquisite thought of the seraphic

bliss

Bestow'd on the maid with ǎ būrning kiss.”

"For her this bosom heav'd its earliest

sigh,

And fondly fram'd each gay, fantastic dream

Twas her fair form first fix'd my ardent

eve,

And rul'd my feelings with command su

preme.

Twas she, whose beauties, in the calm of night,

When the blest hamlet had awhile repos'd, Led me to loiter, in the moon's mild light, Around the mansion where she sweetly doz`d. Though still a stripling-an enthusiast boy, Not yet enierg'd from the corrective school, Now hope deceiv'd ine with illusive joy, And gilt the visions of a sanguine foo!!

Her seraph-charms upon the couch of rest, How oft has Fancy pencil'd to my view, With loves disporting on her lily-breast, And fragrance breathing from her lips of dew!

Oh!-if, indulgent to my tender woe, Some gentle comrade would attend my plaint,

With warmest raptures would my accents flow,

And paint her lovely as a sky-born saint.

Oft would I dwell upon her cheek's soft glow,

Whose tints reflected a delightful grace,

And turn with anguish to some rival foe, Who own'd, like me, the magic of her face.

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tended to have been spoken in the Theatre, o the Duke of Portland, at his Installaion as Chancellor of the University of Or Ford, in the Year 1793.

In evil hour, and with unhallow'd voice, faning the pure gift of Poesy,

he begin to sing, He, first who sung arms and combats, and the proud array warriors on th' embattled plain, and raised aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown deeds of violence !-For since that time imperious victor oft, unsatisfy'd

h bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest,

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Whom Justice arms for vengeance; but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on th' exposed innocent,
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance, send their mandate
forth

Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.-Ah! who then regards
The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's
cry,

And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of War?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing, o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their ad hymns of triumphs; hymus
to God,

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course

Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee, then shall these high sounds
of praise

Which thou hast heard, be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well pleas'd :--For Fame can enter
Heaven,

If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
She rises not above this earthly spot;

And then her voice, transient and valueless,
Speaks only to the herd.With other praise
And worthier duty may She tend on Thee,
Follow thee still with honour, such as time
Shall never violate, and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to
share."

These verses were rehearsed in the theatre, but not permitted to be spoken, because the University of Oxford did not approve the sentiments which they express. Many poems were spoken on that occasion, and they are gone the way of all such poems. This, which was rejected, is the only one that sur vives.

We copy one more piece from this valuable volume:

"Inscribed beneath the Picture of an Ass.
"Meek animal, whose simple mien
Provokes th' insulting eye of Spleen
To mock the melancholy trait
Of patience in thy front display'd,
By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray'd,
To clraracter the sorrows of thy fate;
Say, Heir of misery, what to thee
Is life?-A long, long gloomy stage
Thro' the sad vale of labour and of pain!
No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine

age,

Nor in the vasty round of this terrene
Hast thou a friend to set thee free,
Till Death, perhaps too late,

In the dark evening of thy cheerless day,
Shall take thee, fainting on thy way,
From the rude storm of unresisted hate.

Yet dares the erroneous crowd to mark
With folly thy despised race,
Th' ungovernable pack, who bark
With impious howlings in Heaven's awful
face,

If e'er on their impatient head
Affliction's bitter show'r is shed.

But 'tis the weakness of thy kind
Meekly to bear the inevitable sway;
The wisdom of the human mind
1s to murmur and obey."

The Latin poem, entitled Romulus, is so good that we wish Mr. Crowe had added a translation for the sake of his unlearned readers.

ART. XXVI. Bickleigh Vale, with other Poems. By NATHANIEL HOWARD. 12mo Pp. 139.

BICKLEY Vale is a poem in blankverse, purely descriptive of rural scenery here and there we catch a natural picture, and there is generally rather a want of spirit than of accuracy. Mr. Howard is more successful in his transla tions than in his original compositions : the translation of La Tempesta, from Metastasio, is particularly happy. Mr. H. has ventured a few short Latin odes; the language is easy and fluent.

The Ode to Horror wants revision:

"Horror! with strange delightful fear
Lead my fit soul to deserts drear;
To churchyards where hyenas roam,
And tear the body from the tomb."
Hyenas, we apprehend, do not frequent

the haunts of church-going men.

"Stern, awful Horror! thou cans't tell
What pangs the mother's bosom swell
When bare on distant rocks outcast
Her child's corse blisters to the blast,
Alone, unnoticed ;-while the surge
Hoarse heaving, moans the moamiz!
dirge!"

The picture of the ship wrecked me ther beholding, from the rock on whit she had escaped, the floating body her child, is well imagined; but its effect is almost entirely destroyed by the sing song alliteration, and the silly conceito the dirge being chanted by the moaning

waves.

ART. XXVII. Wallace; or, the Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems. By JoH FINLAY. 12mo. pp. 170.

MR. Finlay notices in his preface the poem and the Minstrel, as a fact of which coincidence of plan between his own he was unconscious till it was point

out to him. To us it appears that the young author (for young we conclude him to be) is affected by good poetry, just as he is by fine scenery; both impress him strongly, and excite the wish of embodying his feelings, and thus his own poetry becomes imitative, exactly as it becomes descriptive. He may not have designed to copy the Minstrel, but would he ever have written Wallace if the Minstrel had not pre-existed?

The following poems evidently show that this author has been an attentive reader of the Lyrical Ballads.

THE ROOKAN.
"Sure there's a spirit

That dwells amid the mingled sounds that fill

The woodland gloom, and while thro' all the Soul

Nature delights to pour her melody

Of echoing glens and foaming cataracts, Swells into extasy each slumb'ring sense.While dreams, that love to haunt the Poet's

mind,

In long succession play; till the fair scene
Presents a form that fancy's happiest hour
Faintly has fashion'd.-

The tall rocky cliff
That canopies the dim-seen stream below,
Seems like some hoary castle from its height
Low'ring destruction; save that for the tones
Of minstrelsy, amid the armed hall,

The dell rings loud with the deep mellow

note

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Their mingled charms thy soul shall bless,
A tender joy bestowing;

Ah! who can tell the tender joys
From nature s beauties flowing?
While the dark stream, and waving wood,

With hues contrasted shine,

A holy charm shall softly blend
Their being into thine.
From ev'ry bank, from ev'ry tree,
A naineless rapture stealing,
Thro' ev'ry slúmb'ring sense shall wake
A richer, finer feeling.

And when the woodland path is strew J
With leaves so cold and sere,
When ev'ry vivid bloom deserts

The desolated year

When fast on earth the whelming rains
And wreathy flakes are falling,
Then mem'ry's pictur'd ray shall beam,
All nature's joys recalling."

Whoever is acquainted with the admirable poems of Mr. Wordsworth will immediately perceive the resemblance. The following also was produced by the same imitative power, which, if Mr. Finlay be a young poet, as we imagine, pro mises well.

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He could not wind his bugle horn,
And he died at the brook ere the early morn.

-Pray for the soul of the knight, who fell At the mossy brook in the forest dell.——"

of this. We do not notice these resem The Three Ravens are the prototype blances with any design of detracting from the author's merit. It is with poets as with painters: no one ever attained to excellence himself who did not rightly understand the excellence of the great masters of his art, and passionately admire their works. We do not often meet with a volume from which so many interesting extracts might be made.

We add one more, as being more original than what we have previously quoted.

"As on a meadow-bank I lay,
Amid the exuberance of May,

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