ART. 29.-A Short View of the natural History of the Earth. Designed for the Instruction and Amusement of young Persons. By H. E. 12mo. 13. 6d. Boards. Harris.

1802.

This little compendium may answer the author's intention of rendering such youthful minds as peruse it restless after further information. Unless it have this effect, its brevity will not permit us to say that it can be very useful.

ART. 30.-The Пistory of Man, in a savage and civilized State. Written in a familiar Stile, and adapted to the Capacities of Youth. Being Vol. I. of the Minor's Magazine, 12mo. 2s. Boards. Tegg and Castleman.

The proprietors of this magazine do not inform the public, in their advertisement, what is to be the extent or the subjects of their future volumes: but, if they be careful to make them equal the specimen before us, we think the collection will be serviceable to the rising generation.

ART. 31.-The Poor Child's Friend; or, Familiar Lessons adapted to the Capacities of all Ranks of Children. 12mo. 6d. Bound.

Baldwin.

It is hardly necessary to write different first lessons for the rich and the poor. Children of that early age know little of the images contained in books: the words are all that it is necessary to teach them. ART. 32.-Marvellous Adventures; or, the Vicissitudes of a Cat. In which are Sketches of the Characters of the different young Ladies and Gentlemen into whose Hands Grimalkin came. By Mrs. Pilkington. 12mo. 2s. Boards.

Vernor and Hood. 1802.

Grimalkin's history will entertain the child, and occasionally lead him to some important conclusions.

ART. 33.-The Guardian Angel. From the German of Augustus Von Kotzebue. A Story for Youth. 12mo. is. 6d. Boards. Vernor and Hood. 1802.

The contents of this little volume will be the more interesting to youth, when they read a note at the beginning, saying that the events actually took place between the years 1760 and 1766.

POETRY.

ART. 34.-Tales of Superstition and Chivalry. 8vo. 4s. Boards. Vernor and Hood. 1802.

The language of these Tales is made up of imitations, chiefly from Mr. Scott's and Dr. Leyden's ballads, and the poems of Mr. Wordsworth. Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' should have been the motto: the author has heard that obscurity is one source of the sublime, and has therefore veiled his sublimity in impenetrable darkness. He has perceived how rapidly good poets connect their narratives, and this also he has imitated; but, with great originality, has contrived to leap

over, not the dull parts, but what would in ordinary hands have formed the main action. The beginning of every poem excites expectation of something very great: when the explanation should come, we are always reminded of the country-schoolmistrees-What, can't you spell the word, you little dunce? well, then, skip it and go on!'

To evince the justice of our censure, we will analyse one of these poems. A ship is becalmed near the island of Seäm, and the crew are all terrified by a sound that stoppeth not, like the shrieks of a soul in woe! Father Paul, a monk of Einsidlin, is on board, and he terri fies them still more, by his account of their danger.

"He told them, he remember'd once
A father of St. Thomas' tower,

Who never had bow'd before the cross
Till he touch'd his dying hour.

"That then he named to the priest
What he had seen in Seäm's caves,
For he had reach'd them in a ship
When that calm was on the waves!

"Thro' the sleepless nights of thirty months,
He had listen'd to that shriek of woe:
But he never had seen the prophetess

Of the oracle below!

"Till that chilly night, at the equinox height,
When the thirty months were gone,

As he listen'd, in the outer cave,

To that unbroken groan,

"A hand, he saw not, dragg'd him on,

The voice within had call'd his name!

And he told all he witnessed

At the oracle of flame!

"But when he came to tell, at last,
What fearful sacrifice had bled,

His agony began anew,

And he could not raise his head!

"And he never spoke again at all,
For he died that night in sore dismay:
So sore, that all were tranc'd for hours
That saw his agony !

"And he told not how he left the cave
When that dreadful sacrifice was o'er ;
But some have thought he was preserv'd

By the crucifix he wore!

"And some have thought he had bent his knee
At Seäm's dark, unhallow'd shrine;

And that might be his agony

When they rais'd the blessed sign!" P. 23.

The vessel is lost, and only father Paul remains alive in the cave: he is dragged into the inner cave by the oracle of flame. The prophetess stretches her hand from behind the veil, and points to him to lay aside his crucifix. Father Paul remembers then the man whom he had seen die in such agony; and he felt that recollection more ter rible than the terrors of the cave. What, then, did father Paul do ?— here the author skips and goes on.

That monk was never seen again,
Till forty years were pass'd, or more;
'Twas in the aisle of Einsidlin
As even-prayer was o'er;

The priest had clos'd the service-rite,

For the eve of Holy Ghost;

He was seated in the upper choir,
'Twas the feast of Pentecost :

When he saw a monk, by the altar-rail,
Kneel down upon the step to pray;
The dying lights were glimmering,
And all had gone away:

• The priest descended from the choir,
By the lamp that burn'd on the wall,
And he look'd on that uncover'd face,
'Twas the holy father Paul!

He stood like one in trance, to gaze
Upon that mild and sacred head;
Forty years had pass'd away

Since he was with the dead.

Forty years had pass'd away

Since the ship had struck on Seäm's steep;
And every soul that breathed there

Had perish'd in the deep!

In all that time, if he liv'd still,

That none should see the father Paul,
It awed the priest of Einsidlin,
And he could not speak at all!

The aged monk had left the aisle,
And the dying tapers sink and fail;
All, but the lights on the high altar,
And they are dim and pale:

The priest was still by the altar-rail

On the morn of Holy Ghost;

When the bell was done for matin prayers,

At the feast of Pentecost.' P. 34.

And here the poem ends.

There was once a painter, who painted one daub of red, and called At the passage of the Israelites over the Red Sea. Where are the I

raelites? asked a critic. All safely got over. But where are the Egyptians?'-'Where should they be?' replied the painter: all drowned, to be sure.' Our author's ballads are like the picture of the Red Sea.

ART. 35.-The Triumphs of Poesy: a Poem. By J. C. Hubbard, A. M. Author of Jacobinism, &c. 4to. 2s. 6d. Nicol. 1803.

The design of the author, in this little poem, is to characterise a few of the most eminent of the Greek, Latin, and English, poets. This he has done with a richness of language, and a swell of versification, which we do not often meet with. We quote the opening stanzas. At length, desending from her car of flame,

That roll'd triumphant o'er the land and deep,
Britannia quits the blood-stain'd fields of fame,
And bids the thunders of the battle sleep;
Thunders, that hurl'd their aggravated roar
O'er India's clime remote, and Egypt's burning shore.
Fresh on her brow the immortal wreath is seen,
By Valour fix'd, and Freedom's fingers wove:
More pure its tints than spring's primeval green,
More sweet its odours than the breath of Love!
O'er her white cliffs seraphic harps resound,

While Echo wafts the notes her raptur'd shores around.
The heroic bands, that first spontaneous rose,

Confess'd at once their country's pride and shield,
That hung terrific on her host of foes,

And burn'd to bleed in Glory's arduous field,
With duteous love around the goddess throng,
Hail her approving eye, and catch the aerial song.
The imperial banner, waving o'er her head,
Full to the sun the mystic cross displays;
For this she rush'd to arms, for this she bled,
On this, in battle, fix'd her ardent gaze;
This nerv'd her arm, and, as it hover'd near,
Wing'd with resistless fate the lightning of her spear.
When, late, insulted by unheard-of crimes,

Fair Faith from Gaul's barbarian coast withdrew,
Abash'd, forlorn, through Europe's tainted climes
She fled, and flying heard the fiends pursue;
Heard the wild scream, the accumulating yell,
Of Murder, scowling round, and Rapine, hot from hell.
But soon to Albion's happy isle retir'd,

Whose righteous sceptre guards the public weal.
Her gallant sons the heaven-born maid inspir'd
With matchless skill, and ever-during zeal ;

With zeal, the madness of the storm to brave,

And skill, from felon-hands their blood-bought rights to save.' p.i. Who would suppose that these stanzas were the commencement of a poem upon the Triumphs of Poesy?

CRIT. REV. Vol. 38. May, 1803.

I

ART. 36.-Poems, inscribed to the right honourable Lord Viscount Dudley and Ward; having a Reference to his Lordship's beautiful Seat of Himley; by Luke Booker, LL.D. 4to. 28. Hurst.

To the right honourable lord viscount Dudley and Ward. My Lord,

Insensible were I of kindness, and unsusceptible of impression from the beauties of nature, to have been honoured with so much of the former by your lordship, and to have had so many opportunities of surveying the latter in the fine park of Himley, did I not feel, enkindled within me, many a grateful and pleasurable emotion.-Behold, my lord, the proofs that I have felt them, in the attendant inspirations of my Muse. These are presented to your lordship as so many wild flowers culled in your own demesne,-manifesting the exquisite beauty of the scene in which they grew, rather than the skill of the person who braided them together.' P. iii.

Lord Dudley and Ward is the hero, or rather the Mæcenas, of these poems. Mæcenas is the title of the eclogue.

-He, when winter comes in storms and cold,
Is to the poor a father; to the old

A solace; to the widow lorn-a friend :
Such, did his arm in want's dark hour defend.
With copious food he famish'd hundreds fed,
Who, ev'ry sabbath-morn were seen to tread
The winding pathways to his princely gate;
Where, to assuage the woes of adverse fate,
His weekly dole was bountifully giv'n,
Blessing his heart with foretaste high of heav'n.
-We, Arcas, in the humble happy band,
Have oft receiv'd the largess of his hand,-

Largess, apportion'd to the sacred-day,

When, for the donor, each at church would pray;

Thence, home return'd, with hearts embued by Heav'n,
How sweet the meal by good Macenas giv'n!

That meal by heedful cleanliness prepar'd,

And by our little smiling offspring shar'd.

These, taught to know from whom the bounty came,
Would grateful lisp their benefactor's name,
Would, as fit grace, with artless tongues implore
Blessings on him who oft thus bless'd the poor.
Nor did he only Hunger's wants supply,
And wipe the tear from pale Affliction's eye,
But, at cold winter-tide, our lives to save
(Drawn from his jetty mines) he fuel gave;
Causing our humble homes, each night, to throw
A cheerful gleam athwart a waste of snow.
Round our bright fires we sung the song of joy,
Nor could the howling storm our bliss annoy.
With strains like these did ev'ry cottage ring-
"Long live Mæcenas, and God save the king!" p.5.

The scathed oak stands in the park of Mecenas. The young oak