by reflected rays of brilliancy; and he must admit no laboured difficulties in his own manner, nor any faint copyisms in his imitation of others. However, let us cease from attempting to describe that which, after all, can only be felt with adequate truth and vivacity; and which (we grieve to add) has in our judgement rarely indeed been exemplified in any mode of composition by our coëval poets, and never in their dramatic undertakings.

MONTHLY CATALOGUE, FOR OCTOBER, 1817.

POETRY, &c.

Art. 13. Odes, and other Poems. By Henry Neele. Crown 8vo. pp. 144. Sherwood and Co. 1816.

In a short preface, which takes a rapid survey of the lyric poets of England, and which unaccountably omits to mention Mr. Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads *, Mr. Neele maintains the superiority of Collins and Gray over all other poets in the same department. He does not, indeed, we think, dwell sufficiently on that glorious burst of Dryden, the Alexander's Feast, but otherwise his opinions seem tolerably reasonable. His poetry, in many passages, is of a very superior order to that of his ephemeral brethren of the grey goose quill: but on some occasions he is most bombastically disposed, and out-horrorizes even the most horrible of the modern votaries of horror. His taste is evidently not quite formed: but, from the classical models which he has chosen, and from the native spirit which he has displayed, we may venture to entertain better hopes of his future productions. The two most pleasing poems in the present collection are, on the whole, the Ode to Memory, and the following stanzas:

"Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?" Job v.
• And where is he? not by the side

Whose every want he loved to tend;
Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,
Where sweetly lost, he oft would wend;
That form beloved he marks no more,
Those scenes admired no more shall see,
Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair; -but where is he?

"No, no, the radiance is not dim,

That used to gild his favourite hill,
The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still;

* We intend soon to render ample justice to this ingenious gentleman, and to make amends for Mr. Neele's neglect, in our notice of a new and unrivalled production of his pen.

REV. OCT. 1817.

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But

But ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his gardens be,
The lilies droop and wither there,

And seem to whisper, "where is he?"
His was the pomp, the crowded hall,
But where is now this proud display?
His riches, honours, pleasures, all

Desire could frame; - but where are they?
And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea,
Surrounded by admiring bands,

Seemed proudly strong-and where is he?

The church-yard bears an added stone,
The fire-side shews a vacant chair,
Here sadness dwells and weeps alone,
And death displays his banner there;
The life is gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been no more shall be;
The well-known form, the welcome tread,
Oh where are they, and where is he?'

Some strange barbarisms occur in the language, and other vagaries in the versification of several passages. What can be more insufferable than the apostrophe after the adjective, as thus?

The wounded's balm, the troubled's rest."

If we do not resist such outrageous innovations as these, into which we have been gradually led by less offensive licences, we shall soon be reduced to babble a Gothic jargon indeed; and one of the peaceful glories of some great nation yet to come will be this, to weed out the faults and follies of the English tongue, in the nineteenth century of Christianity.

Sherwood and

>

Art. 14. Dash, a Tale. Third Edition. By Henry Lee, Author of Caleb Quotem, &c. Crown 8vo. pp. 32. Co. 1817. A third edition of Dash! Is it possible that any past æra of absurdity can have equalled the present? A silly tissue of sentimental sickliness and stupidity, without one ray of genius, wit, learning, or any good quality whatever, goes through three edi tions, containing three cantos and two wood cuts!

Gauge, the exciseman, as he pass'd that way,
(His walk, as we have said, at early day,)
First notic'd Dash- the dog he long had known;
And next saw Woodley just as we have shewn.
To succour Woodley, Gauge his skill applied,
And gently plac'd him close by Dash's side:
Dash heard them speak his head he faintly rais'd,
And fondly on his much-loved master gazed.
Woodley, though safe himself, in anxious fear
At seeing Dash lie wounded, dropp'd a tear;...

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Cautious

Cautious he turn'd the faithful creature o'er,
But Dash had fallen - alas! to rise no more!
The gun's dire charge a vital part had found,
And life's warm stream ran copious on the ground.'
"Hæc fierent, si testiculi vena ulla paterni

Viveret in nobis?" &c. &c. (Persius.)

to spit."

"But oh, if Rome's old manhood were not fled, Could such lines gender in a Roman head? Hold, I mistake; 'tis in the mouth they grow: Mænas, and Attys, like our spittle flow. Their author thump'd no desk; no finger bit; His only toil and trouble was (Brewster.) Art. 15. Poetic Impressions. A Pocket-book, with Scraps and Memorandums. Including the Washing Day, Ironing Day, Brewing Day, Quarter Day, and Saturday. By Henry Lee, Author of Dash, a Tale; Caleb Quotem, &c. Crown 8vo. pp. 187. Sherwood and Co. 1817.

The title-page, prefixed to this little volume of nonsense, will amply describe its contents. It is a foolish farrago indeed; with occasional, and but occasional, glimmerings of whimsicality, to relieve the dead and dark dullness of the general mass. The subjoined is an old friend with a new face:

Gambling!

A ruined gamester once foul play had shown
And, from a second-story window thrown,

Ask'd Will's advice!· The case, said Will, is plain;
Observe this rule - Don't play so high again!'

We add one of the serious effusions; old in shape, as in subject:

Happy the fair, who, with a virtuous mind,
Can in her husband every solace find;

Tho' not by affluence cheer'd, in humble life
Proud of that best of titles, faithful wife;

The world's vain praise, or blame, her least regard,
Her husband's smile her chief, her sole reward.

For him she lives, in him alone confides,

her every action guides;

The ray of pure affection warmly glows,

And o'er her home eternal sunshine throws.'

The wit and the wisdom of these Poetic Impressions' are nearly on a level. The former, indeed, evaporates in smoke, and the latter subsides into lead.

Art. 16. Poems, by Arthur Brooke, Esq. Small 8vo. pp. 56. Printed at Canterbury. 1816.

These little Anacreontic effusions, though in themselves sufficiently insignificant, discover a certain degree of poetical talent, which, if matured by cultivation and assisted by farther study and experience, might become fitted to exert itself on more important

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themes.

themes. We shall exhibit one or two specimens of the author's style, and leave them with our readers.

• Tell me not how fair she seemed,
Nor how her glances mildly beamed,
Nor tell me how her bosom's swell
Warmly rose and softly fell,

For not on me those glances turned,
And not for me that bosom burned;
And not a sigh that heaved its snows
For me in kind remembrance rose.
But did a sympathetic flow
Equal in either bosom glow;
Did feeling with a rosy twine
Connect her gentle heart to mine,
Oh long, my friend, would be thy task
To answer all that love would ask.
Every changing charm desiring,
Every word, each look requiring,
On whom she bent her melting gaze,
Who led her through the dance's maze,
What chosen wreath her temples graced,
What envied zone her form embraced,
The hue of every robe she wore,
And oh! a thousand questions more;
That long indeed would be thy task
To answer all that Love would ask.'

The soft eyes of Jane were suffused with the flow
Of the gems that to pity belong;

And her heart softly heaved in its mansion of snow,
At the mournful complaint of the song.

• When a sigh from a bosom so lovely as this,

Is drawn by a languishing tone,

The poet is only inferior in bliss

To the lover who calls it his own.'

Art. 17. Selections from the Tales and Idyls of Gesner, translated into Verse. 8vo. pp. 125. Kerby. 1817.

To those who love pastoral poetry, and the whole gentle class of composition connected with it, these selections will afford a portion of their favourite entertainment. An elegance and a facility are evinced in many parts of the version, which is made through the medium of the French: but we observe also some idlenesses and inaccuracies which disfigure the work, and one or two poems (such as the Bath) which had better have been omitted. The Broken Pitcher,' as it is inelegantly called, and in another place 'the precious Jug,' is a translation of a little piece much more successfully rendered in Mr. Hobhouse's miscellaneous poems. One of the best attempts in the book is The Navigation.'

• Smooth glides the vessel which to distant shores
Conveys the lovely nymph my heart adores.

II

Zephyr,

Zephyr, thy freshest, fairest breeze supply;
Around the bark, young Cupids hovering fly;
If on the deck the cooling air she courts,
Sea-gods! delight her with your frolic-sports;
When her soft eyes decline upon

the sea,

'Tis then, ye gods! my Zoe thinks on me!
From myrtle labyrinths that fringe the coast,
Pour forth, ye birds! the strains she loves the most,
By whispering breezes to her ear conveyed,
Entice my Zoe to your vocal shade.

Sea! may thy slightest billows calm subside;
Ne'er to thy care did ocean's god confide,
Ne'er did thy waves a freight more precious bear,
A form more lovely, or a face more fair;
The sun-beam on thy brilliant plain displayed
Glows less resplendent than the peerless maid;
Not Paphos Queen could rarer charms disclose
When from thy bosom's glittering foam she rose,
And floating radiant on her silvery shell,
Th' enchanted Tritons fixed by Beauty's spell,
Forsook their rush crown'd nymphs, and coral caves,
And light disporting on thy glassy waves,
The nereid's smiles and frowns disdainful viewed,
And plunged in ecstasy her course pursued,
Till from their gaze the pearly car conveyed

The blooming goddess to th' embowering shade.'

Although the images in this little poem are all hackneyed, they manifest a freshness and a distinctness in the form which they have here assumed that cannot but be agreeable.

We were sorry to see such a couplet, even of lines eight feet long, as the subjoined:

Oft rolling on the earth would lay,

And call on murdered Olivier.'

Report says that this work is the production of a lady of fashion.

Printed in

Art. 18. Clara; or Fancy's Tale, a Poem in Three Cantos. By John Owens Howard. 12mo. 7s. 6d. Boards. Dublin, and sold in London by Longman and Co. We are here presented with a poetical effusion which is superior, by many gradations, to others with which we have, from time to time, been honoured by our good brothers and sisters on the farther side of St. George's Channel. To those of our readers, therefore, who so far differ from ourselves as to be still unsated with the style of Walter Scott, and the many happy and unhappy imitations of it to be found among the works of the poeta minores Anglici, this volume may with safety be recommended, for the purpose of beguiling a leisure-hour with innocent amusement. The praises, however, which are due to invention or originality, we are sorry to be obliged to withhold; and we cannot venture to prognosticate the meed of longevity to a species of poem, of which it is the

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peculiar