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As we can extract the following pleasing allegory, with little violence to the story, we shall insert it as a specimen.

• How many happy hours have we passed in this bowerhours never to be recalled — with what winged speed yè few.! -and now every leaf spoke to my heart. The disposition of the boughs, which hung neglected, or only caught up here and there by the tendrils of a vine which had made its way through the lattice-had something so mournful, so pathetically touching in their appearance, that I could not withstand the sensations they raised in me.--I was overpowered by the weight of my afflictions-why is it that forrow takes such ftrong hold upon me? Is calamity to be my guide through life? I am not naturally of a melancholy turn ; there was a time when chearfulness danced before me-Hope was on my right-hand and Contentment on my left. gave myself up to their protection-we ruihed giddily after our conductress.-Through what flowery paths she led us ! whatever we saw was worthy of our attention, every trifle amused us. At the altar of Religion we bowed our heads, our hearts hailed her as our superior patronefs--we offered gratefully our vows at her fhrine. She received our sacrifices, and smiled, on us with that benignity which can exalt the human heart to such a pitch of fublimity. My friend, we met with Love; he feduced Chearfulness from us, and he supplied her place ;--at first we scarcely perceived the change; but we had not wandered long, when the boy grew captious. -Hope trembled and turned pale. She saw, and warned me of my danger: Love ftruck at her, and the fled. Contentment vanished. I would have followed, but with artful, with flowery bands he detained me. How soft, how gentle, he was then to me ;- but soon, what a tyrant did he become ! What would I not have given to have broken my fetters !-yet now-that Despair has driven him from


heart-am I more at ease? I am convinced we know not what is best for us, and our part is only to submit with resignation to the events which the Most High shall judge we are capable of supporting.'


POETRY. The Disbanded Subaltern : an Epifle from the Camp at Lenbam.

Second Edition, is. 6d. Flexney.

in volume lvi. page 148. It is now enlarged and improved.


cism, we

Rational Amusements, being a Collection of Original Miscellanies,

8vo. Is. 6d. Earle. This is one of those milk and water productions of which little can be said, either good or bad: we meet with nothing strikingly defective, much less particularly beautiful. Being consequently very ill calculated to afford food for criti.

fhall dismiss it without farther notice. The Paphiad; or, Kensington-Gardens. 4to. Is. Ód. Harlowe.

The principal design of this poem is to praise the duchess of Devonshire, to whom it is dedicated. The author firft introduces us to the aerial attendants of Venus, who are summoned to appear before their mistress at the Paphian court. The following description of the bower, the goddess, and those attendants will, we apprehend, please the reader, potwithstanding the construction of the verbs in some of the concluding lines is not strictly grammatical.,

• In the sweet shade of Paphos' fragrant wood,
A secret bower of cluster'd myrtles food :
Across the dome two breathing woodbines twine ;
The rose, the jesfamine, their essence join
To feast the sense ; here, springing ever new,
The 'modeft lily, and the violet blew :
All Flora's beauties grac'd the facred grove,
Where gentle Venus held the court of Love.

High on a throne, of beaten roses made,
The smiling queen her airy troops survey'd :
Close by her lide the blooming Graces itood,
Her form with wonder, and with envy view'd;
Though fair each maid, her beauty, beaming far,
Flash'd like a planet o’er each meaner star.
A fowery wreath her golden ringlets grac'd,
The myftic ceftus bound her taper waist ;
Each charm, juft shaded by the purple vest,
Through the thin veil transparent ftood confeft;
And so contriv'd, that what might seem concealid,
Shone itill the more luxuriantly reveal'd.

* Beneath a fhade her iv'ry chariot ftood;
With purest gold the burnish'd axle glow'd ;
Loose, and un harness’d, few the milk-white doves,
Sport in the air, or wanton with the Loves.

. The little archer by his mother sat':
His guards attend in all the pomp of state ;
Gay on the vines their golden quivers hung,

Untipe their arrows, and their bows unstrung.' Venus informs her court, that since the time when Pari ber stowed on her the golden apple, her votaries had considered het in a very improper light, as the tutelary divinity of luft, nor ef virtuous love; that, to vindicate her character, and convince


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them of the contrary, she was determined to depute a LIVING belle as her vicegerent below.

• She shall preside o’er every mortal scene,
And fix her standard as the Paphian queen:
Let her my graces, pleasures, smiles retain ;'
The humble virtues too shall fwell her train.
She must have rank ; be noble in her birth;
(The world, we know, contemns untitled worth :)
She shall assuage this rage of luft below;

Each, to be fair, muit then be virtuous too.' To execute this defign the proposes an expedition to Ken. fington-gardens. She and her suite accordingly take their in. visible stand under a large tree, and Venus describes the chasacter of the British beauties as they pass in review before them. Some are cenfured, but the generality highly, and the duchess, fuperabundantly praised. Venus declares, that her charms, had the made her appearance on mount Ida, would have exceeded those of all the three contending goddesses united ; and that her virtues would have reclaimed Paris, and • saved the fate of Troy.' The prize is accordingly bestowed on her, and the celestial powers summoned to attend the new-made deity,' of whom we are just afterwards told that

immortality is not her own.' The conclusion, indeed, of this poem is not equal to its beginning, which, though not always correct, is elegant and pleafingly fanciful. When the Graces and Loves assemble round the duchess, the image, instead of being beautiful, is truly ludicrous.

• None want a place for each a beauty found;
Fearless they circle, and adhere around.
A smile in raptare plays about her face,
Whilft to her bosom steals a tempting grace :
She gathers numbers as she moves along,
And in herself becomes a moving throng.
(All this unseen by every mortal

eye, for Paphian acts are all a mystery.) The following vindication of the duchess against the 'coothless prudes,' who are supposed to have arraigned her conduct, stands in the same predicament,

• Know then, ye fputtering, spiteful, cattish race,
That envy ever brings its own difgrace:
lf from her height the stoopid in freedom's cause,
Her patriot zeal desery'd a world's applause;
Nor meanly dare her character to scan:

Know-Liberty lhe lov'd---not Carlo Chan.' The introduction of the burlesque title Carlo Chan, turns to jest the defence that seems to have been very serioully in. tended.

145 Picturesque Poetry: Consisting of Poems, Odes, and Elegies, on

various Subježrs. By the rev. 7. Teasdale. 8vo. 25. 6d. Robinson.

These poems are chiefly descriptive. The images, though seldom new, are delineated in a pleasing manner; and the reflections, though sometimes trite, are in general just, and well applied. A performance entitled DAY, confisting of three parts, MORNING, Noon, and EVENING, pleases us as well as any in the collection, of which the concluding section

may serve as a specimen. There is, however, one impropriety in it; the describing Aowers as expanding, and erecting themfelves at the approach of night, when the reverse is a wellknown fact.

• Now, when ev'ning's sober ray
Gradual marks the parting day ;
And when long and length'ning shades
Croud the landscape, as it fades :
Let the Muse, with steady eye
Catch the objects, as they fly ;
Objects, yet so fair and bright,
Haft'ning to impervious night!

. As the sun, that smiles invest,
Slopes to the remoteft weit,
Living streaks the skies enfold,
Streaming purple, fring'd with gold ;
Silver, and æthereal blue,
Mildly beaming to the view.

Now again the eddying breeze
Gently waves the leaty trees,
Stealing fragrance, as it goes,
From each op'ning bud that blows ;
And imparting pillag'd sweets
To each travelling cloud it meets.

• Low its cadence, smooth its tides,
Soft the murm'ring riv’let glides,
Winding, with its limping food,
By the fkirts of yonder wood;
Where the sylvan fongsters meet,
Chirping, chaunting vespers sweet;
And, in many an untaught lay,
Chorusing from spray to spray.

Now the flow'rs, that sweets exhale,
Wide expanding to the gale,
Rise erect, in rival rows,
And their varying tints disclose.

· All the bloffom'd furze is gay, Where the wanton kidlings play; Vol. LX. Aug. 1785.



And in yonder peopled mead,
Hark! the shepherd tunes his reed;
While the village troops advance,
And begin their ev’ning dance.

* Let us join the mirthful throng,
Skimming now so light along;
Till the night, on footy wings,
Groupes of thick-wrought shadows brings,
And the vap'ry legions, all,

Take their Itations, at her call.'
Johnfor's Laurel, or Contest of the Poets. 410. 15. Hooper.

• Johnfon no more ! each bard attunes his lays,
To grieve his exit, and to sing his praise.
All writers write, and some who scarce can read;
To poems poems, lives to lives fucceed,
The theme alike, yet diff'rent is their aim ;

As some for pudding, others write for fame.' Wc allow this passage to be a little hyperbolical, but have found to our sorrow too much truth in it. The panegyrists of Dr. Johnson have been exceedingly numerous ;-peace to his manes! we trust their doleful elegies will never wound his ears, nor that of pofterity. Whether pudding or fame was held in view, of the generality we speak, the objects have surely been equally unattainable. The present author informs us that,

· All bards GREAT Johnson's wreath (the laurel) claim, and they accordingly repair to Parnaffus to assert their respective rights. Surely, considered merely as a poet, Johnson's merit is not of fo fuper-eminent a nature as to entitle him to this high compliment.

• First Pratt began, in accents meek and mild,

Soft as the whispers of a pukeing child!' As pukeing gives no idea of meekness or mildness, we would substitute puling for it, which, fignifying to whimper in a gentle manner, is more analogous to some of Mr. Pratt's writ. ings. PUKEING conveys an indelicate idea, ungénial to his style and sentiment.

· Next Whitehead came, his worth - a pinch of snuff,

But, for a laureat, he was well enough.' This is too severe on a very decent author; for to write birthday odes with success, is evidently no eafy talk. We no less disapprove of the following character.

• And Mason now, whose numbers nice by art,
Play in the ear, but never reach the heart.
Tho' fimilies he crams in ev'ry line,
And metaphors in 'ev'ry couplet shine,
Still in his verse there's something of divine.



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