Earth's beauties a', free we enjoy ;
What could we wish for mair?

It's no the coffers fu' o' gowd,-
It's no the lordly birth,—

But it is the sterling honest heart
That makes the man o' worth:

An' though his frame be worn and bent,
An' plain his garb may be,
There's honour in his manly breast,
An' freedom fires his ee.

When cheerfu' neighbours meet a blink,
To ca' the lightsome crack,

It isna wrang a' cares an' toils

To cast ahint their back.

Then gie's your hands, my hearty chiels,
My cronies frank and free,-

There's mony greater, richer men,

But blyther canna be.'-vol. i. p. 143.

In the poem of Cain the Wanderer' and the minor pieces. which are appended to it, we perceive a display of genius of a high order, though unfortunately the principles of the author appear to have been corrupted by the infidelity of Lord Byron. He confesses that his first notion of writing such a work arose from his perusal of that noble bard's "Cain," and we regret to see abilities such as his are, thrown away upon subjects which are not only worthless in themselves, but altogether against the taste of this country. In one of his notes the author declares that there is no country under heaven in which there is more, and at the same time less religion than in England, thus intimating that while there is a great deal of talk about religion amongst us, we know very little of its spirit. If this remark be just, we would take leave to ask, is this author consistent in endeavouring as far as in him lies, to reduce the little that we have to a still smaller compass ?

The author flatters himself that in his account of the GODHEAD and his attendant spirits, of Lucifer and his satellites, and of fallen man and his children, he is more philosophical than Milton. We do not see what he gains by this supposed advantage, either in his poetry or his morality. By way of novelty he has led his hero, after the murder of his brother, through the bosom of the earth, the void of space, the Paradise of Heilel or the morning star, and and through Pandemonium, after which he returns to his father's tent. This is unprecedented at all events, and for aught we know, may find admirers.

We are sorry to find still stronger traces of the author's infidel creed in his Vision of Heaven' and his poem on Deity,' the very title of which is disrespectful towards that GREAT BEING. We pity the mind that can find no example worthy its imitation save that of Lucifer. As for his gross want of patriotism, and

his praise of Napoleon at the expense of Wellington, it is despicable.

66

Of a very different stamp indeed is the work entitled 'Vallery, or the Citadel of the Lake,' a poem in nine cantos, and which, whatever may be its demerits, constantly looks with affection from nature up to nature's GOD." In one respect it is a singular piece of writing. There is scarcely any measure known to the English language which is not made use of by the author. Nor does the singularity stop here. For a hundred lines of rhyme, we have, perhaps, as many of blank verse, and, if we may speak for ourselves, this variety is by no means disagreeable. The castle of Vallery was one of the strong places taken by the Moors in Spain. The fall of the place is the final catastrophe, but the subject seems to have been selected by the author merely for the purpose of enabling him to present a picture of the chivalrous manners of the times a picture which he has drawn with accuracy, and considerable effect. We shall only extract from his poem a sunrise, which besides being truly poetical, is very far from being commonplace.

'Lo! o'er the welkin sails a white-fringed cloud,

That laves the fading forehead of the moon;

Now it is gathering in a darker shroud,-
And now 'tis o'er the pinnacle of noon :
The stars are dimm'd; while, in a pale festoon
Of circling light, Diana holds her way;-

It rains; the dusky woods receive their boon
Of liquid pearls,-the breezes freely play,

And soft the trickling shower falls on each blossom'd spray.

'The hush is over.-Hark! from every bower

The song of birds,-the murmuring of the streams,—
The drowning beetle and the weeping flower,-
The lizard rustling midst the orange gleams,-
The cricket chirping where the bamboo teems,-
The dancing rain, the living wind,—the sea
Rousing her billows from their coral dreams,—
The insect hum,-the whispers on the lea,-
There wants Aurora but to raise the jubilee.
'She comes,-in glory walking from the east!
Health on her cheek, and roses on her brows;
With robes of purple o'er her azure breast,

And golden hair, that round her fair form flows,
Breathing perfume which vanquishes the rose,
And gathering up her diamonds from the woods
To melt them midst the vapours that repose
In fairy isles, above the liquid floods;

And now she wakes the hymns of all her solitudes! '—pp. 81, 82.

This description of course applies not to Spain, where no bamboo is to be seen, but to one of the islands in the east which the author had visited.

We were amused with the preface, in which the author of 'Adra' has introduced his poem. He of course 'thinks it good, or he would not print it: he is pleased with it himself, and therefore he hopes it may please the public.' He remarks with great naiveté, that he does not believe in the common cry of the day, "that the world is sick of poetry;"-no, he adds with singular diffidence, 'the world is never sick of any thing that is good; it is only bad poetry that it is sick of,' wherefore it is left to us to conclude that the poetry displayed in this volume is of a right excellent description. Now although we have no desire whatever to mar the good opinion which G. P. R. James, Esq. entertains of his own writings, we must nevertheless take the liberty to assure him that we are not at all pleased with them; that we are never sick of any thing good, but that his Adra acted upon us with a medical power, producing certain qualms of nausea which, if they were not sickness, were exceedingly like it. Adra, the bride of a Peruvian named Huara, is taken possession of by a Spaniard, upon the invasion of the land of the Incas. In this poem the Peruvian is avenged, if Mr. James may be believed. The Ruined City,' which is a tale of modern Greece, is much better written than Adra; we shall detach from it only a reflection.

Why was hope given to man? To lead him on
From joy to joy, till worldly joys be gone!
To strive with care, to heal the wounds of time,
And teach the mind from height to height to climb;
To leave the heart unsatisfied with earth,

And point to pleasures of a brighter birth.
Oft as I've gazed on Time's swift flowing stream,
And seen Hope's bubbles dancing in the beam,
And breaking, one by one, without a trace
To mark their fleeting, or to point their place,
I've marvell'd, empty things, like these that past,
Should still engage, and cheat us to the last.

Oh! in the close of life, when years are few,
Hope! wilt thou still delude my willing view,
When from my earliest days, thy flatt'ring ray
Has served, too oft, to lead my steps astray;
When still thy sweetest words have mock'd my ear,
And brightest smiles been followed by a tear;
When even now thy witchery I feel,
And still confiding at thine altar kneel;
Oh! must it be that thou wilt yet deceive,
And I be yet so mad as to believe?

· Often in infancy, when joys are young,
And Hope! thy Syren voice most sweetly sung,
O'er the green meadow, and the April plain,
I've chased the varied bow of heaven in vain-
Followed its hues, transparent as they shone,
And woo'd its fleeting splendour for mine own.

In after years, when beauty's fairer beam
Rose to my eyes, in loveliness supreme,
Beauty I followed, and as fondly too,
As e'er I chased yon arch of painted dew.
Next came the love of glory, and the dream
Of winning fame; I felt my bosom teem-
With thoughts and feelings, deep, and such as lead,
When rightly taught, to honour's shining meed ;-
No matter now, what might such dream destroy,
Hope! 'twas like all thy gifts, a gilded toy.
Each splendid trifle, that thou hang'st in air,
Is to man's fancy but a glitt'ring snare:
Thyself, the Iris of life's changeful skies:

And still man follows, where the rainbow flies.'-pp. 111-113.

3

The poem called Oliver Cromwell is nothing more or less than a history of England in blank verse: it is divided into three books, and represents the famed Oliver in the most favourable point of view. He appears here truly as the most learned man of his day; he explains the fundamental parts of our constitution, the rise and progress of our religion, and a great variety of subjects, in conversation with his daughter Elizabeth, alias Mrs. Claypole, a most unpoetical name by the way. The author throws out in his preface a doubt whether he is to have any readers. In that doubt we beg leave to say that we entirely participate, for the production is as heavy as the leaden sceptre of sleep itself.

When we announce that the Rev. Mr. Shepherd of Gateacre, near Liverpool, was induced to collect in their present form, poems which had been already published in the periodicals, and which have met with a flattering judgment from individuals whom he regards as competent critics,' the reader will perhaps think it an act of supererogation on our parts to say one word upon them. We cannot avoid noticing the originality and perfect innocence of a few of the subjects on which they expatiate. One is entitled Verses on the death of a young lady's linnet, which she had taken from the nest,' which said demise is celebrated in the following magnificent

stanza :

The clock struck twelve,-when, twitt'ring shrill,
Linetta to the window flew;

There thrice she peck'd with tiny bill,

Thrice, flutt'ring, brush'd the evening dew.'-p. 1.

That is to say, it died. But when the young lady awoke the next morning, the spirit of the bird appears to her, reproaches her for having taken it from its mother, and then goes, whither ?-To heaven! Ah me!-thou art indeed a gentle shepherd! We have, a few pages after this, a sonnet on hearing a skylark sing in the month of January; a sonnet to Hope; an ode to Myra, which is really pretty; an Inscription in Miss Johnes's garden; lines written in Miss Johnes's garden; stanzas composed in Miss Johnes's apart

ment. Oh fie, reverend Mr. Shepherd! But, good sir, the young lady was dead! Indeed!-that alters the case.

Besides a variety of such rural verses as those we have just alluded to, our reverend poet presents us with a memoir of Miss Johnes's late 'father, the well-known translator of the Chronicles of Froissart and Monstrelet, which memoir has already appeared in the annual obituary. After this we have translations from Latin, Italian and French poets, some of which are gracefully executed. We give a sprightly piece from Moschus.

'Oyez! cried Love's all-powerful queen,

If any man has lately seen

-

My scape-grace, tell me where he is;
The sweet reward shall be a kiss:-
If further blisses you would rifle,
I shall not stand upon a trifle.
The boy's so notable, no doubt,
Among a score, you'll find him out.
His skin glows like the fiery gleam;
His eyes flash like the lightning's beam;
His honied tongue distils with lies;
His heart is wrapp'd in dark disguise;
When passion rankles in his mind,
To savage deeds the elf's inclined;
And, under guise of harmless jest,
He stings the unsuspecting breast.
Innumerous curling tresses grace
His impudent and rakish face.
His hands are tiny, but their power
Extends to Pluto's gloomy bower.
The peevish urchin carries wings,
With which from heart to heart he springs,
As little birds, in wanton play,
Fly carelessly from spray to spray.
A trinket-bow and shafts he wears,
Which carry to the farthest stars.
His golden quiver swings behind,
With numerous fatal weapon's lined,
With which he deals sharp sorrows round,
And dares his mother's heart to wound.
His torch, with its portentous blaze,
Consumes the very solar rays.

If thou shalt catch this vagrant child,
Ah, be not by his tears beguiled;
Bind fast his trickful hands, nor heed
Those smiles that secret treachery breed;
Drag him along, nor thoughtless stay
To fondle with him by the way.
Fly, fly his kisses:-they inflame
With every poison thou canst name;