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temporaries. The essay on Noble Authors,' though brief and very imperfect, is animated; and in this quality of animation the author would frequently excel, if he did not suffer his indignant feelings to run away with him, and thus overcharge the pictures which he wishes to present faithfully to the view.

The Story of an Excentric Character' (No. 37. and several subsequent numbers) has very considerable interest; though the obscurity and reserve of the hero are become hacknied incidents in such narrations. The following verses have the merit of strong feeling, and, with some very trifling exceptions, of natural and poetical expression:

"Soft is the fairy beam that play's

Within that eye's too mournful sight;

Yet dangerous is it still to gaze
Till my soul melts in fond delight.
O hide that lovely face,

In which entranc'd I trace

An angel's goodness with an angel's grace!

2.

"Tear the delusion from my view;
Soften no more my yielding heart;
Those features of celestial hue

Raptures too high for earth impart !
For this shall I adore

A few short hours; and then deplore

Thro' all my darkening days the transient pleasure o'er !

3.

"Yet cast that heavenly ray again

Upon my languishing desire;

And tho' the bliss be mix'd with pain,

Once more relume the rapturous fire!
The memory still

Of that delight will fill

My years of future gloom with many a melting thrilla

4.

"O why, adown that lovely cheek,

Steals, Ellen, the contagious tear?
Does it a doubt of Longford speak?
Is it the mark of love or fear?

O let me drink those drops divine,
And, as the compact thus I sign,

E'en tho' the poison kills, a moment think thee mine!

5.

Upon my ravish'd ear bestow

The tones of that enchanting voice,

And

Do

And from thy bosom's fountain throw
The treasures that my soul rejoice;
For tho' thy beauty charm,

Yet, lovelier than thy form,

gems of mental light thine inward spirit warm!
6.

"O let me fold thee in mine arms,

And press thee to this last embrace;
Forget one moment all alarms,

And ages in that moment trace;
Then if my destiny

For ever bids me fly,

The point of earthly bliss I taste before I die !"

The subjoined extract from the first essay of the second volume, though we meet with nothing particularly novel in the remarks which it contains, appears to us as favourable a specimen of the author's prose-composition as we can select; and we must confine the remainder of our critique to brief observations on detached faults and merits.

Books are in general little more than transcripts of those which went before them, with a little difference of arrangement and combination: the same ingredients only poured into new vessels. Memory is the principal faculty which has been exercised in making them. When thoughts or images are brought forward, which have originated in the mind of the author, they will exhibit a freshness and vigour, that, even though they may be similar to such as have been produced by others, will make them interesting and valuable. There is all the difference, which there is between an original, and a copy, in painting. There may be the same outlines, the same figures and colours; but the difference can be better felt than expressed: one is faint, and cold, and dead; the other breathes and moves.

It is idle to be quibbling about the definition of literary genius, and limiting it to one or two forms of excellence; every thing is genius, which is inspired by this living spirit. Nor is it confined alone to poetry, though in poetry its higher powers may be exhibited: still less is it narrowed to one or two tracks of poetry: though Dr. Darwin seemed strangely to think almost all the merit of that art was restrained to the representation of material objects. Elevated thoughts, and tender sentiments, when conveyed in congenial language, partake surely as much of the essence of this divine power, as the most brilliant imagery!

I desire no more infallible test of genius, than that ardent manner, which, displaying the soul of the writer predominant over his language, communicates its own fire to the reader, and carries him along with it. He, who is characterized by this trait, gives an interest to every subject that he touches, and throws sparks of light on the dullest subject.'

The fault that pervades the manner as well as the matter of this writer will be seen by the observant reader of the foregoing ex

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tract to be repetition. Both his thoughts and his words occur too frequently in all their unconscious identity;-if, as disciples of Locke, we may use such an expression.

The Greek Alcaïcs of Mr. Capel Lofft, on Eton College, would not have passed without correction at that seat of learning, had they composed a sixth-form-exercise on leaving school. We cannot reconcile either our ears or our imaginations, to say nothing of critical or metrical objections, to such Grecian heroes as BEPNAPAOC (for Mr. L. gives us the true capitals) and FOETEPEIOC, Masters of Eton; or even to Kaudevios, (for we cannot copy any more of Mr. L.'s great letters,) Foxios, and Xarauos, although so much more heroic characters. We recognize, however, something very respectable and very interesting in the devotion to literature, which seems with unceasing ardour to accompany Mr. Lofft through every period of his life. Some of his English poems, too, which are here presented to us, have a classical elegance about them; and we shall be well pleased to receive the comprehensive collection of Sonnets, (a style of composition in which Mr. L., by his sonnet on the death of Miss Caroline Symmons, would have shewn himself capable of excelling had he written no others,) which we are told by the Ruminator that Mr. Lofft is about to publish. It is to contain, we are informed, the most copious assemblage of compositions of this kind ever made, not only English, but both original and translations from the Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, French, and German. While we hail the promise of such an " Anthology," we would hint to the author the great possibility of feasting to a surfeit on sonnets; and we would also ask him whether the title of “ Laura, or select Sonnets, and Quatuorgaius," (to say nothing of a little' pedantry,) be the most appropriate designation for a work of se many-languaged a nature? We would, moreover, admonish Mr. L. that, in his additional line to Martial's celebrated epigram on A happy Life,'

Latus præteriti; POST fata, felix,'

he has woefully limped in his hendecasyllables, by running against a post, in the second half of the line.

Some of the most valuable papers of this work are those in which an attempt is made to revive the honours of forgotten. English poets; and the extracts from Habington, a very spirited and harmonious poet of the reign of Charles the First, are creditable to the taste of the selector. Still more do we admire the passage from Sackville's Induction; although the Earl of Dorset cannot well be styled a forgotten author. Nor was it necessary to call the attention of all the present race of poetical readers

to

to Drayton or to Browne. We are certainly becoming better acquainted with the poetry of our forefathers than our imme diate predecessors seem to have been; and this is one symptom of improvement in our taste. A raciness and a vigour are displayed by these founders of English harmony, which will be of peculiar use to the student who has hitherto only reposed on the smoother verse of their followers. Drayton's verses to Browne, quoted at page 122. of the second volume, will be to some readers a surprizing specimen of the perfection to which the art of versification had been brought before the days of their exclusive favourites, Dryden and Pope. In fact, too much stress is laid on the later improvements in the smoothness of English verse. It was in the rich and varied harmony which Dryden introduced, that his principal merit consisted. Not only was "Waller smooth," but many before him. We are deviating, however, from our subject, and must return to chew the cud a little longer with the present essayist. In one of his ruminations, he calls our attention to Quarles's Emblems, and some other works of that quaint but far from original author. In another, we have a brief notice of Cowper's translation of Homer, justly placed at an immeasurable distance below that of his great rival. A fault committed by them both is mentioned, which indeed has often been stated before; the second syllable of Sperchius is made short by both translators. -We have also a republication of Anstey's version of Gray's Elegy, which was scarcely necessary; though the version isone of the best of those "numbers numberless" which have appeared. The Epitaph, with the exception of the first line, is peculiarly happy.

An extract from Warburton's Correspondence with Hurd, a book of such very recent date, seems hardly admissible into a miscellany professing to be original. It is, however, difficult to say whether the extravagance of modern publications does not in some measure palliate the offence of those who favour us with selections from them, and thus (if they do not violate the laws of literary property) contribute to the general knowlege of valuable works.

We were much gratified by the eloquent tribute to the memory of Algernon Sydney, at page 164. of the second volume; and we confess that we contemplate the portrait of this illustrious patriot with nearly the same sensations of respect as those which the Ruminator' describes himself to have felt when walking along the galleries of Penshurst, and looking at the stern countenance of Sydney in the seat of his ancestors. The anecdote at page 170. of Vol. ii., in an essay on the Pleasures and Uses of Fancy,' of an eminent mathematician

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who could find no merit nor amusement in Virgil, because he could find no proof in him,' is a fair characteristic of the turn of mind which is produced by exclusive habits of mathematical study: but, generally speaking, the abstractions of the metaphysician are infinitely more favourable to a taste for the arts of imagination. Indeed, without some inquiry into the principles of the human mind, it is clear that we shall be unable to give a reason for the pleasure which we receive from beautiful passages of poetry; and, if this should be considered as unnecessary by the careless mass of readers, we shall even be deprived of much additional enjoyment, from wanting a full perception of the skill of the poet.—This, however, is opening a subject that would require a volume to illustrate it.

At page 184. we have some stanzas from the poem of "Childe Alarique:" but we have already offered our critique on that performance *.— - In an essay on Posthumous Fame, we have much too high-flown a panegyric on Mr. Wordsworth. We are far from insensible to the great original powers of this writer but, in the whole catalogue of excentric aberrations from sound and established taste, we know not any instance so striking as his poetical theory, and the examples by which he has supported it. Abounding in facilities for conveying pure and unmixed pleasure to his readers, he has chosen to debase his most natural passages with that sort of familiarity which is sure to "breed contempt;" and he has at times almost emasculated his understanding by a vain fondness for his own phantom of simplicity: «Non illa priorum simplicitas."

--

any

We wish that the Ruminator' would have attended more to the advice furnished by one of his correspondents, in the opening words of the subjoined sentence: but we cannot too strongly protest against the sweeping conclusion. What! are we to have no relief for our cares, no participation of our enjoyments, our most secret cares, and our deepest enjoyments, in human breast? This must have been, assuredly, an unintentional or an idle generality of expression. There are secret stores of cherished thought which ought always to be secret; which we may partake indeed with the friendly paper on which they are arrested and fixed; but never, never, with any human being! Dii meliora piis. - What fol piis.—What lows is not unamusing; and the truth of the remark with which it ends should be generally felt and acknowleged: 'I am pleased with that expression attributed in the news-papers to Lord Wellington, that, if he thought even the hairs on his head were acquainted with any of his plans, he would shave them off and wear a wig. In the same narrative (which whether

* See Review for March last.

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