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poet is so warmed by enthusiasm, that, though he ventures to give the pre-eminence to York Minster, Westminster Abbey, and St. Paul's Cathedral, he exclaims with rapture

Thou art indeed a noble edifice;'

and having duly meditated on its stability, he finishes the first part with reminding us, happily connecting Church and State, that the Government of England is built on wise foundations.'

In the second part, the Genius of Architecture is invoked, and much is remarked on the Grecian and Gothic styles of building. When the bells sound, farmers and cottagers are enjoined to lift up their children towards the steeple's chinky walls,' for of old high respect was paid to bells, which by the priests were lav'd, anointed, crossed, blessed, and as Saints y'clep'd.' Next the uses of Steeples are sung; and, though All-Saints occupies an inland site, we are told to recollect that the spires and steeples of churches on the coast serve as land-marks to mariners: on the strength of which observation, Tenterden's temple pyramid,' and the tower of Boston church, are duly apostrophised. Returning from the sea to Derby, the poet sings forth the reason of churches being placed due East and West, and is happy in remarking that All-Saints is in this respect in unity with twice ten thousand Churches, whose collected emphasis directs the mind to the One God.'-Now we are carried to the top of the tower, the poet not forgetting to describe the dark ascent up the well stair case; and when he reaches the top, he gives the surrounding landscape in a superb blank verse Panorama, in which not only the river Derwent makes a conspicuous figure, but the very smoke from the chimnies of Derby town, which appear iR graceful undulations.'

In the third part, the poet introduces us to the service of the church, and interrupts the majestic march of the Epic Muse in order to prepare a solemn hymn adapted to Christian worship. Resuming his accustomed strain, he expresses his admiration of the simple beauty of this spacious church;' digresses to give a history of the origin of Dale Abbey; and having traced it through all its mutations to its present mined state, he thus addresses All-Saints:

THOU TOO, MUST ONE DAY FALL! for all on earth
Is perishable vanity! Man dies -

Survivors build his tomb-but that too sinks,
Lost in the gulph of years! Of the PAST WORLD,
The very SHADOW flits away. Awhile,

A little while, in this sublunar scene,

We must sojourn; but soon, the wings of death,
Will waft our spirits hence;'-

and in conclusion;

• But what on earth is perfect? Lo, O Church,
Thy walls in hollow echos quick reply,
That nought on earth is perfect! Yet the day
Shall surely come, when this dishonor'd Dust,
Which now but soils thy foot, shall start to Life
Immortal, incorruptible, and join

Thas

That LIVING UNIVERSAL CHURCH, of which
Thou'rt but the frail exterior sign. Ere then,
Thou may'st have long lain level with the ground,
Thy very name forgotten! But the hand,
That wak'd, responsive to thy praise, the lyre,
And now in mournful cadence ling'ring sweeps
Its dying chords; the eye, that has admir'd
So oft, thy comeliness; in ev'ry garb

Of varying seasons; whether summer suns
Pour'd a green radiance on thy wreathed tower,
Or on its stony foliage winter strew'd

His flowers of snow; THESE will not see thy fate,
Nor sound thy dirge. Soon man to hoary years

Arrives; but ere with ivy locks thy brow

Shall be entwin'd, ere thou with tottering look
Shalt overhang thy base, ages, must roll,

Eventful ages of this fleeting life.

Yea, Thee, the mighty Sun, that when thy vanes
First to the changing elements unfurl'd

Their golden plumage, from his beamy car

Look'd on and smil'd; Thee, when his beryl wheels
Tracking the spheres, eclips'd in fearful shade
A thousand times have roll'd, a thousand times
Emerg'd refulgent, he may still behold;
Whilst aye rejoicing in his blessed light,
Thou lift't thy fretted turrets to the skies

As now- -the glorious VESTIBULE of HaAY'N !'

Many passages in this poem have merit: but, by spinning out his theme, Mr. E. has made his Muse work harder than was necessary. In p. 20 we have Adapt' for Adapted; and at p. 22, lines 10 and 11 have no grammatical construction.

Art. 22. Poems, chiefly in the Scotish Dialect, by the Rev. James Nicol. 2 vols. 12mo. 10s. in Boards, Longman and Co. 1805.

With more diligence of revision and less contempt of criticism, the author of these fugitive pieces might probably succeed in pleasing those who are not very fastidious, and who can relish natural sentiments expressed in simple language In our opinion, however, Mr. Nicol is more fortunate in his English than in his Scotish effusions. Among the latter, are very few stanzas that we can quote with approbation, since they are usually characterized by low and vulgar phraseology, incongruously blended with expressions which cannot be regarded as provincial. The verses intitled the Daft Days,' and the Lammas Feast,' contain some curious allusions to scenes of rude and national festivity, which are fast passing away; and the Epistle on applying for an augmentation of stipend' bespeaks some ingenuity and humour. When we add that the Address to Poverty' displays some striking imagery, particularly in the two ensuing stanzas, we have perhaps rendered ample justice to the merit of Mr. Nicol's Doric lays.

I see thee, shiverin, wrinklet, auld,

Cour owre a spunk that dies wi' cauld,
Thy claise a' patch'd, a hunder-fauld,
Yet thro' the clouts

Thy knees an elbows, lookin bauld,
The storm salutes !

Wi' ae-e'ed specks, an' that ee crackit,
To darn thy hose thou hast the knack o't;
Now, steck on steek, they're gailie tackit;
But here's the warst o't,

Whan by thy mouldie, swall'd heels rackit,
Again they'll burst out!'

In

The genius of Burns could new-model and improve the popular songs of his native country: but such a bold experiment should not be attempted by every one who fancies that he can write verses. the instances before us, the imitations are numerous, but far from happy, and the failures of the Rev author are by no means redeemcd by the terseness of his muse. We shall quote a few lines, which art not unworthy of the poetry of the Hottentots:

6

But Stubble-rig gat time to rue

That he sae laid about it;

'Tween punch an ream a tulzie grew,
An' fiercelie was disputit.

To keep baith down, that upwards flew,
He strane fu' hard, nae doubt o't;
Till bust!-he gae a desperate spue,
An' gut an' ga' he scoutit
the kirn that night;

But Meg, wi' the sight, was quite haster'd,
An' nae doubt, was bannin ill luck;
While the face o' poor Geordie was plaster'd,
An' his mou was fill'd fou wi' the muck!
Confound ye! cry'd Geordie, an' spat out
The glaur that adown his beard ran ;—
Preserve us! quo Meg, as she gat out

The door, an' thes lost a gudeman.'

Henry and Everilla, the stanzas on leaving and returning to the parsonage of Traquhair, and William and Anna, are among the best of the English compositions :-but we extract one of the Songs as a shorter specimen.

TUNE,-Caledonian Hunt's Delight.
• What balm can cure my wounded soul,
What charms my sorrows can remove,
When mountains rise and billows roll
Between me and the maid I love.
Amid the gloom which absence makes.
Hope, trembling, darts a feeble ray,
Till pale Despair appears, and takes
The very soul of life away!

REV. DEC. 1806.

Ff

• Once

'Once smiling Pleasure round me played,
Nor felt I Sorrow's poison'd dart ;-
These days are gone! Remembrance sad,
Of joys departed, wrings my heart!
The prayer, by Misery address'd,

Grant, gracious Heaven! I ask no more!
Let Memory perish in my breast,

Or Nancy to my arms restore!

We could well dispense with the few fables which Mr. Nicol has introduced into his Collection, and also with many prosaic lines and false rhymes. Let him exercise his powers of selection, and apply the lime labor, if he be desirous of an honourable station among the poets of his country.

Art. 23. Poems, suggested chiefly by Scenes in Asia-Minor, Syria, and Greece, with Prefaces, extracted from the Author's Journal. Embellished with two Views. of the Source of the Scamander, and the Aqueduct over the Simois. By the late J. D. Carlyle, B.D. F.R.S.E. Chancellor of Carlisle, Vicar of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Professor of Arabic in the University of Cambridge, &c. 4to. PP 170. l. 18. Boards. White. 1805.

When the Earl of Elgin was appointed Ambassador to the Porte, in 1799, Professor Carlyle was invited to accompany him, with the view of inquiring into the latent treasures of the libraries of Constantinople. Far, however, from limiting his researches to the special object of his mission, he explored, with a classical eye, the once flourishing country of Asia Minor, and the islands and shores of the Archipelago. Since his prose seems to be more attractive than his poetry, we regret that his Tour through the Troad, which was nearly completed, is not destined to see the light.

On the present effusions, which were deprived, by the author's illness, of the benefit of revision and correction, it would ill become us to exercise the rigours of criticism. At the same time, we feel ourselves constrained to remark that, in the passages immediately connected with the journal, we seldom discern even the germ of original or im pressive poetry. The critical file might have improved an obscure stanza, or smoothed a rugged line: but is it reas mable to expect that it would have also supplied more brilliant conceptions, or more glowing imagery? The pieces to which we allude are rather deficient in spirit than in those minor elegancies which are the result of care. ful revision.

The Translations from the Arabic,' and the Original Poems,' compose a smaller portion of the performance: but they are more animated and poignant, the former chiefly turning on some pretty or pathetic thought just bordering on a conceit; and the latter conveying moral sentiment in the form of neat and playful apologue, or in the more direct language of description and reflection.

The tales of the Salted Cherry', and 'Hopus, Tropus and Mopus,' are not unfavourable samples of lessons of conduct conveyed in sportive verse: but we conceive that the author is less happy in his Paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer,' and in the Epitaph.'

If, however, Mr. Carlyle seldom attains to the sublimer heights of poetry, he also seldom offends our taste by the common delinquencies of a profusion of epithets and faulty rhymes. The paper and press work of this publication are very handsome; and the plates form a suitable accompaniment.

For an account of Specimens of Arabian Poetry, by the same author, we refer our readers to the XXIId. volume of our New Series, p. 42.

Art. 24. Les Champignons du Diable; or Imperial Mushrooms : à mock-heroic Poem, in five Cantos: including a Conference between the Pope and the Devil, on his Holiness's Visit to Paris : illustrated with Notes. By the Editor of "Salmagundi," and "the Wiccamical Chaplet," &c. &c. Small 8vo. pp. 204. 5s. Boards. Crosby and Co. 1805.

Bonaparte the Devil's darling is the subject of this mock-heroic; and though the game is growing rather serious, it is impossible not to be diverted with the poet's ludicrous account,

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How the Devil's conj'ring box

Swell'd CONSUL FROG to EMP'ROR OX.'

In Hudibrastic sauce the imperial mushrooms are stewed; the Devil is made to play the part of chief cook; and the Pope, at the Devil's persuasion, says Grace. A long debate occurs in Pandemonium among the smoke-dried peers' of Satan's parliament, respecting the titled toad stools but, notwithstanding that it is enlivened with occasional flashes of wit, it is too much spun out. The most entertaining part of the poem is the last canto, containing the conference between the Pope and the Devil; in which the latter, after a variety of unsuccessful arguments, at last vanquishes the Pope's reluctance to consecrate Bonaparte, by millly intimating that probably, in case of a refusal, his Holiness's neck would feel the gripe of a profane hempen cravat.'

We copy the beginning of this curious dialogue, which will suffi ciently explain the nature of the composition:

A Conference between the Pope in his pontificalibus, and the Devil, booted and spurred, c.

SCENE.

THE VATICAN.

Satan. He, who's disposed for easy jaunt,
'Twixt Hell and Church cucullitant
Should travel; highway better beaten
I've never trod.-So, now for greeting
Pontifical!-Cronies, of Rome,

IS OLD INFALLIBLE at home?

Porter. Who makes this thund'ring at the gate?
Sure 'tis the Devil's Advocate.

Satan. No! HE's in person, hither come.

Porter. Is he? He shan't want elbow room!

[Porter runs off, crying, the Devil! the Devil!!!

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