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Hartstronge for an humble imitator of the Northern bard,, we confess our own dullness, and cry his mercy; and now beg leave to thank him, in the name of the literary world, for what we hope will prove a successful attempt to expose the bad taste of modern fashionable poetry.

The first object of Mr. H's satire is the nationality that pervades the works of Mr. W. Scott. As he makes Scotland his favourite scenes, so Mr. H. has laid his plot in Ireland. Drymnagh Castle, as the preface is made to inform us, with assumed solenmity, is situated in the parish of Clondalkin and Barony, of Newcastle, in the county of Dublin. As the Scotch poet celebrates the name of Rothiemureus, and Tomantoul, and Achnaislaid, and Dromoueghty, so we read in Marion, of Kilmellan, and Castleknock, Montpellie, and Lock Lane, (quere Long Lane :) As Edinburgh euphones gratiâ becomes Dun Edin, so is Dublin poeticised into Eblana.

In his dedication, which he dates prior to the event, he takes occasion to predict that "the Fleur-de-lis would once more float on the towers of the Thuilleries," and in a postscript, dated after that event, he facetiously lays claim to the title of prophet as well as poet.

The rapid and glorious events that in brilliant succession have taken place on the continent, have quite surpassed what was predicted in the dedication of this little volume; so much so, indeed, that it would appear to have been written subsequent to those events: the author therefore feels it incumbent on him to state, that the work was fiuished on the day, the date of which it bears, &c.

Mr. H. is however rather subtle; he means to say that because the prediction has been compleatly surpassed by the events, yet that its accuracy would make it appear to have been an historical narrative of the event.

Speaking, by the bye, of the dedication, it would not be doing justice to Mr. H's powers of ridicule were we to omit giving an extract: it is an excellent imitation of that species of style, termed the inflated, or, where the words are too big for the meaning.

"While you, in active duty abroad, have moved beneath the victorious banner of the illustrious Wellington, I in inglorious ease at home, have sometimes given an idle moment to illusive song; and the tale of Chivalry which I here inscribe to you, was the Muses latest inspiration!

Or, in other words, while you have been with Lord Wellingon, I have been making verses.

In framing a story as a vehicle for his burlesque, Mr. Hartstronge has, in conformity with the example of his great prototype, introduced a set of personages never before heard of,

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placed them in situations the reader would never have dreamt of, and sends them to places he did not know to exist. Lord Reginald, alias de Bernwal, "a lofty baron of France," passing over to Ireland with Henry Plantagenet marries a lady of the name of l'Enfant, has a son and heir, called Sir Wolfran, from whom springs the heroine of the poem, Marion la Plus Blue. The castle and domains of Drymnagh appertaining to her in the event of her father's death, she is sought by many suitors, of whom our poet sing facetiously

"Many a suitor sought Marion's fair hand,

Some sighed for her beauty, but most for her land;
But Lord Desmond, to whom her value is known,
Seeks Marion's fair hand, for goodness alone." P. 5.

The Father and Lover set out for the Holy Land on the Crusade. Desmond, however, is wrecked on his voyage, returns to his mistress, and bears his misfortune bravely. But,

"Oh from glory not long can a warrior delay,

Tho' beauty, tho' goodness should tempt him to stay,
Did Marion induce him? I say, Gentles, nay !". P. 6.

She accordingly relieves him from the misfortune he had borue so patiently, and sends him back to the wars again.

We are next introduced to a new and most tremendous personage, the rival of Desmond, and the Roderick Dhu of the Poem. The Lord Castleknock.

"Tyrrel has guarded his fortified rock;

Strong manned his high towers that guard Castlenock From the fury of foes and fierce battle shock." P. 8. Marion refusés, however, this warlike gentleman with much disdain.

We have now some mysterious news brought by a Pilgrim to the Abbot of Grace Dieu. Marion weeps bitterly; but while the reader is in suspense, Conrad, a special messenger, arrives to announce the death of De Bernwal. He is desired by the afflicted Marion to relate the circumstances of the melancholy event, when with infinite humour he commences with a general muster of the Crusaders.

"Europe and Asia pour'd their bands,
In armour sheath'd, on Asia's strands:
Bulgaria's woods, the bounds of Thrace,
Parthia pours forth her swarthy race
From Euphrates, the Apennine
And lofty Alps their banners shine;

Cilicians,

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There is perhaps rather too much exaggeration in our author's introducing false quantities and false spelling into his metre, as they are errors of which we could not possibly suspect Mr. Scott to be guilty. Nor do we think that he is so ignorant as to place. Byzantium upon mount Taurus. Mr. Hartstronge does not ap pear to be aware of the long acknowledged truth, that nothing spoils a joke so much as carrying it too far. Conrade continues. his narration in the above desultory manner, till he thus inter rupts himself.

"But, honoured Lady, much I fear
This long narration tires thy ear.
No, Conrade, no; thy tale speed on,

I ne'er can tire till thou hast done." P. 16.

But to attempt to pursue a story through all its meanders, expressly written by its author as a satire on the intricate and dis jointed style of our poetical romances, is but a nugatory employment. Mr. Hartstronge will, we are sure, allow that we have quoted quite sufficient to induce our readers to believe, that it preserves throughout the same happy obscurity and sarcastic dulness with which it commenced.

We cannot, however, withhold some few specimens of happy imitation of Mr. Scott, as by no means the worst efforts of our author.

Mr. H. falls foul of the double rhymes, now so fashionable among our modern poets, most unmercifully. He seems to have caught the mantle of Butler..

"Albert we lost, and gallant Lord Dacre,

They stoutly fell at the storming of Acre." P. 17.

*

Sol illum'd the troops advancing::

On helm and shield his rays were glancing

Knights in silver, gold, seen gleaming,

And in glory bright all streaming:

While the hum of martial millions

Buzz'd amid their gay pavilions," P. 19.

When seen his mighty battle axe,,
In flight the Pagans turn'd their backs..
See the recreant Sons of Sion

Fall before the English Lion." P. 22.

But in the following, and because the best, the concluding extract, Mr. Hartstronge has outdone himself.

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"Pitch dark is the night: now the clock has chim'd two,
Loud trampling a horseman has come;

The blast sounds so shrill, from the bugle he blew,
It has sure struck the sentinel dumb!! ”

Before we take our leave of Mr. Hartstronge, we cannot but express a wish to see his pen engaged in an original work; and if we might venture still further to recommend, we would suggest, that it should be employed on a serious subject. For he who can detect and expose what is faulty in the writings of others, with so much wit and ingenuity, cannot fail to produce something from himself, that may be held up to the poetasters of the day, as a model of good taste and elegant writing.

ART. XIV. Jephthah. A Poem, by Edward Smedley, Junior. Svo. 27 pp. Murray. 1814.

This is a poem to which was adjudged the Seatonian prize for the last year in the University of Cambridge. The subjects which are given out for this prize, must by the will of the founder be taken from Scripture. The productions therefore of the Seatonian poets are generally marked with the same sombre features, and may often be considered more worthy of a cypress wreath from Lebanon, than a laurel chaplet from Parnassus. Whatever may have been the beauties or the deficiencies of former prizemen, Mr. Smedley may upon his own ground lay claim to a fair proportion of public approbation. He has poetically supposed the actual sacrifice of the daughter of Jephthah; he has however with much art and judgment omitted a disgusting description of the bloody sacrifice; but has interwoven the fact in the speech of the "turban'd guide" with which the poem concludes. As this part of the poem does credit both to the inge nuity and to the poetical powers of the Author we shall give it to our readers at full length.

"Twere hard to tell whose grave that ivy twines,
Who long-forgotten in that waste reclines;
Yet as the Pilgrim's march at evening time
Skirts the gray walls of fallen Rogelim;
And towering high, and mantled by the skies
The giant cliffs of eastward Hermon rise;
Drinking with sun empurpled crest of snows,
The last bright beam autumnal twilight throws,
The turban'd guide will hasten on his way,
As loth in that deserted spot to stay;
And through the windings of Lodebar's dell
Urge the swift tinklings of his camel-bell.
Oft his unconscious pause, and the quick ear
Which listens for those sounds it would not hear,

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And busy eye, and half averted head,

Show one who struggles with some hidden dread;
Then will he whisper, but in broken tone,

And looks with meaning fraught; and round him thrown,
A tale, so sad, so dark, of times so old,

'Twere better left forgotten, or untold.

But virgin blood has stain'd that fearful wild-
A Father too-and this his only Child-
Yet was she nothing loth: and meekly bow'd
The breast his rashness to their God had vow'd:
Kiss'd his pale lips, and bade him take the life
He once bestow'd, and bless'd the lifted knife:
And if her cheek was moisten'd with a tear,
Not for herself it flow'd, but one more dear.
Then sigh'd her parting wish, that the same stone
Might some time hold his ashes with her own.
There, as they tell, for many a sorrowing year
The maids of Judah mourn'd upon her bier;
Scatter'd the firstlings which to Spring belong,
And bath'd the sadness of their soul in song.
There voices strange are heard when night is still,
And sounds mysterious float upon that hill:
Shapes too have there been seen, not such as earth
Contains, and shadows of no mortal birth.
Such as another world alone can give,
Such as no eye may view, and hope to live.
Condemn'd awhile in gloomy wastes to stray-
Alla förefend, that such should cross our

"9 way!'

P. 19.

ART. XV. Mégha Dúta; or Cloud Messenger; a Poem. Translated from the Sanscrit by Horace Hayman Wilson. 8vo. pp. 175. 7s. Black and Parry. 1814.

The rich imagery, which so peculiarly characterizes the poetry of the East, appears to pervade the poem from whence this translation is taken. To the lovers of Oriental poetry, Mr. Wilson may present a grateful offering. We do not profess to understand the Sanscrit original, but of the translation we can speak in terms of approbation. The lines are generally harmo nious, sometimes even energetic; but too close an imitation of Sir W. Jones has betrayed him occasionally into a palling prettiness of expression, which surfeits the taste without satisfying the mind. The following perhaps is the best specimen which we can produce of Mr. Wilson's poetical powers:

"Here, as the early Zephyrs waft along,

In swelling harmony, the woodland song,

VOL. III. JANUARY, 1815.

H.

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