choice. There was little occafion to inform us, in an adver. tifement, that it was written at an early period of life.-This poem would not difgrace an older bard.

He who can be fatisfied with an elegant picture of Liverpool, its public buildings, &c. in agreeable poetry, has not occafion to travel any farther than to our author's Mount Pleafant.

The much admired Goldsmith we fufpect to be his Magnus Apollo.

In the following grand and beautiful paffage the Mufe takes a daring flight, and pounces upon proper prey :

Now, more deftructive than a blighting ftorm,
A bloated monfter, Commerce, rears her form;
Throws the meek olive from her daring hand,
Grafps the red fword, and whirls the flaming brand
True to no faith; by no restraints controul'd;
By guilt made cautious, and by avarice bold.
How droops Bengal beneath oppreffion's reign!
How groans Oriffa with the weight of flain!
To glut her rage, what thoufands there have bled,
What thrones are vacant, and what princes dead!
In vain may War's relenting fury fpare,

Attendant Famine follows in the rear:

And the poor natives but furvive to know

The lingering horrors of feverer woe.

-Can this be fhe, who promis'd once to bind

Ja leagues of ftricteft amity, mankind?

This fiend, whofe breath inflames the spark of strife,
And pays with trivial toys the price of life?'

At the fight of Birket Priory near the river Mersey, built in, the fecond Henry's reign, the fenfibility of the poet breaks out thus of its monkifh inhabitants. The grammatical obfcurity of the lines will not, to a feeling reader, make them lefs amiable.

Ah! brand them not in one promifcuous throng,.)
(Thus candor wou'd reftrain the rigid fong,)
For fome perhaps, amidst the numerous crew,
A nobler motive to the manfion drew:
-Long travell'd thro' the thorny paths of life,
Long labouring to maintain th' unequal strife,
To mifery lent the little fortune gave,
The ftorm approaching, and no friend to fave;
Or from each fond connection early torn,
Abandon'd, hopeless, deftitute, forlorn;
To every thought of earthly pleasure dead,
Some forrower, here might reft his weary head;
And oft as kindred woes approach'd his ear,
Beftow the fecret tribute of a tear:

Or from these varying fcenes avert his eyes,
Scorn every tranfient ill, and gain the skies;

Till o'er his path, Hope beam'd her brightest ray,
And Peace celeftial ftrew'd with flowers the way.'

The author, we hope, will frequently experience the pleasures which he paints in the fubfequent landskip:

O ftill, at evening's milder hour, be mine,
To trace with raptur'd eye the dear decline!

X 4

Catch

Catch the pure gale as from the main it springs,
Salubrious frefhneis dropping from its wings;
-Then, cares forgot, and forrow footh'd to reft,
Each ruder paffion banish'd from the breast,
Mild as the bour, and cloudless as the skies,
The mind on ftronger pinions loves to rise;
And loofen'd from the dull reftraints of day,
Expanfive gives the springs of thought to play:
Bold, active, vigorous, thro' th' enfranchis'd fou!,
The nobler train of fair ideas roll;

The ardent glow, that wakes at friendship's name :
The thirft of science, and the patriot flame;

The generous fear, that wounds the youthful breast,
To live inglorious, and to die unbleft;

A liberal fcorn of every low defire,

Of all that knaves purfue, and fools admire;
Of fortune's ftores, of fplendor's fickly blaze,
Precarious blifs, and unfubftantial praife."

Of the Ode we have spoken before in our Review, vol, xxxix, P. 160.

We feldom cease to like an elegant performance on a second perufal, which pleafes us on a first.

The ftanza which prefers Painting to Mufic, fnatches the palm from both the contending fifters, and bestows it upon Poetry : If, torn from all we hold most dear, The tedious moments flowly rollCan mufic's tendereft accents cheer The filent grief that melts the foul? Or can the poet's boasted art The healing balm of peace impart? -Ah, no!Tis only painting's pow'r Can footh the fad, the painful hour; Can bring the much lov'd form to view, In features exquifitely true;— The fparkling eye, the blooming face, The hape adorn'd with every grace,

To nature's felf fcarce yield the doubtful ftrife, Swell from the deep'ning shade, and ask the gift of life.' The English Garden: a Poem. Book the fecond. By W. Mason, M. A. 4to. 25. DodЛley.

In the days of our forefathers, the bufinefs of the gardener was to divest nature of her fimple ornaments, and to disguise her under a variety of fantaftic forms. Every thing was modelled by mechanical rules, which were the very reverse of freedom, grace, and propriety. The manfion-houfe was immured in front by a high dead wall, and furrounded by a moat, well covered with duck weed, by fculptured evergreens, pyramids, giants, and monsters in yew. The garden was laid out in the utmoft formality, prefenting to the eye the unbending line, the acute angle, the trim alley, the tonfiled box, the fcrolled parterre, the dead brown terrace, the gloomy labyrinth, &c. But at prefent a better tafte feems to prevail; our nobility and gentry begin to explode this Gothic arrangement, and to reflore that fimplicity and beautiful fcenery, which has fuch a pleafing effect in Richmond gardens,

This excellent poem is written with a defign to recommend thefe elegant improvements. In this book the author points out the eafy, graceful curve for walks, lawns, &c. the art of confulting what Mr. Pope ftyles, the genius of the place;' the fences proper for pleasure-grounds, and the management of the flocks, which are admitted into these enclosures. At the conclufion he has introduced the ftory of Abdalonimus, a poor gardener, but of royal blood, made king of Sidon by Alexander the Great. This flory is recorded by Diodorus Siculus, Plutarch, Juftin, and Quintus Curtius; and forms an epifode in this poem.

The author informs us, that his plan will be completed in

four books.

Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-Seven; or a Picture of the Manners and Character of the Age. 4to. 15. Evans, Strand.

Thofe who have read this pleafing poem will agree with us that the genius of fatire has not departed from our ifland.Our author's truly poetic, biting, falchion is brandished in de fence of Virtue. Vice no longer finds her fafety even behind the fhield of Fashion; and we congratulate our poet on his being able to exclaim with Pope :

Yes, I am proud, I must be proud to fee
Thofe, not afraid of God, afraid of me:
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,

Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone,'

To criticife real poetry, without colouring our language a lit tle, is not an eafy talk. Reviewers are bad fticks at poetry, but the dulleft wood will take fire by collifion. However, in plain profe, we have derived much fatisfaction from the perufal of this publication; and too truly is it, as the title page expreffes, a picture of the manners and characters of the age.' If fome of thofe manners be described rather lusciously, if fome of those characters be fhocking, we must blame, not the painter furely! but his fabjects. Little praife would the painter merit unlefs he took the portrait even of Vice exactly as the chofe to fit. Is the fatirift in fault for whofe pencil the world provides an Atticus ?

Since the epifle to Sir William Chambers, we have not seen ridicule more pointed, nor lines more polifhed. The author delivers his ridicule in the character of a lady of quality writing to Omiah; and takes proper occafion, in the beginning, to cenfure a noble admiralty lord for the life which Omiah was caufed to lead while in England. A life which was indeed a difgrace to this nation; and we fincerely with our poet had been more diffuse. Singular! that, knowing how Peter the Great spent his time among us, in the ftudy of every art, and every trade; which could be useful,-we fhould bring Omiah hither, and teach him nothing but vices and luxuries which he could not even practise in his own country; and then return him to

For the first book, fee Crit. Rev. vol. xxxiii. p. 171,

that

that country with tools and with inftruments of which he knew neither the properties nor the ufes? How jafly might Omiah curfe the vicious nation which has wantonly denied him the glory of being the civilizer of his native ifland, perhaps of all the islands in the fouthern ocean.

We wish the following lines did not contain a word of truth : and we dare fay, their author is a man of honour 100 genuing not to be happy if the age could give the lie to his affertion: Domestic rigours wing their parting way,

The parent's mandate, and the hufband's fway:
Domeftic virtues (fervile band !) are fled,
And modeft fear, and female honour dead.
The mild decorums, even to lovers dear,
The virtuous forrow, and the graceful tear,
Unfpotted truth, in orient blues died,
And fair fincerity, and decent pride,
And virgin innocence, in fnowy stole,
Whole heav'nly magic charm'd the rudeft foul,
Entam'd the fiercest of the forest kind,

And (till more mighty) man's unhallow'd mind;
Parental fondnefs, with a chafte embrace,
Enraptur'd bending o'er a smiling race;
With filial piety, whofe duteous cares
Can youthful gladness lend to hoary hairs;
Connubial faith, that never knew difguife;
And sweet affection, with her dove-like eyes;
The facred fires, which gods and men approve,
Which raife, and dignify the foul by love.

Such pleafing poetry deferves a more pleasing subject. If elegance of language and well-turned lines work any effect upon vice and infamy, the following lines will not have been written in vain :

Our pious wives, to fpoil the wanton's trade,
Ufurp her enfigns, and her arts invade;
Her fnares, her engines, and her little arms,
Her bold advances, and parade of charms;

Her boundless loves which band could never hold,
Her garb, her manners, and her thirst of gold.
Ungen'rous toil! to rob the friendlefs bands

And fnatch the hard-earn'd morfel from their hands,
Why fhould we force the wretched train to hide
Each tempting grace, that daily bread fupply'd!
Some fign of trade, fome fignal to defire,

Should mark the fubjects of a tranfient fire.

The decent habit and the modeft air

Are now the fymbols of the venal fair;

While naked charms and high-born want of fhame
Denote the matron of unfullied fame.'

The conclufion is equally happy:

Come then, ye fons of nature, and restore
The race of love, or pleafure is no more,
Our filken youths for you thall cross the line,
To dress your females and your boards refine;
Each travell'd peer fhall blefs you in his tour
With arts of play, and fecrets of amour.

Your

Yours, be our feathers, tinfels, paints, and lies.
Our playful frolicks, and our deep difguife:
Ours, be that want of feeling, or that pride,
Which bravely boafts what common mortals hide,
In pleasure's fources, what a gainful trade!
Of mutual science, what exchanges made!
Then shall perfection crown each noble heart,
When fouthern paffions mix with northern art;
Like oil and acid blent in social strife,

up

The poignant fauce to feafon modifh life. As to faults, we have been too much taken with beauties to hunt for them; but the moment the age cortects thofe more material faults which the keen pen of this fatirist has pointed out, we promife to fit down and fearch for the vices of this poem.

The rational Conduct of the human Mind, moral and religious, by a moral Chriftian. 8vo. 1s. 6d. Wilkie.

A tranflation of the Golden Verfes of the Pythagoreans *, with a paraphrafe and notes; a Poetical Epiftle on the true Love of God; a poem, intitled the Happy Dreamer, or the Pilgrim convinced; and the Chriftian Philofopher,-A fpecimen from the Golden Verses.

Yield to mild words and offices of love;

Do not for little faults, your friend remove.
This is no more than what in you does lie,
For power dwells hard by neceffity.

Do these things fo; but thefe reftrain you must,

Your appetite, yourself, anger and lust.

The way to cure their ills is known to few,

Such a befotting fate does men pursue:

They're on cylinders still roll'd up and down,
And with full tides of evil overflown.

This is the Pythagorean gold converted into lead.

An elegiac Ode to the Memory of the Rev. Charles Steuart Eccles. 410. 6d. Goldfmith.

The encomiums in this ode are founded chiefly upon an opinion, that Mr. Eccles was the author of the Man of Feeling, Man of the World, and Julia de Roubigné; but with refpect to the two former of thofe at least, we have the most unquestionable proof that they are the production of another writer.

Sir Martyn, a Poem, in the Mannir of Spenfer. By William Julius Mickle. 410. 2s. 6d. Flexney.

The republication, under a new title, of a poem called the Concubine, which first appeared about ten years ago, and has fince that time gone through feveral editions. Equally poetical and moral, while it paints in lively colours the guilty joys, it exhibits a triking reprefentation of the pernicious confequences pf libertinism.

* Voffius thinks, thefe verfes were the production of fome Pythagorean, either Philolaus, or Lyfis. Hift. Græc. p. 485.

DRA