From these childish and absurd affecta- | Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; tions, we turn with pleasure to the manly sense and correct picturing of Mr. Crabbe; and, after being dazzled and made giddy with the elaborate raptures and obscure originalities of these new artists, it is refreshing to meet again with the spirit and nature of our old masters, in the nervous pages of the author now before us. The poem that stands first in the volume, "Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, The consequential apothecary, who gives an impatient attendance in these abodes of misery, is admirably described; but we pass to the last scene : Now to the church behold the mourners come, The village children now their games suspend, So close, you'd say that they were bent, To drag it to the ground; And all had join'd in one endeavour, While bending low, their eager eyes explore pp. 16, 17. The scope of the poem is to show, that the Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame ; Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, Ye gentle souls, who dream of rural ease, We shall only give one other extract from this poem; and we select the following fine description of that peculiar sort of barrenness which prevails along the sandy and thinly inhabited shores of the Channel: "Lo! where the heath, with with'ring brake grown The next poem, and the longest in the volume, is now presented for the first time to And this, it seems, is Nature, and Pathos, and the public. It is dedicated, like the former, Poetry! to the delineation of rural life and characters, and is entitled, "The Village Register;" and, upon a very simple but singular plan, is divided into three parts, viz. Baptisms, Marriages, and Burials. After an introductory and general view of village manners, the reverend author proceeds to present his readers with an account of all the remarkable baptisms, marriages, and funerals, that appear on his register for the preceding year; with a sketch of the character and behaviour of the respective parties, and such reflections and exhortations as are suggested by the subject. The poem consists, therefore, of a series of portraits taken from the middling and lower ranks of rustic life, and delineated on occasions at once more common and more interesting, than any other that could well be imagined. They are selected, we think, with great judgment, and drawn with inimitable accuracy and strength of colouring. They are finished with much more minuteness and detail, indeed, than the more general pictures in "The Village ;" and, on this account, may appear occasionally deficient in comprehension, or in dignity. They are, no doubt, executed in some instances with too much of a Chinese accuracy; and enter into details which many readers may pronounce tedious and unnecessary. Yet there is a justness and force in the representation which is entitled to something more than indulgence; and though several of the groups are composed of low and disagreeable subjects, still, we think that some allowance is to be made for the author's plan of giving a full and exact view of village life, which could not possibly be accomplished without including those baser varieties. He aims at an important moral effect by this exhibition; and must not be defrauded either of that, or of the praise which is due to the coarser efforts of his pen, out of deference to the sickly delicacy of his more fastidious readers. We admit, however, that there is more carelessness, as well as more quaintness in this poem than in the other; and that he has now and then apparently heaped up circumstances rather to gratify his own taste for detail and accumulation, than to give any additional effect to his description. With this general observation, we beg the reader's attention to the following abstract and citations. The poem begins with a general view, first of the industrious and contented villager, and then of the profligate and disorderly. The first compartment is not so striking as the last. Mr. Crabbe, it seems, has a set of smugglers among his flock, who inhabit what is called the Street in his village. There is nothing comparable to the following description, but some of the prose sketches of Mandeville: -- "Here, in cabal, a disputatious crew ་་ "See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest! What nauseous fragments on yon fractur'd chest! And round these posts that serve this bed for feet; What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat! This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie, Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by. See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, Left by neglect, and burrow'd in that bed; The mother-gossip has the love supprest, An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast," &c. "Here are no wheels for either wool or flax, But packs of cards-made up of sundry packs; Here are no books, but ballads on the wall, Are some abusive, and indecent all; Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks, Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks; An ample flask that nightly rovers fill, A box of tools with wires of various size, With recent poison from the Dutchman's still ; Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise, And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. "Here his poor bird, th' inhuman cocker brings Arms his hard heel, and clips his golden wings; With spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds, Struck through the brain, depriv'd of both his eyes. The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies! Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, And reel and stagger at each feeble blow; When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes. His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes; And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, And only bled and perish'd for his sake!" And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds: pp. 40-44. [close. Throughout the lanes, she glides at evening's There softly lulls her infant to repose; Then sits and gazes, but with viewless look, As gilds the moon the rimpling of the brook; She hears their murmurs as the waters flow; Then sings her vespers, but in voice so low, And she too murmurs, and begins to find The solemn wand'rings of a wounded mind! pp. 47-49. We pass the rest of the Baptisms; and proceed to the more interesting chapter of Marriages. The first pair here is an old snug bachelor, who, in the first days of dotage, had married his maid-servant. The reverend Mr. Crabbe is very facetious on this match; and not very scrupulously delicate. The following picture, though liable in part to the same objection, is perfect, we think, in that style of drawing: Next at our altar stood a luckless pair, Look'd on the lad, and faintly try'd to smile; pp. 74, 75 The next bridal is that of Phoebe Dawson; the most innocent and beautiful of all the village maidens. We give the following pretty description of her courtship : Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the (Seen but by few, and blushing to be seen-- [green, Dejected, thoughtful, anxious and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: Slow through the meadows rov'd they, many a mile, Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile; Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the fair prospect with prophetic tears." pp. 76, 77. This is the taking side of the picture: At the end of two years, here is the reverse. Nothing can be more touching, we think, than the quiet suffering and solitary hysterics of this ill-fated young woman:— "Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And seems, with patience, striving with her pains; "And now her path, but not her peace, she gains, In vain!-they come-she feels th' inflaming grief, The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and flies pp. 77, 78. It may add to the interest which some readers will take in this simple story, to be told, that it was the last piece of poetry that was read to Mr. Fox during his fatal illness; and that he examined and made some flattering remarks on the manuscript of it a few days before his death. We are obliged to pass over the rest of the Marriages, though some of them are extremely characteristic and beautiful, and to proceed to the Burials. Here we have a great variety of portraits, the old drunken innkeeperthe bustling farmer's wife-the infant-and next the lady of the manor. The following description of her deserted mansion is striking, and in the good old taste of Pope and Dryden : "Forsaken stood the hall, The old maid follows next to the shades of mortality. The description of her house, furniture, and person, is admirable, and affords a fine specimen of Mr. Crabbe's most minute finishing; but it is too long for extracting. We rather present our readers with a part of the character of Isaac Ashford : 64 Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, The rest of the character is drawn with equal spirit; but we can only make room for the author's final commemoration of him. "I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer, Nor that pure faith, that gave it force-are there :But he is blest; and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor."-p. 114. We then bury the village midwife, superseded in her old age by a volatile doctor; then a surly rustic misanthrope; and last of all, the reverend author's ancient sexton, whose chronicle of his various pastors is given rather at too great length. The poem ends with a simple recapitulation. We think this the most important of the new pieces in the volume; and have extended our account of it so much, that we can afford to say but little of the others. "The Library" and "The Newspaper" are republications. They are written with a good deal of terseness, sarcasm, and beauty; but the subjects are not very interesting, and they will rather be approved, we think, than admired or delighted in. We are not much taken either with "The Birth of Flattery." With many nervous lines and ingenious allusions, it has something of the languor which seems inseparable from an allegory which exceeds the length of an epigram. "Sir Eustace Grey" is quite unlike any of the preceding compositions. It is written in a sort of lyric measure; and is intended to represent the perturbed fancies of the most terrible insanity settling by degrees into a sort of devotional enthusiasm. The opening stanza, spoken by a visiter in the madhouse, is very striking. "I'll see no more!-the heart is torn By views of woe we cannot heal; There is great force, both of language and conception, in the wild narrative Sir Eustace gives of his frenzy; though we are not sure whether there is not something too elaborate, and too much worked up, in the picture. We give only one image, which we think is original. He supposed himself hurried along by two tormenting demons. "Through lands we fled, o'er seas we flew, And halted on a boundless plain; "Upon that boundless plain, below, The setting sun's last rays were shed, Where all were still, asleep, or dead; Pillars and pediments sublime, There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to stay; "My crime! this sick'ning child to feed, 66 I seiz'd the food your witness saw; Troubles and sorrows more severe; A friend to help-find one to hear. "My mother dead, my father lost, I wander'd with a vagrant crew; Their sorrows and their sins I knew; Like them, I base and guilty grew! "A sturdy youth he was and tall, His looks would all his soul declare, All in the May of youthful pride; pp. 240-242. The father felon falls in love with the betrothed of his son, whom he despatches on some distant errand. The consummation of his horrid passion is told in these powerful stanzas:— 66 The night was dark, the lanes were deep, For mercy!-and be so refus'd!”—p. 243. It is painful to follow the story out. The son returns, and privately murders his father; and then marries his widow! The profligate barbarity of the life led by those outcasts is forcibly expressed by the simple narrative of the lines that follow: 'I brought a lovely daughter forth, His father's child, in Aaron's bed! He took her from me in his wrath, 'Where is my child?'-' Thy child is dead.' "'Twas false! We wander'd far and wide, Through town and country, field and fen, Till Aaron fighting, fell and died, And I became a wife again."-p. 248. We have not room to give the sequel of this dreadful ballad. It certainly is not pleasing reading; but it is written with very unusual power of language, and shows Mr. Crabbe to have great mastery over the tragic passions of pity and horror. The volume closes with some verses of no great value in praise of Women. We part with regret from Mr. Crabbe; but we hope to meet with him again. If his muse, to be sure, is prolific only once in twenty-four years, we can scarcely expect to live long enough to pass judgment on her future progeny: But we trust, that a larger portion of public favour than has hitherto been dealt to him will encourage him to greater efforts; and that he will soon appear again among the worthy supporters of the old poetical establishment, and come in time to surpass the revolutionists in fast firing, as well as in weight of metal. (April, 1810.) The Borough: a Poem, in Twenty-four Letters. By the Rev. GEORGE CRABBE, LL. B. 8vo. pp. 344. London: 1810. We are very glad to meet with Mr. Crabbe so soon again; and particularly glad to find, that his early return has been occasioned, in part, by the encouragement he received on his last appearance. This late spring of public favour, we hope, he will yet live to see ripen into mature fame. We scarcely know any poet who deserves it better; and are quite certain there is none who is more secure of keeping with posterity whatever he may win from his contemporaries. per by far the greater part of his poetry is of a different and a higher character; and aims at moving or delighting us by lively, touching, and finely contrasted representations of the dispositions, sufferings, and occupations of those ordinary persons who form the far greater part of our fellow-creatures. This, too, he has sought to effect, merely by placing before us the clearest, most brief, and most striking sketches of their external conditionthe most sagacious and unexpected strokes of character-and the truest and most pathetic pictures of natural feeling and common suffering. By the mere force of his art, and the novelty of his style, he forces us to attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into feelings from which we are in general but too eager to escape-and then trusts to nature for the effect of the representation. It is obvious, at first sight, that this is not a task for an ordinary hand; and that many ingenious writers, who make a very good figure with battles, nymphs, and moonlight landscapes, would find themselves quite helpless, if set down among streets, harbours, and taverns. The difficulty of such subjects, in short, is sufficiently visible-and some of the causes of that difficulty: But they have their advantages also;-and of these, and their hazards, it seems natural to say a few words, before entering more minutely into the merits of the work before us. The present poem is precisely of the character of The Village and The Parish Register. It has the same peculiarities, and the same faults and beauties; though a severe critic might perhaps add, that its peculiarities are more obtrusive, its faults greater, and its beauties less. However that be, both faults and beauties are so plainly produced by the peculiarity, that it may be worth while, before giving any more particular account of it, to try if we can ascertain in what that consists. And here we shall very speedily discover, that Mr. Crabbe is distinguished from all other poets, both by the choice of his subjects, and by his manner of treating them. All his sons are taken from the lower ranks of life; and all his scenery from the most ordinary and familiar objects of nature or art. His characters and incidents, too, are as common as the elements out of which they are compounded are humble; and not only has he nothing prodigious or astonishing in any of The first great advantage of such familiar his representations, but he has not even at- subjects is, that every one is necessarily well tempted to impart any of the ordinary colours acquainted with the originals; and is thereof poetry to those vulgar materials. He has fore sure to feel all that pleasure, from a no moralising swains or sentimental trades- faithful representation of them, which results men; and scarcely ever seeks to charm us by from the perception of a perfect and successthe artless graces or lowly virtues of his per- ful imitation. In the kindred art of painting, sonages. On the contrary, he has represented we find that this single consideration has been his villagers and humble burghers as alto- sufficient to stamp a very high value upon gether as dissipated, and more dishonest and accurate and lively delineations of objects, in discontented, than the profligates of higher themselves uninteresting, and even disagreelife; and, instead of conducting us through able; and no very inconsiderable part of the blooming groves and pastoral meadows, has pleasure which may be derived from Mr. led us along filthy lanes and crowded wharfs, Crabbe's poetry may probably be referred to to hospitals, alms-houses, and gin-shops. In its mere truth and fidelity; and to the brevity some of these delineations, he may be con- and clearness with which he sets before his sidered as the Satirist of low life-an occupa- readers, objects and characters with which tion sufficiently arduous, and, in a great de- they have been all their days familiar. gree, new and original in our language. But! In his happier passages, however, he has a |