ART. X. Adriano; or, the Firft of June, a Poem. By the Author of the Village Curate. 8vo. pp. 105. 2s. 6d. fewed. Johnfon.

IN

1790.

N reviewing the former poem of this author*, we ventured, from that fpecimen of the powers of a bard, unknown to us, to predict his future eminence: nor has the prefent production, though it has disappointed our expectations, altered our opinion of his abilities. In it, we fee the fame actual obfervance of nature; while, by attending to the emotions of his own mind, and by defcribing what he himself feels, he irrefiftibly calls forth fimilar feelings in his readers. The poem is not, however, without numerous defects; and by occafionally noticeing some of them, we only offer that advice which, in our turn, we fhould be glad to receive.

Confidered as a whole, Adriano poffeffes an advantage which the Village Curate wanted; it has a regular fable, without which the best poetry, after a time, becomes infipid, and even fatiguing. Independently, however, of this, the present work lofes its fuperiority; its beauties are fewer, and its blemishes are more confpicuous.

The fable is fimple; it is, as the title implies, an hiftory of the occurrences of the fummer's day: the adventures, indeed, are numerous, and might, perhaps, never happen: but ftill they are not fo far removed from the limits of probability as to create difguft. The poem opens with a defcription of Adriano's cottage:

'Far in the bofom of an ancient wood,
Whose frowning oaks in a deep valley grew
Between two lofty cliffs, and to the fea
Stretch'd out their broad impenetrable shade,
There flood a cottage. 'Twas the lone abode
Of Adriano and his only child

Maria. Here had they been loft, till time
Had hurried to oblivion twenty years.
'Twas all his care to nourish her, all her's
To cherish him. He taught her to be good,
To love retirement and the quiet cell,
And shield her virtue from the fight of men.
She heard and heeded, and no pleasure knew
Apart from folitude and Adriano.

Her only walk without him and alone
Was to a village near, to purchafe food,
Or what domestic want might farther need,
And her own induftry could ill supply.
And ever as the jocund trip'd it home,
Her ozier basket dangling on her arm,

And Frisk behind her barking at her heels,
She met her fire in tears. Conftant was he
To meet his child returning, and his tears
As duly fhed. Oft had fhe afk'd the cause,
But afk'd in vain; till one fair fummer's eve
(The laft that followed in the train of May)
She urg'd her fuit once more, and not in vain.
He fmil'd, and told her he had things to tell
Would wake attention in the fenfelefs rock.
"To-morrow, child, 'tis one-and-twenty years
Since to this wretched world thy mother bare thee,
And, as I oft have told thee weeping, died.
She was I cannot fay how good-God knows.
I could have borne the lofs. For tho' fhe died
To me and thee, fhe liv'd to peace and Heav'n.
Such virtue could not perish, but be sure
Is as the heav'ns eternal, and shall die

Never. Yes, yes, I could have borne the lofs,
And thought it much to have thee left behind
Helpless and ever-crying. 'Twas enough.

I might have train'd thee to thy mother's virtue,
And fatisfied to fee her live again

In a deferving daughter, have gone down
In humble quiet to my grave; secure
That hungry penury fhould never haunt
And tempt thy goodness. For I had, my child,
Enough of Fortune's bounty to fupply
My ev'ry want, and fomething for the hand
Of the lean beggar, who now fhuns my door
Or afks in vain. I had, my child, enough;
And would I had it fill. For when swift time
Has counted all my days, and these grey locks
Are call'd to fhelter in the filent grave,
When this refulting heart fhall cease to beat,
And this warm hand that now enclofes thine
Be cold and lifelefs, how fhall thy poor felf
Efcape the lion-tooth of craving want?
Who will protect thee from the winning baits
Of greedy luft? Who clothe thefe tender limbs ?
Who give thee food ?"

Adriano then continues to inform Maria that his poverty was the effect of the extravagance of his fon, who, after spending the greater part of his father's fortune, ended his life in a duel, leaving behind him debts, which fwallowed up the remainder. The departure of the fon to college is thus related :

With warm heart

He' (Adriano) drew his purfe ftrings, and the utmost doit
Pour'd in the youngfler's palm. "Away, he cries,

Go to the feat of learning, boy. Be good,

Be wife, be fugal, for 'tis all I can.”

I will," faid Toby, as he bang'd the door,

And wink'd, and fnap'd his finger, “Sir, I will.”

Now

Now exclufively of the ridiculous name of Toby, and of the coarse terms in the two laft lines, by the means of which, what was intended to be familiar, becomes difgufting, is it probable that a father fhould relate these circumftances to his daughter; or in the fituation of mind, in which he is pictured, fhould dwell on fuch fcenes as the following?

So joyful he to Alma Mater went

A furdy fresh-man. See him just arriv'd,
Receiv'd, matriculated, and refolv'd

To drown his freshnefs in a pipe of port.

Quick, Mr. Vintner, twenty dozen more;

Some claret too. Here's to our friends at home.
There let 'em doze. Be it our nobler aim

To live-where ftands the bottle?"

We are foon, however, amply repaid for any difappointment,
which we may have experienced in the foregoing paflages:
He faid and ended, and beheld the moon
Thro' the dark branches of a quiv'ring beech
In mellow glory rifing. Day was iled,
Th' expiring ray of the departed fun
Glow'd faintly in the welt, and the clear flar
That leads him up or lights him to his bed
Was finking faft into the failing fea.
He rofe, and with his daughter fought repofe,
Ne'er fought in vain under the cottage roof.

Sleep on, ye happy cottagers, fleep on;
A wakeful eye regards you, fleep in peace.
Ye shall not fleep again 'till forrow cease,
'Till Providence reward your faith and truth,
And with a world of joy repay your tears.'

On the following morning, which was Maria's birth-day, fhe was furprized by a ferenade from the inhabitants of a neighbouring cottage, young Gilbert, and his fifters, Anna and Sophia.

Maria heard, and ftartled at the found

Sprung from her chair and threw her book afide.
For fhe had rifen, as her custom was,
At that fine hour when never loit'ring day
Forfakes his chamber, and the glorious fun
Shames the dull taper Diffipation holds
To light her closing revels. To the door
She trip'd, and gently peeping faw unfeen
Who fung, who play'd. Her little heart was glad,
And flutter'd with impatience, like a bird
Newly imprifon'd. With fupreme delight
She mark'd the fong and hearken'd to its close :
Then lifting cautioufly the wooden latch,
The door with filence open'd, flood reveal'd,
And bade her friends good-morrow, with a fmile
Improv'd and heighten'd by a glowing blush
Might teach the morning envy.'-

£ 3

We

We pass over the amusements of Maria and her fair companions to attend to Gilbert, who was engaged on a morning's cruize on the sea :

So from the fhore they launch'd —
Pleas'd was the youth;
With utmoft joy he faw the wood recede,
Beheld his cottage dwindled to a fpeck,
Obferv'd the fnow-white cliffs to right and left
Unfolding their wide barrier to his view,
And felt the boat bound gaily o'er the waves
Light as a cork. He took the helm rejoic'd,
And right before the wind held on his courfe
Unheeding. 'Twas in vain his bufy friends
Advis'd a diff'rent courfe, to gain with ease
The shore he left. He carlessly went on,
And never dream'd of danger and delay
Never experienc'd. Faft into the waves
Sinks the far diftant fhore. The lofty cliff
Stoops to the water, and his hoary brow
At ev'ry wave feems buried in the flood.
And now the gloomy clouds collect. A ftorm
Comes mutt'ring o'er the deep, and hides the fun.
Hufh'd is the breeze, and the high-lifted wave,
Portending speedy danger, to the fhore
In lurid filence rolls. In tenfold gloom
The ftormy fouth is wrapt, and his grim frown
Imparts unufual horror to the deep.

Now to the shore too late young Gilbert turns.
The breeze is funk, and o'er the mounting waves
Labours the bark in vain. To the ftout oar
The fifher and his fon repair, and pull,
Alarm'd for fafety, till their flowing brows
Trickle with dew. And oft the anxious youth
Looks back amaz'd, and fees the lightning play,
And hears the thunder, and beholds a fea
Ready to burst upon him. Oft he thinks
Of Anna and Sophia, and of thee
Much-lov'd Maria, and thy aged fire,
Never perhaps again to walk with you,
To hear you speak, to live upon your smiles.
Ye hapless pair, what fhall become of you,
No brother to defend you, and no father ?'

At length the ftorm abates. The furious wind
No longer howls. The lightning faintly gleams,
And the retiring thunder fcarce is heard.

The fhower ceafes, and the glowing fun

Bursts from the cloud and hangs the wood with pearls
Faft falling to the ground. On the dark cloud
His wat 'ry ray imprefs'd, in brilliant hues
Paints the gay rainbow. All is calm and clear,
The blackbird fings, and nothing of the ftorm

Is heard, fave the grand furge whofe heavy fall Sounds awful tho' remote, and as it finks With harsh concuffion rakes the flinty beach.' Along the beach, ftray Adriano and his mourning companions, afking all whom they meet for news of Gilbert. Here they accoft a ftranger, who informs them that a youth, whom, from his defcription, they conclude to be Gilbert, was thrown on the fhore, drowned. It is furely, however, unnatural that the ftranger fhould have buried this youth in the fand while he was yet warm with life;' nor is it a probable circumftance, that he should alfo prove to be the old friend of Gilbert, and the favoured lover of the lady, to whom he is talking, without knowing her, or being himself known. The death of Gilbert, likewife, is too eafily credited, and his lofs too foon forgotten; and the trifling marks of joy and surprize, which are manifefted on his re-appearance, are really wonderful. Neither was it well judged in the poet to make the lovely Sophia, within an hour from her brother's death, enter into a critical difquifition on the merits of a novel; nor are we quite convinced that the poem would be injured, if the converfation on duelling, though we applaud the fentiments, had been omitted.

Before we haften to the conclufion, however, let us indulge ourselves with another extract, and contemplate once more the tear of grief, before we are called to witness the equally fastBowing tear of rapture:

O grief, thou bleffing and thou curfe, how fair
How charming art thou, fitting thus in ftate
Upon the eyelid of ingenuous youth,
Wat'ring the roses of a healthful cheek
With dews of filver! O for Lely's art

'To touch the canvas with a tender hand,
And give a faithful portrait of thy charms

Seen thro' the veil of grief, fweet maid, Sophia.
O for the pen of Milton, to defcribe
Thy winning fad nefs, thy fubduing figh,
Gentle Maria; to defcribe thy pains,
Affiduous Frederic, to alleviate grief
And hang a fmile upon thy Anna's brow;
To paint the sweet composure of thy looks,
Experienc'd Adriano, thy attempt

To waken cheerfulness, and frequent eye
Stealing afide in pity to Maria.

"Be comforted," he faid, and in the found

Was mufic ev'ry ear was pleas'd to hear.
But thy availing voice was not like his
Who bade the deep be ftill and it obeyed.

A tranfient gleam of peace one moment fhone,
But forrow came the next.'