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The lines which terminate this poem, represent the Wanderer, addressing the Genius of his country, in a strain of delirious rapture. As we have made some remarks on this conclusion, we shall submit it to the reader.

Wanderer.

By the glorious ghost of TELL!
By Morgarthen's awful fray!
By the field where Albert fell
In thy last and bitter day!

Soul of Switzerland! arise:
---Ha! the spell has 'waked the dead
From her ashes to the skies,
Switzerland exalts her head.

See the Queen of Mountains stand,
In immortal mail complete,
With the lightning in her hand,
And the Alps beneath her feet.

Hark! her voice:--My sons awake:
Freedom dawns, behold the day!
From the bed of bondage break,
"Tis
your Mother calls,obey!'
At the sound our fathers' graves,
On each ancient battle-plain,
Utter groans, and toss like waves
When the wild blast sweeps the main.

Rise, my Brethren! cast away
All the chains that bind you slaves;
Rise,---your Mother's voice obey,
And appease your fathers graves.

Strike,--the conflict is begun;
Freemen Soldiers! follow me;
Shout, the victory is won,-
Switzerland and Liberty!'
Shepherd.

Warrior! Warrior! stay thine arm!
Sheathe, O sheathe thy frantic sword!"
Wanderer.

-Ah! I rave!--I faint!--the charm
Flies, and memory is restored!
Yes, to agony restored

From the too transporting charm:
Sleep forever, O my sword!
Be thou wither'd, O mine arm!
Switzerland is but a name!

-Yet I feel where'er I roam,
That my heart is still the same;
Switzerland is still my home!'

Pp. 70. 72.

The degree of merit which will be attributed to Mr. M. will differ according to the respective taste of his readers. He is not so remarkable for brilliancy of expression as for warmth of sentiment: his visions are not cold, feeble, indistinct meteors; nor phantoms dressed in gaudy and incongruous colours. He not only creates but animates; his images appear in noble simplicity to the eye, and address the heart with impassioned tenderness or sublimity. Those especially who cherish the softer feelings will cheerfully rank Mr. M. among our best contemporary poets, presenting the hontage most grateful to his muse, the tears and emotions of sympathy.

We had once before an occasion to condemn that morbid sensibility which creates its own sorrows, as highly prejudicial to the performance of active duties. We have also exposed the impiety of those writers who seem to assure to every sufferer on earth, a rest among the blessed in heaven.-In Mr. M's poem of The Grave," a mourner is introduced, with consummate pathos, resigning himself to his mother Earth, and waiting the approach of the hour that should terminate his wretchedness. The Grave is then personified, and introduced to warn him of his folly and danger, and exhort him to live, repent and pray.' As these stanzas have already appeared in print, though perhaps surreptitiously, we can only notice and recommend them to the reader.

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We are very happy to recognize in Mr. Montgomery, the Alcaus whose lyre has often delighted us. Several of his productions, which are here inserted, appeared sometime since in the Poetical Register. Among these we remember the Thunderstorm, the Battle of Alexandria, and the Address to the Volunteers, with particular pleasure. Some of the stanzas in the latter, strongly remind us of Collins's beautiful lines, How sleep the brave, &c.' Whether in. some particulars Mr. M. has excelled, or only equalled that charming lyrist, the reader must decide. He displays a rich and romantic fancy, a tender heart, a copious and active command of imagery and language, and an irresistible influence over the feelings. At the same time he has set an example, in two less important particulars, which inferior writers will do well to imitate; we allude to the correctness of his rhymes, and his exclusion of heathen mythology from his compositions. His shorter poems are elegant and tasteful : some of them are highly poetical and interesting; others assume a degree of cheerfulness, yet very much softened by an air of tender melancholy. It is in the higher spheres of sentiment that he touches the chords with the hand as a master. We cannot forbear transcribing one poem entirely;

The Joy of Grief.' Ossian.

SWEET the hour of tribulation, When the heart can freely sigh: And the tear of resignation

Twinkles in the mournful eye. Have you felt a kind emotion' Tremble through your troubled breast;

Soft as evening o'er the ocean,

When she charms the waves to
rest?

Have you lost a friend, a brother?
Heard a father's parting breath? .
Gazed upon a lifeless mother,

Till she seem'd to wake from death?
Have you felt a spouse expiring

In your arms, before your view?.
Watch'd the lovely soul retiring
From her eyes, that broke on you?
Did not grief then grow romantic,
Raving on remember'd bliss?
Did you not, with fervour frantic,

Kiss the lips that felt no kiss?
Yes! but when you had resign'd her,

Life and you were reconciled;
Anna left-she left behind her,

One, one dear, one only child.

But before the green moss peeping,
His poor mother's grave array'd,
In that grave, the infant sleeping
On the mother's lap was laid.
Horror then, your heart congeal-
ing,

Chill'd you with intense despair;
Can you recollect the feeling?

No! there was no feeling there?
From that gloomy trance of sorrow,
When you I woke to pangs unknown,
How unwelcome was the morrow,

For it rose on you alone!
Sunk in self-consuming anguish,

Can the poor heart always ache?
No, the tortur'd nerve will languish,
Or, the strings of life must break.
O'er the yielding brow of sadness,

One faint smile of comfort stole; One soft pang of tender gladness

Exquisitely thrill'd your soul. While the wounds of woe are healing,

While the heart is all resign'd, "Tis the solemn feast of feeling, "Tis the sabbath of the mind.

Pensive

Pensive memory then retraces
Scenes of bliss for ever fled,
Lives in former times and places,

Holds communion with the dead,
And, when night's prophetic slumbers
Rend the veil to mortal eyes,
From their tombs, the sainted num-
bers

Of our lost companions rise. You have seen a friend, a brother, Heard a dear dead father speak; Proved the fondness of a mother,

Felt her tears upon your cheek! Dreams of love your grief beguiling, You have clasp'd a consort's charms,

And received your infant smiling
From his mother's sacred arms.
Trembling, pale and agonizing,

While you mourn'd the vision gone, Bright the morning star arising Open'd heaven, from whence it shone.

Thither all your wishes bending

Rose in extacy sublime,
Thither all your hopes ascending
Triumph'd over death and time.

Thus afflicted, bruised and broken,
Have you known such sweet relief?
Yes, my friend! and, by this token,
You have felt the joy of grief.'
pp. 100. 104.

From many passages in this volume, we presume, and indeed hope, that Mr. M. has had real causes of grief, and that he has not assumed a tone of melancholy, as he might a black coat, from an idea that it was fashionable or becoming.

We perceive, with no small pleasure that his heart is not insensible to religious sentiment: we hope that his religion is genuine, as well as warm, not a feeling merely, but a habit; and that his fine talents are devoted to the service of him, who giveth the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.' Under these impressions we shall take our leave, cordially wishing him permanent happiness, though it may be at the expense of our gratification and of his poetical celebrity.

Art. XV. The Love of Glory. A Poem, 4to. pp. 56. Price 2s. 6d. Vernor and Hood, 1806..

THE

his

HE author of this poem is, very probably, a worthy and patriotic gentleman: but we cannot say much in praise of system as a moralist, or his talents as a poet; nor can we encourage him to expect great success in kindling among his countrymen the flame of ambition. If he wishes us to believe that the praise of man is worth dying for, let him assail our feelings with the fire and fascination of poetry: but, on the contrary, this heavy, monotonous, and most wearisome production exposes the futility of its cause, by awkward endeavours to promote it.

Glory itself, we are told, belongs properly to the King of Glory; but he allows a share of this food to angels and mortals, Some of it was given to Hercules, Ceres, Triptolemus, &c. at the time of their deification! and since then to Cyrus, and so on, through the trite routine of ancient history, as far as Alexander,

who

who is preparing to come forth at the head of another canto of this poem. King David, King Solomon, and Free Masonry, are strangely interwoven in this historical detail.

The origin of the Love of Glory is quite new to us.

Man,

it seems was very unhappy at finding himself naked, while the brutes were armed and clothed.

'The soul' ('tis true) looked inward on itself,
And saw the seeds of every virtue there.'.

Nevertheless, reflecting on the defenceless state of the body,
Sad and desponding at the dismal view,

The heart was filled with grief and wild despair.

Dreadful deeds, perhaps, would have ensued, had not Hope sprung up to comfort this unfortunate person; presently, Nature informed him that he was destined to rule the earth, and aspire to heaven. Very soon the dormant passions awoke, and, after a short squabble which should reign in the heart, Reason sate herself down as the sovereign :

The passions yielded to her awful sway

And every virtue crowded round her throne !'.

Chief among these was the Love of Glory, but whether as a passion or a virtue, we are left to conjecture.

It is time to dismiss this edifying narrative, in order to make some remarks on the nature of this Love of Glory. It has often been justly ranked among the base principles of human conduct, since the light of Revelation detected its genuine shape and colour. We did not therefore expect that it would now have been held up to public admiration. The spirit of patriotism might have been far more suitably exhibited, as a source of gallant exploits, and as an incentive to energy and intrepidity, in defending our rights as freemen. For, whether we consider its nature as more rational and more divested of selfish feelings, or its objects and effects as more constantly just and beneficial, the umor patria is greatly superior, in our estimation, to the laudum arrecia cupido. Patriotism, we trust, is to be found in many a heart, that is devoted to the love and service of its Maker: it then deserves unqualified admiration. The mere love of praise, on the contrary, is incompatible, at the moment, with any noble principle; it is, too busy in listening to the plaudits of weak and unworthy mortals, to seek the whispered approbation of heaven. The difference, perhaps, may be expressed in two words; the first is a Virtue, which ennobles the character; the last is a Passion, which debases it.

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The execution of this poem is happily adapted to neutralise the tendency of its principles; and we hope that its success will prove an effectual antidote to the author's favourite passion.

Art.

Art XVI.

משברי ים ויכוח בין שלש אחיות

The Discourse of the Three Sisters, respecting the Fall and Murder of the Commander in Chief, the great Hero, Admiral of the great War Fleet of Britain, whose Name is famous, Lord Viscount Nelson, &c. &c. THE appearance of any thing like literature among a people long

prohibited from thinking, and bound in mental slavery by the strong cords of Rabbinical authority, gives us much pleasure; but we cannot congratulate this modern Hebrew poet, on possessing the energy of a David, the sublimity of an Isaiah, or the pathos of a Jeremiah. How, indeed, the simplicity of nature could be so ill imitated by our elegiac: bard, we are at a loss to conceive; unless his taste has been so far vitiated by the study of German models, that his ideas are confined within the limits of the theatre. The plausibility of this conjecture may be estimated from the following stage direction, which we copy literatim.

Britania, Hibernia, and Scotia, assemble on this occasion to lament.-They meet at the tomb of the Admiral, and Britania is seated on the grave, her hair disleveld, her Head between her knees, and her hands on her Head, while her two Sisters, Hibernia and Scotia are standing next her petrified into silence, until Britania opens her lips in a low des pairing tone utters forth the following.

"AH, a voice has overwhelmed my heart, and like a shaft of lightning has bruised its inward parts-I am struck dumb-my ears are stunned my veins are shrunk up my eyes are dimmed-and the whole earth is a waste desart before me.' &c.

."

She proceeds to lament, in strains of dolour, the loss of Nelson; Hibernia attempts to comfort her, by assuring her, that we had taken nineteen proud vessels, with all their implements and furniture; and their swords we have turned to scythes' which, flagrante bello, is suffici ently in character for Hibernia. Britannia, informing the lady who spoke last that the prattle of her tongue is like unto the chattering of the magpye,' resumes her complaint; she admits the Supreme power of God but would have preferred to see Nelson return home, that she might have crowned him with golden honours, according to his merit and the meed of his deserts.' This draws a reproof from Scotia, who, sufficiently in character also, reprimands Britannia, for uttering words void of wisdom: she adds, attend to what I say; it is the spirit of God that speaks within me and concludes with pointing out the temporal advantages of righteousness, and hoping for the continued protection of the Almighty,

We commend the moral and the sentiments of this little piece; but its versification is very far from canonical: and why,, when the Hebrew is in verses, should the English be printed as prose? It is dedicated to Benjamin Goldsmid, Esq.-as, to the prop' and the greatest ornament of the Jewish Nation,' and the bosom friend of the late noble and brave Nelson.' Abating the article of grammar, we have seen much worse Dedications than this-which possibly accomplished its purpose. It is subscribed N. I. Vallentine.

Art.

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