This lady, we are told, was of high rank,' and is now dead. We are then informed that another treacherous woman was misplanted in the way :'

And her I need not name. Yet did I so,

I should not yield my voice to passion's swell.
No thoughts of her, since what she is I know,
Arise, but such as fitly I can quell.

And yet I need not name her: thou full well,
With all thy realin of England, knowest the name
Of her whose perfect lineaments will dwell
Embalmed in all the odours of her fame,

Where loathly chambers line the pyramids of shame.'

This portrait, also, is continued at greater length: but we must refrain, and pass to the continental tour.

The situation of Naples is thus correctly depicted:

It is a glorious sight on which the eye
Looks from the city down, when o'er the bay
Soft in the azure of the clear blue sky,
Rides in his cloudless path the Orb of day,
And the white sails are glancing in his ray;

While o'er the domes along the shore that sweep
Rises Posilipo for ever gay;

And Capri's cliffs stretch forth, as if to keep
The calm of such a scene, and check the ruder deep.
And sweetly the delicious atmosphere

O'er the magnificent and varied scene
Its charm diffuses: soft at once and clear,
Villas, and forts, and palaces are seen,
With gentle swell or precipice between;
And piney steeps, and rugged cliffs with grove
And forest graced, and slopes in winter green :
Below, the waves with beauteous isles; above,

Vesuvio's blackened brows, that but the whole improve.'
We are thus beautifully introduced to the well known
Como :

Ye verdant hills that rise o'er Como's towers,
And in the Larian lake's expanse so clear

Glass your high brows! with you more tranquil hours

I hoped to pass, where nothing insincere,

Constrained, or courtly hollow might appear.
I sought you with such keen impatient haste
As speeds the thirsty traveller, when near
He thinks the pool upon the burning waste,
And presses panting on, the cooling wave to taste.

He presses panting on the Siraub feeds,
Spread forth illusively, his eager eyes;
Still farther 'mid the desart's horrors leads;
And when attained it seems, for ever flies;

And

And the hot sand stretched out around him lies
Immeasureably wide. So fled from me
The phantoms in the desart heart that rise:
And rise they will, upon the dreariest sea
Of the soul's waste, the heart's Mirage to be.'

The visit to Elba causes the following mention of the person whose extraordinary fate has given more attraction to that little isle, than even its own magnetic coast possesses; and we cannot but rank these stanzas among the strongest objections to the supposition respecting the source and origin of this poem, to which we have already alluded. Indeed, the whole of the travelling scenery of it has always, we apprehend, been beyond the ken of the alleged writer.

And as I look on the recorded file

Of names that tell me where my feet have been,
Elba! while I pause about thine isle,

And him who round his movements the most mean
The eyes and thoughts of sovereigns could convene
The comet of our skies. Too much his power
Hath harmed my house, that I should now malign
His worst of acts, and join the herd that shower
Abuse on him they feared, while his the ruling hour.

They flattered, worshipped him, even as a God,
Whom now as fortune's fool they basely mock:
And once again would crouch before his nod,
If Fortune, oft his friend, should now unlock
The guarded barriers of Saint Helen's rock.
How would strange rumours shake the heart of king!
How would wild spirits round his standard flock!
How would the lilies stoop, as on the wing,
His bees came high in air, like locusts mustering,'
• Powerful he was; not great: and mighty power-
That is his chiefest glory threw him down
From the vast height from which, as from a tower,
He traced his sallies on each neighbouring erown.
Nor is it now. the least of his renown

That some who placed him whence he never more
Shall burst, they trust, to scare them with his frown,
Know all that infants feel, who pass before

The captive lion's cage, and tremble at his roar.'

We may add the spirit in which the Bourbon family are introduced, as another objection to the conjecture before mentioned. The high boasts of England's glory are asserted, but not for her warlike deeds:

• Not that in that great day in which the world,
As to the fight of eagles in the sun,
Upturned to the vast war its gaze, you hurled
The selfish tyrant from his throne, and won

Sway

Sway for the lilies, that nor toiled nor spun,
Right glad that any hands for them would toil,
Content that rivers of true blood should run,
So they the Corsican's keen scythe might foil,
And once more strike their roots in abdicated soil.'

Many other passages occur which we should wish to select as interesting in topic or beautiful in expression: but we have no farther room, and must conclude with the two closing

stanzas:

'O thou, the father of that blessed one
That was my only comfort here below
And by what name mayest thou be sooner won
The powers of prejudice to overthrow?
By her

and by the venerated snow
Of the loved head that late in peace was laid
And by the vows pronounced long years ago
Let not the course of justice be delayed;
But let me as I am to England be displayed.
So, 'mid the pomp of that auspicious day,
When all the glories of the realm around
Are gathered in magnificent array,
And thine anointed head is fitly crowned;
Tho' at thy side I may not then be found,
While thro' the sky loud acclamations ring,
And the glad trumpets their triumphant sound
Up to heaven's gates in jocund concord fling

I will not less be moved to cry, "God save the King!"

Various faulty lines offend the ear in this poem, which do not render it the less unlike to its supposed parent; par exemple:

Above the humbler paths of life who mount,

The higher rising, still the more are scanned.' P. 7.

O glorious people! matchless race of men!

O'er whom who rules may well be proud to reign.' P.9.
The little discrepancies, marked by few.' P. 27.

• Whate'er they speak of suffers in report.'

P. 37. &c. &c.

Still, as we before observed, the pamphlet betrays not the hand of an ordinary versifier, catching an attractive subject to give momentary currency to common-place effusions; and, whoever he may be, and though the 'Appeal' be occasionally tedious or even monotonous, he has advanced considerable claims to the office of Queen's Poet-Laureate, (were such an one existing,) by the manner in which he has executed his design, both as to sentiment and as to poetic merit. We opened our remarks by a short citation from our great bard, and

the author also has resorted, with felicity, to those immortal pages for a motto to the present poem.

"No, by my life,

Privy to none of this: how will this grieve you
When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that
You have thus published me! — Gentle, my lord,
You scarce can right me thoroughly

You did mistake."

then to say, SHAKSPEARE.

Since the above article was written, we have learnt, on

good authority, that the report is unfounded which attributed this Appeal' to a distinguished Scotish poet.

MONTHLY

CATALOGUE,

FOR JUNE, 1820.

POETRY and the DRAMA.

Art. 9. The Muse in Idleness. By D. W. Paynter, Author of the Tragedy of "Eurypilus." Crown 8vo.

Sherwood and Co. 1819.

6s. Boards.

Some of the smaller poems contained in this volume shew a moderate degree of poetical talent: but on serious subjects, and in attempts at elegant writing, the author is uniformly unsuccessful. In lighter trifles, he often endeavours to display humour, and sometimes succeeds, but more frequently falls into the region of vulgarity. His pastorals' are full of grossness, and, instead of containing scenes of rural simplicity, or Arcadian romance, are descriptions of the fulsome licentiousness prevalent in the environs of a manufacturing town.

Art. 10.

Mount Leinster; or the Prospect: A Poem descriptive of Irish Scenery, &c. 8vo. pp. 31. Longman and Co. This pamphlet contains a description of the chain of mountains which divides the counties of Carlow and Wexford, with a slight sketch of the various objects comprized in the view. It is interspersed with political reflections on the present state of Ireland, and with apostrophes to those great men who have at different times distinguished themselves either in public or domestic life. We extract the lines to the memory of the late David La Touche, Esq. which are among the most animated in the volume: Thou most respected, most lamented shade! With grief I view where thy remains are laid; Deep in the vale below that heart enshrin'd, Which, not to family or friends confin'd, But wide expanding felt a general glow For human good, and throbb'd for human woe. Home of domestic love, fair friendship's stay, Now lifeless, cold, "a clod of mouldering clay." Ambition, hearken! human pride, attend! What! is it thus at length your glories end? REV. JUNE, 1820. P

If

If virtue's self partakes the gen❜ral doom,
What spell bring ye to cheer the silent tomb?
Where great and small a like obeisance pay,
And their short race being run, dissolve away!
If love of country, if a wish to heal

Her wounds could save, we should not now appeal

To Heav'n with fruitless prayers; LA TOUCHE, thou friend
Of human kind, remote would be thy end !'

Art. 11.

Poems, by Joshua Russell. Crown 8vo. 6s. Boards.
Holdsworth.

1819.

We know not whether Mr. Russell has ever before invited critieism by the publication of any poems: but he appears to us, from the contents of the present volume, to be too careless and hasty in his compositions to do justice to the talent which he possesses, and to be somewhat unfortunate in his choice of subjects. The first poem, intitled The Morning Walk," is his best production, and affords some descriptions of the early morning which are simple and picturesque: but the effect is destroyed by the introduction of a tedious and melancholy story, as destitute of point as it is unsuited to the occasion. Among his poems on War, none of which are very interesting, one is termed A Conversation of Spirits but these visionary personages talk with as much gravity and matter-of-fact dullness, as a brace of village-politicians descanting on the miseries of the times in a country church-yard, while the bell is tolling for service. The miscellaneous pieces are generally of a gloomy nature, and one which is called The Ravings of a Lunatic' gives us ravings indeed.

Art. 12. The Wrongs of Man; a Satire. With Notes.

Howard Fish. 8vo. pp. 39. Sherwood and Co. 1819.

By

In this poem, if it may be so called, the author passes a very severe critique on the present state of the country, on the corruption and tyranny of men in office, and on the servility and mental degradation of all who endure rather than resist wrongs so constantly and mercilessly inflicted on them. We know not from what impulse, or for what purpose, Mr. Fish can have written such a work; whether to vent his own spleen, or to caricature the grumblings and discontent of others: whether to encourage sedition, or to expose extravagance by adopting it but a more injudicious, intemperate, or futile performance, we were never fated to peruse.

Art. 13. Reform, a Dialogue. 8vo. Pamphlet, published at the Courier Office, Liverpool. 1819.

We willingly forbear to make any comment on the political sentiments proclaimed in this poem, which are decidedly of an ultraloyal cast, or on the unnecessary and indecorous personalities with which it is disfigured, because we think that the author's taste and imagination are of a much higher character than his judgment; and because we feel real pleasure, amid the dearth of modern genius, in hailing the appearance of a writer for whom nature and education have evidently done much, and to whom more enlarged experience

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