to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously còndemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. TO THE HERB ROSEMARY*. SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe: And o'er the wintery desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death. 2. Come funeral flow'r! who lov'st to dwell * The Rosemary buds in January-It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. Come press my lips, and lie with me And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, So peaceful, and so deep. 3. And hark! the wind-god as he flies, Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. TO THE MORNING: Written during Illness. BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes, It fans my feverish brow,--it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life. The Lark has her gay song begun, She leaves her grassy nest, And soars 'till the unrisen sun Gleams on her speckled breast. Now, let me leave my restless bed, Now thro' the custom'd wood-walk wend; By many a green lane lies my way, Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale It breathes into my breast, My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale `Blythe Health! thou soul of life and ease! I'll join, with thee, the buskin'd chace, Beyond those clouds of flame, Above, below, what charms unfold The mists which on old Night await, Far to the West, they hold their state, They shun the clear, blue face of Morn; The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn, And hark! the Thatcher has begun His whistle on the eaves, And oft the Hedger's Bill is heard Among the rustling leaves. The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blythe, The Mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, Who would not rather take his seat, Beneath these clumps of trees, And catch the healthy breeze, Than on the silken couch of sloth, Who would not from life's dreary waste, Snatch when he could, with eager haste, To him, who simply thus recounts Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still He'll greet thy beams awhile, And the pale Glow-worm's pensive light, Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. An author is proof against reviewing, when, like myself, he has been reviewed above seventy times; but the opinion of a reviewer upon his first publication, has more effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the ungentle craft were more generally understood. Henry wrote to the Editor, to complain of the cruelty with which he had been treated. This remonstrance produced the following answer in the next month. Monthly Review, March, 1804. ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS. "In the course of our long critical labours, we have necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, or withstand the lamen |