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They scatter sweetness from the fragrant flower,
That joyful opens to the morning hour;
With friendly zeal they sport around the maid,
Who early courts their vivifying aid,

And cool from Sipra's gelid waves embrace
Each languid limb and enervated grace.

"Here, should thy spirit with thy toils decay,
Rest from the labours of the wearying way;
Round every house the flowery fragrance spreads;
O'er every floor the painted footstep treads;
Breathed through each casement, swell the scented air,
Soft odours shaken from dishevelled hair;
Pleased on each terrace, dancing with delight,
The friendly Peacock hails thy grateful flight:
Delay then, certain in Ujayin to find

All that restores the frame, or cheers the mind." P. 34.

The notes and illustrations which form a large portion of the volume will be found entertaining to those, who find an interest in the mysteries of Indian mythology; and do much credit to the translator's Oriental research.

ART. XVI. Poetical Register and Repository of Fugitive ·Poetry for 1810-1811. Cr. 8vo. pp. 648. 12s. Riving

tons. 1814.

To embody those fugitive pieces of poetry which have too much merit to be lost, and too little consequence to be remembered, is neither an useless nor an unworthy task. Much was done in former days by Dødsley and Pearch, and many meritorious strains have been preserved in their collections, which would otherwise have passed into rapid oblivion. The characters of the various sommets, odes, epitaphs, &c. which appear in the volume before us, are of very different casts; some are extremely pretty; others, as may be reasonably expected, of an inferior cast, yet not devoid of merit. Among many others of the same author, the following composition attracted our no

fice.

A MORNING SALUTATION.

"Thou rose of my love! from thy slumber arise!
The dawn from the orient empurples the skies;
The lark the blue regions of ether explores,
And exultingly trills his wild notes us he soars;

Now they sink in soft murmurs, now rapid and clei r
All their melodies pour on the wandering ear;

The

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The drops of the dew, liquid gems of the morn,
Dart their tremulous rays from the white-blossom'd thørn,
And opening its leaves to the breath of the gales,
Each bloom and each flowret its fragrance exhales.
But nor odours, nor songs, nor bright hues can impart
A pleasure to gladden thy lover's fond heart,
When absent from thee he still thinks on thy charms;
And sighs to be folded once more in thine arms!
Then, rose of my love; in thy beauty appear,
And the songs and the odours again will be dear;
The beams of the dawn with fresh glory be crown'd,
And the soul of delight breathe enchantment around." P: 185.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

We were also much pleased with part of a translation from the first Elegy of Milton, on the approach of Spring: the following lines appear to have no ordinary merit, they are at once classical and harmonious.

"EARTH Smiles in youthful pomp. She flings aside
Her mourning stole; and, like a youthful bride,
Displays the allurements of her vernal zone,
And, softly smiling, courts the distant sun:
Nor courts in vain, the queen's imperial charms
Subdue the monarch, and his pride disarms.
Her nuptial crown she wears, a rosy wreath,
And all Arabia whispers in her breath.
Hark! how she wooes him from yon spicy grove,
(A scene, like Cybele's recess of love)
Her handmaid Flora decks the wedded fair,
And adds new charms to her majestic air.
Like Proserpine, in Enna's vales beheld
She seems, when gloomy Dis his love reveal'd.
Hark! how the vernal gales invite thy stay,"
And every amorous breeze their queen betray!
From their soft bed, in India's spicy grove
They breathe of Paradise, and whisper love:
No dowerless maid invites her lover's smiles,
Nor with blank penury thy suit beguiles:
Besides her wealth in boundless prospect seen,
Her flowery chaplet, and her vest of green,
Beneath her blue hills, and her pendent woods,
Deep in the bosom of her swelling floods,
She boasts her untold subterranean stores,

Her mineral chambers, and her gemmy floors." Þ. 183.

The reader will find much to approve in the department of original poetry. To this is subjoined a second collection of those compositions, which have before appeared, and are thought worthy of preservation. We recognize with pleasure many of

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the best Oxford prize poems, and many fugitive stanzas of the most celebrated modern poets. There are two productions of Walter Scott, which are, we believe, very little known in these kingdoms, which we shall therefore with pleasure present to our readers. The first is a light, airy, and spirited extempore, addressed to Ronald Macdonald, Esq. Laird of Staffa, and is recorded in the Album, at Ulva.

"STAFFA! sprung from high Macdonald,
Worthy branch of old Clanronald;
Staffa! king of all kind fellows,

Well befal thy hills and valleys,

Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows, Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder, Echoing the Atlantic's thunder, Mountains, which the grey mist covers, Where the chieftain's spirit hovers, Pausing, as his pinions quiver, Stretch'd to quit our land for ever. Each kind influence rest above thee, All thou lov'st, and all who love thee. Warmer heart, 'twixt this and Jaffa, Beats not than in breast of Staffa." The second is a Prologue to the FAMILY LEGEND, a tra gedy by the celebrated Miss Baillie, which was acted with much applause at the theatre in Edinburgh. The following lines are, in our opinion, among the finest specimens of the author's poetic fancy.

P. 231.

"Tis sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh

Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die;
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear
Of distant music dying on the ear;

But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Linked as they come with every tender tie,
Memorial's dear of youth and infancy.

"Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son;
Whether in India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil,

He hears with throbbing heart, and moisten'd eyes,
And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!

It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild-waving, and the water's swell;
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain;
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain ;

* " Acadia, or Nova Scotia:*

The

The cot, beneath whose simple porch was told
By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

"Are such keen feelings to the crowd confin'd,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has rais'd the sail
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this evening's tale;
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar

Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to night,
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve

The filial token of a daughter's love." P. 470.

From many such productions as the foregoing, the reader may anticipate the satisfaction which may be derived from the Poetical Register.

Sunt bona, sunt quædam mediocria, sunt mala (plura indeed we will not add) is its character. Subjoined are some very smart and keen criticisms upon the poetical and dramatic productions of the year; many of whose authors are highly obliged to the editor for the lash which he has so justly inflicted upon them; as the only possibility of remembrance which awaited them, was a chance of being embalmed in the caustic of a review.

NOVEL,

ART. XVII. The Towers of Ravenswold, or Days of Ironside, By W. H. Hitchener of the Surrey Theatre. 2 Vols. 12mo, Chapple. 1814.

Banditti, caverns, iron mask, instruments of torture, murders, secret pannels, thunder and lightning, fires and friars, are not above half the horrors contained in these two volumes, inasmuch as they contain divers attempts at wit, and a very tedious moral. That the public may really know to what delightful objects our studies are occasionally turned, we shall present them with the

following

following extract, which we can assure them occurs word for word in the volumes before us,

"Horror sat upon his pallid cheek, and the cold dew dropped from his forehead; he raved, and at each turn his hair did rise and stir as life were in it,' so powerfully did imagination operate.

• Whilst each strain'd ball of the sight seem'd bursting from his head!'

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"Where shall I fly?' he cries in tones that spoke the agony he felt; where hide me to escape the terrors of this awful night?— Where is Wolfred, where is my brother? why did he not stay to witness the dreadful vision that passed before, as the red lightning gilded its appearance? he had an equal hand in the deed-the bloody deed! Ha! there she is again-avaunt! I see, I know it all. Why clad in terrors do you come to haunt, and with that hollow eye and woe-fraught visage remind me of my crimes? Ah! now she's pointing at her bruised frame; the frame that once was spotless, delicate, and pure! now it presents a bruised figure, and besmeared with blood?'

"Wolfred was greatly alarmed at what the distracted Earl had uttered, but recovering, cautioned the domestics not to harbour a thought on the subject derogatory to his honour or their Lord's, affirming he knew, on the contrary, the most poignant grief for the loss of Gunilda was the cause of his extravagance.

"The domestics bowed assent, though they were still at liberty to use their own pleasure.

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Enough, enough!" he yet goes on. There! there! the ruffian's dagger pierced her through it was not I that struck that blow. Aye, aye! I see-beneath that gentle breast that oft has been my pillow!-O, heavens!, why did I suffer it? Now she weeps, and now she shakes her head-Ha! how the blood streams from the gaping orifice as the tears mix with it, and trickle down her sweet body to the ground: where is my brother, where is Wolfred? let him behold the sight, and then sleep quiet if he can.' "You perceive again,' remarks Wolfred, how wild his words, his looks, and actions are, and no inference can or must be drawn from the language of one so far departed from himself,'

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Ha! she retires! he exclaims, 'I'll follow her, she forbids me; she kisses her hand to me-she weeps again: still I must follow -again she waves me back. Troops of shining spirits assemble to convey her hence, Oh, God of mercy! what is it in flaming letters I behold gleaming above her head- Gunilda was innocent! Lost, lost to eternity'!!

"With these words he sunk exhausted into the attendants arms, and was by the direction of Wolfred conveyed to his chamber; who was so much disconcerted he knew not what to think or how to act. But the tempest abating, he retired to his couch, resolved before sleep should close his eyes to determine on what plan he

would

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