They scatter sweetness from the fragrant flower, And cool from Sipra's gelid waves embrace "Here, should thy spirit with thy toils decay, 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! Now they sink in soft murmurs, now rapid and clei r The T 2 The drops of the dew, liquid gems of the morn, 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 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 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, 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; But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, "Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, He hears with throbbing heart, and moisten'd eyes, It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild-waving, and the water's swell; * " Acadia, or Nova Scotia:* The The cot, beneath whose simple porch was told The infant group that hush'd their sports the while, "Are such keen feelings to the crowd confin'd, Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to night, 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!' "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. - 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,' 66 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 |