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Original Poetry.


[VOL. 2

From the Literary Gazette.

We are indebted to a distinguished Poet for the following lines, though be does not authorize us to give his name. No name (we think) could enhance their beauty.



HERE is a radiance in the sky,

TA flush of gold, and purple dye.

Night lingers in the west,--the sun
Floats on the sea.---The day's begun.
The wave slow swelling to the shore
Gleams on the green like silver ore;
The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow,
Are burning in the crimson glow;
Yet all is silence,---till the gale
Shakes its rich pinions from the vale.

It is a lovely hour,---though Heaven
Had ne'er to man his partner given,
That thing of beauty, fatal, fair,
Bright, fickle---child of flame and air;
Yet such an hour, such scies above,
Such earth below, had taught him Love.

But there are sounds along the gale ;-
Not murmurs of the grot or vale-
Yet wild, yet sweet, as ever stole
To soothe their twilight wanderer's soul.
It comes from yonder jasmine bower,
From yonder mosque's enamelled tower,
From yonder haren's roof of gold,
From yonder castle's haughty hold:
Oh strain of witchery! who e'er
That heard thee, felt not joy was near;
My soul shall in the grave be dim
Ere it forgets that bridal hymn.
'Twas such a moru, 'twas such a tone
That woke me ;---visions! are ye gone?

The flutes breathe nigh,---the portals now
Pour out a train, white veiled, like snow
Upon its mountain summit spread,
In splendor beyond man's rude tread;
And o'er their pomp, emerging far
The bride, like morning's virgin star.
And soon along the eve may swim
The chorus of the bridal hyim;
Again the bright procession move
To take the last, sweet veil from Love.
Then speed thee on, thou glorious sun!
Swift rise,---swift set,---be bright---and done.
Oct. 1817.

From the Literary Gazette, Oct. 1817. THE OLD MAN'S SONG,

(From a MS. Poem)


lady! do not weep for me, Because my closing hour is near, I only moura that I should be

So long a way-worn traveller here.
These old white hairs are slender t:es
To bind me to so bleak a shore;
A heart that only beats with sighs

Cares not how soon it beats no more.

The worms will soon feed on my breast,
But gnawing thoughts will be at rest,
And revel o'er my senseless clay;
More ravenous and fell than they.
The grass-green sod will heavily
Press on the head it covers o'er;
But light will every burden be

When grief shall weigh it down no more: And dark will be my couch of rest,

And cold, but free from pain and fears, Unshaken by my throbbing breast, Unwetted by my bursting tears. Then lady do not weep for me, Because my closing hour is near; I only mourn that I should be So long a way-worn traveller here

From the Monthly Magazine, Nov. 1817. THE RUINS OF JERUSALEM. BY W. MUNRO.

AND of the fallen! desolate and low,

sons woe;

Far from thy Zion, wanderers they roam,
And seek, in vain, a refuge and a home.
Ah! who shall mourn thee? who shall weep
their doum,

Thy pride a desert, and their hope a tomb?
Their tears on distant lands like Jordan roll,
Where rest refreshes not their weary soul:
Unnallow'd footsteps now trace Jordan'swave,
Thy homeless children seek a cheerless grave.
Broken thy harp, and mute that fearful strain,
That wildly kindled in prophetic reign;
The voice of praise, of penitence, and prayer,
All hush'd in silence---horror gathers there!
Mournful the cedars on thy Lebanon bow,
In Judah's ear, alas! they sing not now;
Thy breath of fragrance, and thy balmy dew,
Trembling upon thy wilds of fairest hue;
Thy living fire that burns with ceaseless glow,
Thy milk and honey that still overflow;
Thy woody hills that wave beneath the breeze,
Whose soft perfume the waken'd sense doth

Thy blushing streams, that warble ceaseless praise,

To them who taught thee first the note to raise, Thine Israel joy not, broken, blighted, fled ; Vile Moslem now pollutes thee with his tread! Voiceless thy holy Fane! save when the wail Of some lone pilgrim trembles on the gale, Who seeks the footsteps that his fathers trod, Salem, the dwelling-place of Israel's God; His heart with inward anguish yearning leaps, As on some pile he droops his head and weeps.

Land of the fallen! land of other years, Dim is thy beauty veil'd in grief and tears! Once pride of earth, now mockery of scorn, Dishonor'd, humbled, of thy greatness shorn; Pride points her scoffs, derides thy deep dis grace,

Insults thine ashes, and pursues thy race!
The lifeless shade of all thy splendour fled,
The living hope of Israel's drooping head;

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Let the unholy edge the taunting jeer,
Yet sympathy will fondly linger here,
And o'er thy ruins sob her deep regret,
Thy day of joy in mists and darkness set!
Lovely, though faded, o'er thee still a seam
Of former glory ballows with it's beam;
A sacred lustre, ne'er to know decay,
But gently brighten into endless day.
Sweet are the wild flowers that thy desert

Soft is thy turtle's heart-dissolving plaint;
Sad as the evening shade, the breeze's sigh,
The grief that dims the hopeless lover's eye:
As mania's vacant glare, that coldly thrills,
Or the dun gloom of sepulchre that chills,
As wintry hue that covers wan decay,
When the last spark of life hath pass'd away;
Or prostrate oak, shatter'd by light'aing's

Whose mould'ring fragments speak it's glories past:

Such art thou: light'nings o'er thy beauty Wild was that eye that gaz'd and would have


wept ;

Fierce was the burning throb, the pang acute,
Of tearless agony, all fix'd and mute:
As redly glar'd the flames o'er Salem's domes,
And robb'd the lost of Israel of their homes!

From the Literary Gazette.



Then wonder not that beauty's eye,
That manly heart, that poet's sigh,
Should such a Midas crave;
Art may be foiled, and heroes fall---
Success uncertain is to all,

But seldom fails a knave.


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The oak rain'd honey--and the fruitful ewe Gave her white streams spontaneously to flow,

BEAUTY, enchantress! smil'd and bloom'd, No stripe nor war was then; the work-man's

Good-nature shone, and wit illum'd,
While Joy its nectar gave:

Kings moved with more than courtly ease,
Queens were facetious, sure to please,
Attended by a knave.

Cupid was charged with royal darts

From thrones of diamonds gemmed with hearts,
To conquer and to save;

But kings were nought and Cupid failed,
Though close the archer's skill assailed
The all-commanding knave.

Oh what so fickle as the fair?
Not April sunshine, summer air,
Not Amphitrite's wave;

In morn, of courtly bliss they sing,
At eve, reject a proffer'd king,
And, smiling, take a knave.
If human life be but a game,
Blush not, ye laurelled sons of fame,
Whom history calls the brave;
Thongh now and then the hero's seen
To pass a king, discard a queen,

For Pam, yclept a knave!
Nay, if a prince forsake the mount,
And wander from Castalia's fount

To be a trefoil slave;
Heroes may count the passing gold,
Beauty a parley still may hold

With sable, ill-shaped knave.

For when your ponds the fish forsake,
To seek their brethren's well-filled lake,
And losers' looks are grave,
Whose net collects the glittering whole,
Who can recal the scattered shoal,
But partial, flattered knave?

Fram'd not with hateful skill the ruthless

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From the New Monthly Magazine.


From the Annual Register.

REATHES there a soul in this gay scene VERSES TO THE BROOK OF Borof pleasure,

Who at Misery's plaint never heav'd the

sad sigh;

Can pass round the wine-cup, and drain its

full measure,


By D***** S******.†

Yet the tear-drop of pity to sorrow deny? ADIEU! 'ye rocks, and thou sweet vale,

O bear him far hence to some isle in the


Where Beauty ne'er beams, nor Affection beguiles;

A stranger be he still to Love's soft emotion, Its joys and its pleasures, its hopes and its smiles.

Shall our hallow'd goblet by him be partaken, Who's center'd in self, and ne'er sympathy knew ;

Whose heart no appeal of affection can waken,

Whose hand still refuses soft Charity's due? Then think ye, who revel in plenty and spiendour,

How many there pine in chill poverty's blast,

With forms full as fair, and with hearts full as tender,

On the world's friendless stage by adversity


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Where winds the brook of Borrowdale:
With lingering steps and sorrowing heart,
From your sequester'd scenes I part.
Adieu! sweet brook! with crystal tide,
Still o'er thy pebbled channel glide,
And slowly pour thy stream sereue,
Through woody dells, and vallies green.

Let other waters rudely sweep
The clifts abrupt of yonder steep;

From useless noise acquire a name,
And rise by violence to fame.
These to survey, with idiot stare,
Let Fashion's wondering sons repair;
Admire the torrents of Lodore,
So steep the fall---so loud the roar ;
And ring the nauseating chime,
Of cliffs and cataracts sublime.

Be thine, sweet Brook, an humbler fate ;
Court not the honours that await
The rude, the violent, the proud,
And scorn the wonders of the crowd.
Ye Naiads! who delight to lave
Your lovely forms in this pure wave,
Long o'er its peaceful banks preside,
And guard its inoffensive tide;
Lest yon tall cliff, whose summit grey
E'en now o'erlooks its darken'd way,
Should headlong rush with gath'ring force,
And violate its tranquil course.

Or, if so undeserv'd a fate
Should e'er my lovely Brook await,
With gentle hands its current lead
Along the flow'ry, fav'ring mead,
And yield it to some channel's care,
With bed as smooth, and banks as fair;
Where shelter'd from the ruffling gale
The streams may steal along the vale,
Which Keswick's awful hills surround.
There, slowly winding, let them stray
Along the scarcely sloping way,
Till, tir'd at last, their current dead,
They sink into their destiu'd bed;
And shelter'd by yon flow'ry brake,
Mix, silent, with the peaceful lake.
These blessings, lovely Brook, be thine:
Such be thy course, and such be mine.

+ Characterised as one "who would have taken his place among the very first poets of the age, had he not rather chosen to become its first philosopher.”

VOL. 2.]

Intelligence: Literary and Philosophical.

From the same.



A LINGERING struggle of misfortune


Here patient virtue found repose at last ; Unprais'd, unknown, with cheerful steps she stray'd

Thro' life's bleak wilds, and fortune's darkest

Nor courted fame to lend one friendly ay,
To gild the dark'ning horrors of the way.
When fir'd with hope, or eager for applause,
The hero suffers in a public cause,
Unfelt, unheeded, falls misfortune's dart,
And fame's sweet echoes cheer the drooping

The patriot's toils immortal laurels yield,
And death itself is envied in the field.

Her's was the humbler, yet severer fate,
To pine unnoticed in a private state;
Her's were the suff 'rings which no, laurels

The generous labours which no muses sing,
The cares that haunt the parent and the wife,
And the still sorrow's of domestic life.

From the European Magazine, Sept. 1817.


A Song.



REEDOM! Freedom! happy sound,

FMagic land this British ground;

Touch it slave, and slave be free,
'Tis the land of Liberty.

Sicken slow poor Negro's heart ;
Indian Obee's wicked art,
English Obee make the slave
Twice be young and twice be brave.
See man changing in an hour!
Quick the magic, strong the power---
For the day that makes him free,
Massa! grateful Quaco do
Double worth that man shall be.

Twice the work of slave for you;
Fight for Massa twice as long;
Love for Massa twice as strong.

From the New Monthly Magaine.



Translated from the Latin.

lark, on russet pinions borne,

What though no pageant o'er her humble earth TWith carol song salutes the morn,

Proclaim the empty honours of her birth!
What tho' around no sculptur'd columns rise,
No verse records the conquests of her eyes!
Yet here shall flow the poor's unbidden tear,
And feeble age shall shed his blessings here:

Here shall the virtues which her soul pos-

With sweet remembrance soothe a husband's


And here in silent grief, shall oft repair
The helpless objects of her latest care,
Recal her worth, their adverse fate bemoan,
And in a mother's woes forget their own.

In regions unconfin'd;
The arrow skims the air along,
Seeming to tow'r the clouds among,
Sped by the arm of archer strong,

And fleeter than the wind:
Ev'n so the Frenchman bold explores
Th' ætherial void, and poising soars,
While winds his carcase bear.
With "gaping wonderment” we all
Now yield the meed of praise withal,
That air is light, and that the Gaul
Is lighter still than air.
Oct. 1817.


HE coming season promises to be one tainment to the Literary and Fashionable World. Among the more prominent works which will appear almost immediately, we hear, are, Madame de Stael's Memoirs of the Private Life of her Father, the celebrated M. Necker; another volume of Memoirs of the Public and Private Life of Benjamin Franklin, written by himself; Napoleon, his own Historian; Tales of Wonder, of Humour, and of Sentiment, by Anne and Annabella Plumptre; Rome, Naples, and Florence, in 1817; Sketches of the Present State of Society and Manners, the Arts, Literature, &c. of these celebrated Cities, with Anecdotes of their Inhabitants,and of distinguished Visitors, British and Foreign.

Lord Byron's fertile muse has again teemed. The lovers of poetry will rejoice to hear that the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold has arrived in town from the Continent, and there is no danger of a treasure of this sort being long concealed from the public eye.

The celebrated Kotzebue has published, in German at Koenigsberg, the "Letters of Ma

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A narrative of a Residence in Japan, in the years 1811, 1812, and 1813, with observations on the country and people of Japan, by Captain Golownin of the Russian navy, is in the Press.

Not fewer than four editions of Voltaire's works are at this moment publishing in France.

translated into French, by the author of Fiƒ-
Miss Edgeworth's Ormond has been already
teen Days, and of Six Months in London.

will publish a new Novel in a few days.
Miss Lefanu, the authoress of Strathallan,

Mr. Ryley of Liverpool has in the press a new novel, entitled Fanny Fitzyork,in 3 vols.

In the press, the History of Elsmere and Rosa, an Episode; the Merry Matter by John Mathers; the Grave by a Solid Gentleman. The Quakers, a Tale; by Eliza B. Lester.


London Literary and Philosophical Intelligence.

A volume of poetical trifles has been published under the title of "Rough Sketches of Bath, Imitations of Horace, Lines on Caraboo, and other Poems; by Q-in-the-corner." Mr. Q-in-the-corner appears to be a young author, and gives fair promise of something better in after-times.

A small volume under the title of " Plurality of Worlds, or Letters, &c. occasioned by Dr. Chalmers's Discourses," discusses, in the spirit of scepticism, most of the principles and facts of modern astronomy; and charges Dr. Chalmers with applying what the author considers as errors of science to the higher claims of theology.

[VOL. 2

The first is by Dr. CLARKE ABEL, physician and naturalist to the Embassy, and is entitled, Personal Observations made during the Progress of the British Embassy through China, and on its Voyage to and from that Country,in the years 1816 and 1817. It will comprise the author's personal narrative of the most interesting events which befel the British Fmbassy from the time of its leaving England to its return; together with his remarks on the geology, natural history, and manners of the countries visited. It will be printed in quarto, and be illustrated by maps and other engra vings, under the sanction of the Hon. EastIndia Company, and be dedicated by permis sion to Lord Amherst.

The second is by GEORGE ELLIS, esq. one of the commissioners of the embassy, in a quar to volume, with an atlas of engravings.

The characteristic sketch, by Professor Engel, entitled, Laurence Stark, or the Hamburgh Merchant, and declared by some of the German critics to be the most perfect novel in their And the third is by Capt. BASIL "Hall, of language, is, we hear, about to appear in an English translation.

A new satirical novel, called "The Steyne," will make its appearance early in November. Melcombe Lodge, or Traits of Family Pride, in 4 vols. by a Lady, will be ready in Nov.

At press, Manners, a novel; 3 vols.

Mr. C. Fiest will soon publish the Wreath of Solitude and other Poems.

Dr. BUCHANAN will immediately put to the press, an Account of the Kingdom of Nepaul. This gentleman practised as a physician for several years in that country, during which time he was employed in collecting information relative to its natural, civil, and political


A Narrative is printing of Discoveries in Africa by Mr. BURKHARDT. He has for some years been travelling in the countries south of Egypt, in the disguise of an Arab, and by the name of Shekh Ibrahim, under the auspices of the African Association. He is still, it is said, prosecuting his discoveries, and entertains sanguine hopes of being able to reach Tombuctoo, from the east, and proceed from that city to the western coast. This would perfect the geography of northern Africa.

The Rev. C. MATURIN, author of the tragedy of Bertram,is printing Tales in three vols.

Mr. JOHN BROWN has a poem in the press in five cantos, entitled, Psyche, or the Soul.

Such is the incessant activity of the press in the northern metropolis, that one publishing establishment announces for speedy publication the following new and promising works:

1. Mandeville, a domestic story of the seventeenth century in England; by WM. GODWIN, author of "Caleb Williams;" in 3 vols. 2. Rob Roy, a novel; by the author of Waverley, &c. in three vols. 12mo.

3. Travels from Vienna through Lower Hungary, with some account of Vienna during the Congress; by R. BRIGHT, M.D. in 4to. with numerous engravings.

4. Dr. BUCHANAN's Nepaul.

5. An Account of the Life and Writings of the late John Erskine, of Carnock, D.D. by Sir HENRY MONCRIEFF WELLWOOD, bart. 8vo. Besides numerous extensive works in progress.

Three considerable works on the late Em

bassy to China have already been announced, and seem likely to afford the literary world considerable gratification in the ensuing winter.

the Lyra,and will relate chiefly to the nautical concerns and discoveries, with new charts,&c. Since published.

NEW NOVELS, &c. published. Rosabella; or the Mother's Marriage. By the author of the Romance of the Pyrennees, Santo Sebastiano, &c. 3 vols.

The Leper of the City of Aoste : translated from the French, by Helen Maria Williams. Some Account of Myself. By Charles, Earl of Erpingham. 4 vols.

Prejudice and Physiognomy. By Azile D'Arcy. 3 vols.

Beauchamp; or the Wheel of Fortune. By James Holroyd Fielding. 4 vols.

Howard Castle; or a Romance from the Mountains. 5 vols.

Conirdan; or the St. Kildans; a Moral Tale. By the Author of Hardenbrass and Haverill. Zapoyla, a dramatic Poem, by Coleridge. The Confession, or the Novice of St. Clare, and other poems, by author of Purity of Heart.

Chinese Tales. 24mo. 4s. 6d.

Theodosius and Constantia. 24mo. 3s. Six Weeks in Paris, or a Cure for the Gallomania; by a late Visitant. 3 vols.

Adventures of a Post-Captain, Nos. 1. and II. (to be completed in 12.)

Jessy, or the Rose of Donald's Cottage. 4 vls. Evening Hours; a collection of Öriginal Poems.

Don't Despair, a tale; by W. Beck, dedica ted to the British and Foreign School Society.

A Narrative of a singular Imposition prac tised upon the Benevolence of a Lady in the Vicinity of Bristol, by a young Woman of the name of Mary Wilcox, alias Baker, alias Bakerstendt, alias Caraboo, Princess of Javusa. Rosa, or Village Incidents. 2 vols. Tales of the Fire-side. 3 vols. Ramirez, a poem ; by A. C. Dallas. The Greeks, a satirical poem. Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scotish Di alect: by Robert Tannahill.

The Hours, a poem; by J. Hudson.

The History of the Ancient Noble Family of Marmyun; their singular office of king's champion, by the tenure of the baronial manor of Scrivelsby, in the county of Lincoln; also, other dignitorial tenures, and the services of London, Oxford, &c. on the coronation-day; by T. C. Banks, esq.

The Vicar of Wakefield, a Melo-dramatic Burletta, in three Acts; by Thomas Dihdin. The Youthful Days of Frederic the Great; a melo-drama, in two Acts.

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