lection of fugitive pieces, which has come to our notice from a native bard. We hope with this sincere tribute, we shall be excused for adding that the volume contains a great deal too much. It is not in human nature that so many small effusions from one hand, and produced within so short a compass of years, should all possess that felicity, which is the great charm of fugitive pieces. Every person gifted with a moderate share of invention, knows that it is easier to produce a performance of considerable compass and arrangement, than an equal amount in short pieces, of all of which the merit should be equally great. In a long piece our indulgence is extended to the feeble or colder portions if the production in the main, be good, but a copy of verses, which is ordinary, appears even to the greater disadvantage, for standing in better company. Moreover, we cannot conceive it worth while, for an author of Mr Percival's poetical powers to devote so much time to the accumulation of these small pieces. He must, we doubt not, possess, with the genius, the ambition of the true poet; and with this ambition, why should he not take up a theme of extended interest, and aim at a permanent poetical fame. It is true this collection contains one entire tragedy, written, it appears, at the age of nineteen and twenty years, but the least valuable part of the volume. It is hinted in the preface that it was written for an occasion, and it has all the appearances of being written musâ invitâ. The plot is without interest or probability, a cold imitation of the Revenge; and the language is tame and prosaic, and far beneath the glow of Mr Percival's other pieces. And though to be able to write any tragedy in blank verse be highly creditable to a young man of nineteen, yet he should remember that tragedy is not only, in the words of Milton, as it was anciently composed, the gravest, moralest, and most profitable of all other poems,' but also by far the most difficult of execution.

Of the smaller pieces which this volume contains, many have already attained uncommon popularity in the newspapers. In reading the whole series, the reader will find in them a great uniformity, and the constant recurrence of a technical poetical imagery, which is far from adding to their beauty, though a fault naturally enough incident to a large collection of little pieces, written without reference to each other. The following will afford a good specimen of our author's patriotic

manner :

Ode on the emancipation of South America.

Star of the southern pole

That from the Atlantic deep
Rose, and on Andes' steep
Shone with a beacon-light,
And woke from moral night

The Spaniard's haughty soul !

They started from their sleep, and tore

The chains that bound them to their tyrant's throne:

Uncheered, unaided, they alone

Their banner reared on Plata's shore,

And in the dawning light of Liberty

Swore they would live and die united, firm, and free.

Where rising o'er the silver tide,
That rolls its host of waters wide,
Resistless as a sea,

Fair shine their city's happy walls:
Convened within the sacred halls
Of infant Liberty,

They banded round their flag, and gave
Redemption to the fettered slave;

And o'er those plains like ocean spread,

And o'er their mountains' icy head,

And o'er their full majestic river,

And through their halls, their fanes, their towers,
They lit a flame, shall burn for ever;

Nor tyranny with all her

powers,

Though battled in her holy league, shall dare

The statue they have reared from its high column tear.

Sister in freedom! o'er the main

We send our hearts to thee;

Oh! ne'er may kings and priests again
Stain with their steps thy flowery plain,
Nor vex the brave and free.

When carth beside was wrapped in night,
Here Freedom lit her quenchless light,
And hence its rays shall always beam,
And Europe yet shall hear the voice,
And wake from her inglorious dream,
And in her new-found strength rejoice.
In one fraternal band, let all

The nations, who would spurn the chains
That tyrants forge, would burst their thrall,
New Series, No. 9.
2

And wash away their servile stains,
And, proud of independent worth,
In honest dignity go forth;

Let all, who will not bow the knee,
Nor humbly kiss the trampling heel,
Who swear to perish or be free,

Unite, and draw their flashing steel,

And, proud and daring in their second birth,

Purge from its crowns and thrones the renovated earth.'

In the class of the amatory poems the following has seemed to us among the prettiest :

Star of my heart! thy light has gone,
A cloud has hid it from my view,
A night has come that has no dawn,
A storm I cannot struggle through;
For like a boatman on the deep,
Without a compass, or an oar,

Where wild winds howl and tempests sweep,
My life must still drift on, and find no port, no shore.

Well-I have toiled to reach a haven,

Where joy at length in peace might dwell,
And many a mountain billow braven,
Still drawn by thy bewitching spell:
It led me on through all that life
Had dark and cold and hard for me,
For still I hoped to end this strife,

And that my last bright days might sweetly flow with thee.

Thou smiledst a beacon on that shore,
Where fancy builds her airy bowers,
And gems her grots with sparkling ore,
And weaves her shady arch of flowers;
And I did hope thy light would shine,

And charm with beam more warm and bright,

And still I hoped its rays were mine

A sullen cloud came o'er, and all was wrapped in night.

But though my course is lone and wild,

Through booming waves, and wreck, and sorrow,

I would be firm as when day smiled :

Beyond the grave, there shines a morrow.

Awhile chilled, harassed, dashed, and tost,
Through raging seas I plough my way

To some dark, undiscovered coast,

Where hope holds out no flag and mercy lights no ray.'

The little piece called Serenade is uncommonly graceful and airy; and though rather too long, we will extract it entire.

Softly the moonlight

Is shed on the lake,
Cool is the summer night-

Wake! O awake!

Faintly the curfew

Is heard from afar,

List ye! O list

To the lively guitar.

Trees cast a mellow shade

Over the vale,

Sweetly the serenade

Breathes in the gale,

Softly and tenderly
Over the lake,
Gaily and cheerily-
Wake! O awake!

See the light pinnace
Draws nigh to the shore,
Swiftly it glides

At the heave of the oar,
Cheerily plays

On its buoyant car,
Nearer and nearer
The lively guitar.

Now the wind rises
And ruffles the pine,
Ripples foam-crested
Like diamonds shine,
They flash where the waters
The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,
As it crosses the wave.

Bounding from billow
To billow, the boat

Like a wild swan is seen
On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along
In time to the air

Of the gondolier's song.

And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,
As love-led he crosses
The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur
Of water and grove

The tones of the night,
That are sacred to love.

His gold-hilted sword
At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung,
And high waves the feather,
That dances and plays
On his cap where the buckle
And rosary blaze.

The maid from her lattice
Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,
The bright billow break,
And to hear in his boat,

Where he shines like a star,
Her lover so tenderly

Touch his guitar.

She opens her lattice,

And sits in the glow

Of the moonlight and star-light, A statue of snow;

And she sings in a voice,

That is broken with sighs,
And she darts on her lover
The light of her eyes.

His love-speaking pantomime
Tells her his soul-

How wild in that sunny

Hearts and eyes roll.

clime

She waves with her white hand

Her white fazzolet,

And her burning thoughts flash

From her eyes' living jet.

The moonlight is hid

In a vapour of snow!