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but if the artist will disregard these adventitious aids, he must take care that the proportions of his figure be rigidly just, and that a severe and chaste simplicity preside over his labours. It is in this respect that we think the author has been most unfortunate. To the simplicity of such a story, it was essential, in the first place, that the poem should not have been so long, nor its details protracted to such unnecessary minuteness. The imagination can easily descry the end of the poem, and the incidents of each scene, and it then becomes a very wearisome effort to go back and wade through the details when our interest is already far beyond them. In the next place it seems to be a cardinal disadvantage that we are not permitted to know any of the characters intimately enough to feel a very strong affection for them, and the consequence is that the author is obliged to confine himself to a description of what they suffered. We are of course informed how sadly they looked; their tears are described with the greatest minuteness and repetition; and the old man again and again strives to move us by lamentation. We have "poor old man," and "poor old Mary," and "poor old eyes," and "poor old knees," repeated in every part of the poem. Now, in the philosophy of the passions, there seems to be no principle more true than that our sympathy is excited not so much by the complaints of a sufferer, as by a knowledge of his situation and the cause of his grief; and that, therefore, lamentation, so far from being a source of interest, will in fact weaken our respect for the individual who complains.

In the next place, this search after simplicity has led the poet into a number of weak verses, and made him adopt in a few instances an antiquated phraseology, which is quite misplaced in the present work. Why he should use such words as "gear" for riches, or assist his versification by "do" and "did," and above all, by the extravagant repetition of the conjunction "And," which is to be met at the head of so many lines, leading on its languid followers, can scarcely be accounted for, except from a wish to render his poetry simple and affecting. The errors of this sort are, we think, among the least pleasing parts of the volume. There are so many colloquialisms, so many loose lines, and the simplicity becomes in many parts so affected,

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much of the beauty of the poetry is lost by it. Thus,

And, when at first, he told the tale,

Of Mary's cottage, in the vale,

He pass'd the matter lightly o'er; &c.

And oft her sadly piercing look

Did cut my soul, with sharp rebuke. &c.

And scarcely lent a willing ear,
One word of all my vows to hear. &c.

And how, when Carlo brush'd her by,
She started wild, yet knew not why, &c.

I then, for faithful Carlo, there
Besought an aged herdsman's care,

Who said he knew the lurcher well. &c.

When first poor Hubert's change I spied,
And knew, that all was o'er. &c.

And the following specimens are much too simple:
Yet, when I found my colour came,

I fear'd 'twould look like guilt and shame,
And with my passing thought, the more
This fear did spread the crimson o'er. &c.

Oh, Hubert! can thy heart be gay,
While Ellen's tears do flow forever?"

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With quiv'ring lip, he quick did say,

"No! good old Edwy, never! never!" &c.

We take notice of these things with less reluctance, because they are errors which the author has sufficient taste to correct, and genius enough readily to surmount.

It is a much more agreeable task, however, to select for our readers, such passages as will give them a good idea of the author's best manner, and enable them to judge for themselves on the merits of his style. The opening stanzas are among the best of the whole.

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Wand'rer, though, upon his brow,
Sad Despair and Sorrow now,
And fitful Grief, and Laughter wild
Mark him Distraction's dearest child;
And hair and beard, uncouth and long,
Have done his manly features wrong;
Yet ev'ry deepen'd furrow there
Is less the mark of age than care:
And oft he holds his visage high,
And oft his dark and fever'd eye

The quick'ning fire of youth betrays,
And lofty glance of better days.

But chance you would not deign to hear
Sad Pity's gentle tale;

For here no knight, with targe and spear,
Rides, clad in battle mail.

Nor lady bright, of high degree,

Is seen in stately tow'r; Nor lordly suitor bows the knee To courtly damsel fair and free,

Well met, in sylvan bow'r.

And chance to you the world is dear,
So dear, you have no hour for sorrow;
To heave a sigh, to shed a tear,
For others' wo:

And, if your thoughts are all for morrow,
For worldly good, for worldly gear,
'Twere shame, that you the tale should hear;
Go, wand'rer, go-

Yet stay, and first forgive the wrong,

Of speech unkind, and sland'rous tongue;

For pride is high, upon your cheek;
The dew is in your eye,

To hear poor crazy Hubert shriek,
With shrill and piercing cry.

And now your tears more freely pour,
While, gazing wildly o'er the stone,
He marks the letters, one by one,
And counts them slowly o'er and o'er;
And laughs, by fits, and cries,
And mutters to himself alone,

"Here little Ellen lies."

Ah! gentle wand'rer, 'tis a dreary sight,
When all the world is hush'd in stillest night,
To see poor Hubert steal to Ellen's grave;

And read the tablet, by the moon's pale light,
And utter senseless pray'r, and wildly rave;
And wring his hands, and shriek with piercing cry;
And start, to hear the owlet's shrill reply.

Five summers now have pass'd away,
Since Ellen slept beneath the willow;
Five summers now have shed their ray,
Since wretched Hubert, night and day,
Has made the simple stone his pillow;
Reckless of summer's heat and winter's cold.
And pitying neighbours oft the tale have told,
How, when the maniac's life to save,

They sought the wretch, at Ellen's grave,
They found him, on the tablet low,

Brushing away the falling snow.

The first introduction of Ellen is also marked with much simple beauty; and the description of the dog is a very favourable proof of the author's attention to minute nature.

VOL. I.

Amid the valley lone,

Where foot of mortal seldom came,
Liv'd Ellen and the aged dame,

In solitude, unknown.

And, when old Edgar droop'd and died,
Poor Mary's wants were still supplied,
By tender Ellen's care.

At early dawn, her little feet

The dew from off the pathway, beat,

And water, from the brook, she drew:

And oft she pluck'd the flow'r that grew,
Upon the margin fair;

And, still while poor old Mary slept,
Smiling, towards her pillow crept,

And gently plac'd it there.

Then silent would she watch, the while,
Her fond surprise and wak'ning smile.

Next, with kind look and willing haste,
She brought her mother's slight repast.

I i

Then, o'er neck, her kerchief threw,
Full well the signal Carlo knew,
And, to the door, impatient flew.

Oft did he cast alternate look,
From Ellen, to the little nook,
Where high the birchen basket hung,
Ere, from its place, she gayly took,
And careless, on her finger swung.

And, o'er her auburn gay,
Before she had her gipsy tied,

That did, at best, but poorly hide
Her fairy face and floating pride;

His frequent bark would loudly chide
Her ling'ring step's delay.

Scarce, on the string she plac'd her hand,
Ere Carlo would in silence stand,
With forward head, and upward ear,

The sound of lifting latch to hear;
And body back, and foot before,
And eye, intent, upon the door.
And Ellen scarce the bobbin drew,
Ere, o'er the threshold, Carlo flew,
And swiftly shot along the lawn,

With eagle's speed; nor had she more

Than dropp'd the latch, and clos'd the door,

Ere Carlo down the hill had gone.

And, scarce she left the threshold stone,

Ere he had swam the brook below,

And climb'd the cliff, and on its brow,
Paus'd, and look'd back, on Ellen's way,
Shook, from his locks, the water spray,

And bark'd again, to chide delay.

And, when, with lilly foot, unshod,
Across the shallow brook, she trod,

Again he sped, for then he knew

The path, that Ellen would pursue.

And, when she gain'd the ridge's height,

Carlo was fairly out of sight.

The elopement of Ellen, and the anxious suspense of her

mother, is told in an affecting manner, though perhaps somewhat too long.

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