thing but a culpable degree of indifference in the public, or of indolence in Miss Betham, can prevent her from rising to a very fattering rank among the poets of the day. We shall rejoice to announce a second edition of her poems, with corrections, retrenchments, improvements and additions. ART. X. The Crusaders, or the Minstrels of Acre. A Poem, in Six Cantos. 4to pp. HERE is a new proof of the popularity of Mr. Walter Scott's productions, a poem of considerable merit avowedly suggested by the perusal of "the lay of the last minstrel." It is only in form and nieasure, however, that it resembles this spirited model; the incidents, the sentiments, the diction of "the Crusaders" have all been derived from different sources. The spirit of crusading that heroic phrensy of the middle ages, has supplied abundant fuel to the poetic fire of all succeeding times. Tasso himself did little to exhaust this copious store of wonder and delight; and even yet its riches would amply reward the attention of the best poet Europe could produce. A few of the events of the third crusade are here commemorated. After the death of Frederic Barbarossa and his son, and the recapture by Saladin of Jerusalem and Ascalon, Lusignau collects the remnant of the Christian forces for a last effort, and forms the siege of Acre. "Monarch! Why tempt the rash emprise? Four spears for one the bands within As when o'erjoy'd the fowler spies Nor vain the Paynim boast. Besieging, but in narrow bound 152. For self-protection bulwark'd round, From victor fleets receive and smile. blaze. As when, Samaria's guilt forgiven, For Denmark from her Northern clime And Alpine Doubs and broad Garonne, And Creuse and Seine, thy legions, ploits of our lion-hearted king; France, By royal Philip led, advance. Acre from Turon's rocky face Starts as she hears the bounding joy: And every cave in Carmel's base but this it seems was not the ambitious design of its author. A few more stanzas describe the assault and capture of Acre, by the Christians: Richard enters in triumph, and on the following day invites the Re-echoes Vive le Roy. 'Declar'st thou good? Declar'st thou king of France, with the king of ill?' For lo! The signal from the hill gaze; For on the main the fog of morning sleeps 'What contain the vapoury deeps? With triumph flush'd from Cyprus' isle, Where tyrant Isaac felt his power, When base he flew on shipwreck spoil, And shelter from the raging main And Churchmen from cathedral stalls, And Abbots are come from convent halls, By deeds of arms to cleanse their sin. In Acre's bloody field." This passage is so spirited and excellent, that we were in hopes the poem would have proceeded with a kind of epic narration of the ex Jerusalem and all their train to a great entertainment which is to be enlivened by the songs of several minstrels. The five following cantos contain their respective lays. The first, and we think the best executed of these, relates the disaster of Conrad III. the leader of the second crusade. Treacherous guides, under pretence of leading him to Iconium, bewildered him amidst the deserts of Cappadocia, where famine, fatigue, and the harassing attacks of vast troops of skirmishing cavalry, almost exterminated his mighty army. "The trumpet, hark! to council calls • Whither to march? To Manuel's walls, Through deserts past return? Or steer Yon course those sons of treachery plann'd ? 'Tis death. Nor other hope remains Than Lycaonia's fertile plains To seek An Arab, wandering near, Our scouts have seized -Iconium where :' At once a thousand cries demand. Nor vain the search. To left and right And opening to the sun, advance. We march and halt, and move and pause; Till closing night her curtain draws. Canto III. opens upon us a highly interesting scene of life and manners little regarded by the common historians of the 12th and 13th cen turies. From the earliest ages of the Romish church, there existed among the simple inhabitants of the vallies of the Alps, pious and evangelical teachers, who strenuously resisted its corruptions and usurpations. Their harmless disciples, distinguished by a primitive purity and strictness of manners, under the various names of Albigenses, Vau. dois, &c. became the victims of bigotry and priestcraft. One of the minstrels is the son of a noble and excellent peasant, who was of the number of their martyrs: the story is interesting, but might have been made much more so, had our author sufficiently hastened to the event; but he is too desultory, too descriptive, too ornate. Canto IV. which relates the adventures of a Christian made cap tive by the Schiek of Lebanon, is romantic, but rather entertaining. The celebrated story of the murwith the father of him whom he derer, who by chance takes refuge had killed, is here closely copied : a pilgrimage to Mecca, and the approach of the simoon, afford very picturesque descriptions. Alas for the two remaining cantos! Our poor author mounts the white horse of the Revelations, and gallops on till breath and sense are lost. It is impossible to analyse, and would be idle to criticise such a farrago of incoherencies: we should object to the geographical inspiration by which a minstrel of Richard the first's time is made to foreknow the names of the Andes and Van Dieman's land; but over the regions of prophecy we willingly resign all jurisdiction. The execution of this poem is unequal; the passages we have quoted are amongst the best. The author does not appear to possess a good ear; the rhythm of his stan zas can bear no comparison with that of Mr. Scott's. It would have been better for him to be restrained by the rules of a fixed measure, than abandoned to the guidance of his throw about his minstrels the same own fancy. He has attempted to throw about his minstrels the same kind of interest that we feel for "the last minstrel;" but the effort is too bold for his genius, and completely fails. On the whole, however, the talents of this writer are such as ought not to rust in idleness. He displays spirit, animation, feeling, and on some occasions taste; whether or not he possesses judgment, we shall be better able to pronounce when he has abandoned a study which seems to level before it all intellectual distinctions. ART. XI. Fowling, a Poem (in five Books) descriptive of Grouse, Partridge, Pheasant, Woodcock, Duck, and Snipe Shooting. Foolscap, pp. 150. THIS poem, by its subject, naturally invites comparison with "the Chace" of Somerville; but in every excellence that may strictly be called poetical, it is much inferior to that animated performance. Where Somerville would paint, this author only describes; where he would have enlivened his subject with simile or episode, our fowler gives us only sentiment, of a trite though pleasing kind. Yet is this little work by no means destitute of merit. Every line bears witness to the author's knowledge and love of his subject. That subject, too, is in many respects well suited to poetical purposes; for though we are not altogether pleased to make acquaintance with the feathered tribes by shooting them, there is still something irresistibly captivating to the imagination of all lovers of nature in the sylvan scenes to which the occupation of the fowler introduces them. The style of this piece is correct, and, on the whole, elegant, its descriptions are at once faithful and agreeable, and there is novelty and originality in many of the scenes and incidents it relates. The plan of the work is the simplest possible, and somewhat flat and languid; each book opens with the morning and closes with the night, giving the history of one day's sport. The execution is where nearly equal, but the grandeur of winter scenery renders the account of snipe shooting, in our opinion, the most attractive. every "And does there for the fowler's hopes In bulk, still braves the In bulk, still braves the year; with prying bill Bores the light cover'd stream, and should it fail, drain By hunger tam'd, drops in the trickling Near dreaded man's abode. A lively sport Affording to the fowler's varying hand, As wheeling, oft returns, though often sprung, The noisy bird. But a far nobler spoil Awaits him on the river; where the rock s Aiding the roaring stream, it keeps at bay The eager frost, and many a broken Half liquid and half solid, forms; the pool, haunt Of all the kindred tribes that love to cleave With glossy breast and paddling feet the flood; Widgeon, or teal, or duck, majestic swan, Or heavy goose-with many a fowl be side Of lesser size and note, who, when the world Has sunk to rest, beneath the moon-beam dash The sparkling tide. To-day we spring the snipe, And with an eye as keen as does the bird Himself, by hunger's strongest law compell'd, Explore each shelter'd drain, or hollow ditch. Curl'd on their warm and strawy beds repose My dogs, save two, whose coats sable and white, And speckl❜d legs, and tail well fring'd, and ears Of glossy silken black, declare their kind, By land or water, equally prepar'd ART. XII. The Fisher Boy, a Poem, comprising his several Avocations during the four Foolscap. pp. 116. Seasons of the Year. IN the prefaces to certain volumes of poetry (so called) we are often amused with the conceit and arrogance that peep through the apparent humility with which an author throws his works upon the mercy of the world. To the candid public, to those amiable readers who allow themselves "to be pleased, they know not why, and care not wherefore," the writer addresses himself: he confesses that performances so deficient in merit as his, can only hope to find success with such an audience; he implores the clemency, he deprecates the righteous judgment of our awful fraternity; but at the same time, as if to arm himself against all events, he takes care to tell us, that if we |