the

OF the poem entitled Egypt, we gåve our opinion on its first appearance six years ago (see An. Rev. vol. I. p. 653.) And since this time we find it has "received neither ́ addition nor amendment." Wecannot say that this avowal favourably prepossessed us with respect to the smaller pieces added to this edition. Of a man who, at the distance of six years, can bear to reprint without a single correction, a poem written before he had attained the age of twenty-one, it may without any want of candour be presumed, that he has written nothing better since. In fact the poems now subjoined, though easy, and sometimes rather elegant, merit little attention, and denote no mental progress : ideas are trite and flimsy, the expression is often incorrect and faulty. Mr. Clifford has evidently neither a heart nor an eye for nature. Of his Cintra we formerly remarked that it gave us history where we looked for landscape, and still worse is a piece entitled "Valumbrosa,' which affords absolutely not a single picture stroke which might enable us to pronounce from internal evidence that it was actually composed on that celebrated spot, and not in a London parlour with "Pope's essay on man," lying on the table of the writer, from which he has almost transcribed the passage beginning" the lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to day," &c. Of the songs the following are a fair sample.

no more,

Though your image I cannot resign; Like pilgrims who journey afar to adore, And bear off a part of the shrine, And a blush shall recall, and a tear shall regret,

The moments I lingered with you, Like the glow on the hills from the sun that has set,

When the vallies are wet with the dew."

"A dew-drop grac'd yon budding thorn, And glisten'd on its spray,

It drank the glow of rising morn,
And vanished with the day:
Thus fancy taught me to adore

A maid belov'd too well,
But whilst I gaz'd, the charm was o'er,
And truth dissolv'd the spell.
Then Emma, think me not unkind,

If fancy prove untrue,
Her spell with me is long resign'd,
Then give me, ere its fragrance die,
Her power is lost with you.
The wreath you must not wear,
And I'll receive it with a sigh,
You give it with a tear."

The composition of such verses

as these may furnish an elegant and respectable amusement to a military man, and in this view ought certainly to be encouraged, but we fear they will scarcely be found to

possess sufficient spirit or originality to win for their author any considerable share of public favour and attention.

With mind attuned to the gay scene,
The enthusiast wanders down the green
Where many a floweret grows.
How rich, how glowing, and how sweet
The lengthening vale appears,
Where all the rural features meet

That nature's scene endears;
The cottage smoke, the village swain,
And village children on the plain
Bounding in sportive glee.

The cowslip bank, the willowed brook,
Or hanging copse can please,
But still the cottage in the nook,

Beside the sheltering trees,

An interest for itself will claim;
The lattice shows the kindling flame,
And points to happy home."

MR. GENT has a certain degree of vivacity about him, which might be improved into a pretty talent for humourous and familiar verse, but he ought to take a good deal more pains with himself, and to renounce serious poetry altogether. He begins his "Sonnet to Music" with a beautiful confusion of metaphors. "Hail heavenly Maid, my pensive mind, Invokes thy woe-subduing strain; For there a shield my soul can find Which subjugates each daggered-pain."

The mixture of sea-slang with sentiment in his "impromptu on the late peace," is not less curious. or absurd, but the address to his readers gives us some hopes of his future proficiency.

"Good passengers! who've sail'd with

me,

Through pathless seas of poetry,

If change of prospect suits ye,
Cheer up! take courage! land's in sight!
Like Albion's cliffs, with grateful white,

The last blank leaf salutes ye.
What! are ye all asleep?-yo, ho!
They are by heaven, and I must blow

A boatswain's blast to wake them;
Yet, hold! I must not rouse them sɔ,
For some there are on board, I trow,
Who feel a little sick or so,

And noise, poor souls! might shake them.

Wake gently, then, my gentle friends; Here sickness ceases, slumber ends,

We've gained the port of finis; Your voyage is oe'r, so jump ashore, And swear you'll never venture more,

In such a bark as mine is."

"Poetry is the breath, the finer spirit, the unfading bloom, of every thing most lovely it is the sublime of passion, the deathless form of virtue-it is universal love-eternal youth-it is the golden 'chain that unites Heaven and Earth-the mortal and the immortal-it is the elegance of science, and the beauty of knowledge.', Such a rhapsody as this is quite sickening. Yet there are poems of some merit in the present volume. Considerable imagination is displayed, but there is in general a want of judgement to controul it. We are not disposed to be harsh critics, but will select the poem which is most free from the characteristic faults of the author.

ris'n

Whose night will see thee low. Farewell to hope!

Farewell to earthly bliss!-in other realms

Look for thy charmer's smile; on brighter shores

Seek for a wreath of joy; a fadeless wreath

That time can never tarnish, or rude fate Snatch from thy eager grasp.-Remorseless winds!

Ye wild, insatiate waves! how rich your prey

If fancy lies not, if her gloomy hand Sketches the forms of truth.-Would that she lied!

For nature shudders, and the eye of thought Weeps at her tale-but if her tints be

true,

IN the course of this little poem the reader will find much to remind him of Goldsmith. The author appears to be a country gentleman of the old school, who leading a retired life in the bosom of his family, takes a pleasure in inveighing against the vices and follies of the fashionable world. In his strictures upon the modern system of education he is often just, though occasionally too severe; there is a little peevishness blended with much good sense and good feeling. Some of the descriptions are very pleasing, and the versification throughout

is smooth.

-. 12mo.

cell,

half a century, which has elapsed since its institution. This gentleman was born at Stamford in Lincolnshire, about the year 1694.

Having been admitted in 1701, as a sizar of Clare-hall in the university of Cambridge, he became successively a scholar and fellow of that society. He wrote during this period a pamphlet against Whiston on the eternity of the Son of God. In 1721, he resigned his fellowship, and went to reside at his living in Northamptonshire, given him by lord Nottingham, whose chaplain he was. By his will he bequeathed his Kislingbury estate to the university of Cambridge, under the following conditions. The vice-chancellor for the time being, the master of Clarehall, and the Greek professor are annually to appoint a subject, which they deem to be conducive to the honour of the Supreme Being, and the recommendation of virtue, and are yearly to dispose of the rent of the above estate to that Master of Arts, whose poem on the subject given shall be best approved by them. The poem is to be in English, and to be printed, the expence of which is to be deducted from the product of the estate, and the residue presented to the successful candidate. The series of subjects pointed out by the donor in

his will, are the various attributes and perfections of the Supreme Being, till the subject shall be exhausted, afterwards, death, judgment, heaven, hell, purity of heart, &c.

The propriety and utility of institutions of this nature in a great seminary of education cannot be doubted. It is not to be expected that they should be the means of producing any work of resplendent genius, but they encourage taste, and stimulate an honourable emulation. The subjects in this instance, though restricted to theology and morals, yet are of sufficient latitude, to admit the introduction of every species of poetical ornament. One of the best of the performances which have received the Seatonian prize, is the well known poem on death, by the present bishop of London. Mr. Wrangham's verses on the restoration of the Jews, the destruction of Babylon, and the Holy-land, are entitled to entitled to honourable mention, and various others of the poems collected in these volumes, deserve the praise of elegant and spirited composition, and polished versifica tion.

OF this political pamphlet, in favour of the Irish catholics, the rhymed portion exhibits a miserable attempt at humour; and the notes and other prosaic appendages contain

nothing either of fact or argument that has not been stated tar more impressively by other writers on the same side of the question.

TO give the Devil his due, John Blunt has some sharpness about him. He has plenty of ill nature, plenty of impudence, and we should

have added plenty of indecency, but that he has contrived to veil it in a learned language. This jeu d'esprit, is a parody on Collins'