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Morn opes her eye: rock, valley, mount, and stream,
With smile of gladness, hail the welcome beam;
His strength renewed, to run life's measur'd span,
Again from slumber bounds exulting man,
Through Hamus' forests, bath'd in rosy glow,
Winds the swift hound, and twangs the hunter's bow;
The early monk, on Athos' sea-bound height,
Drops on his knees, to bless returning light;
While far away, o'er Phrygia's storied meads,
His joyful flock the grateful shepherd leads,
Weaves his blithe song by Simois' silver tide,
Regardless there Troy's thousands fought and died;
Lays his tired length, where Ida's laurels grow,
Nor starts to think great Hector sleeps below.


Fair gilds the beam, the city, and the sea ;
From couch of heath, and dream of victory,
Cheerly for him has fate ordained no grave,
In clanging arms, upsprings each turban'd brave.
Hark! o'er the plain the busy, stirring hum
Of hosts preparing for the fight to come!
With flying mane, and clattering hoof of speed,
Swift to the van the Tartar spurs his steed;
Unnumber'd, dun as Afric's locust cloud,

The desert wanderers 'neath their standard crowd;
While rolls the drum, and winds the echoing horn,
Where onward press the confident" Forlorn."
Silent, yet dread as cloud-wombed thunder, stand
The marshalled hosts, and wait but the command.-


Still from the wall the Christian banner flies,

And still the Greek the Ottomite defies.

On foaming steed what Moslem chief appears,
Nerv'd by war-toil, and proud in manhood's years
The lofty turban, and the haughty eye,
Betray the lord of Paynim chivalry.
Insatiate chief! half Asia owns his reign,
And now shall Europe stoop her to the chain:
Nought slakes ambition's harlot-lust for power,
Till, like the conquer'd, conquerors worms devour.
Slow down the lines the dreaded monarch moves,
Scans every rank, each phalanx' order proves,
Inspires the faint, applauds the bold by turns,

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Till, like his own, each breast for combat burns.'-pp. 41-43. We have often been struck by the real beauty of most of the poems which have obtained prizes, on various occasions, in the two Universities; and as often have we asked, without receiving any satisfactory answer, what has become in after-life of the poetical talents which those compositions called forth? We have at this

moment in our recollection the names of many scholars who have produced capital verses, which have been distinguished in this manner, and we do not find that more than one or two of them have afterwards written any thing that holds a permanent place in our literature. Of those who win the poetical prize, many, indeed, subsequently become members of the ecclesiactical profession, with which a fastidious prejudice-it is nothing more-considers frequent homage to the muses incompatible. Others make academical honours merely the stepping-stone to parliament or the law, and think no more of the lyre which had once seasonably responded to their touch. These are results greatly to be lamented. There is no pursuit which poetical exercises might not sweeten and exalt; and where genius has succeeded, particularly that noble description of it now so rare, it were much to be desired that it should again and again be exerted. We have been led into these observations by the "Ascent of Elijah," a masterly production from the pen of the Rev. Richard Parkinson. It is no imitation of Campbell's verse, and yet it reminds us more of the manly vigour, the classical diction, the elevated thought, and exquisite imagery, which crown the "Pleasures of Hope" with the true gifts of poetry, than any publication that we have for a long time seen. The subject is told at once in the title, and is thus magnificently pictured in verses that well merit preservation.

• Fast clos'd the shades of eve; the sun's last ray
That linger'd sadly on the verge of day,

Cast a wild, spectral light on sulph'rous clouds
Careering past, like giants in their shrouds !

Yet not a breath was there to move these forms-
Silence, dumb herald of advancing storms,
Reign'd all around, and Expectation sate,
With anxious eye, watching the birth of Fate!
Is that the moon's unwonted glow, that breaks
Through the dark thunder-cloud, in arrowy streaks,
Flinging on distant heights unearthly gleams,
And darting fiercely down, o'er woods and streams?
Wider it spreads o'er all the eastern sky!—
The lightning-sever'd clouds asunder fy;

And, ere the heart could think, in smoke and flame
Down the bright steep, chariot and horseman came!
At once that glowing car the seer ascends,

At once the cope of heaven asunder rends,
And with angelic millions girdled, rise
Those fiery steeds, to seek their native skies.

Elisha Saw!-No touch of human fear

Dimm'd his bright eye, or stopp'd his list'ning ear.

With rapturous zeal he breath'd his Father's name,
And hail'd with holy joy that car of flame;
He mark'd the train of heavenly light expire
In a long vista of receding fire;

He heard the seraph tones, that hymn'd on high
Elijah's welcome to the happy sky!

But where is then the Promise? where the Sign.
Of delegated power, and grace divine?

The heavenly splendour now fades fast away,
Mark'd in the sky by one bright lingering ray.
-Yet is that ray o'ershadow'd !-Something seems
With disk opaque to blot its ruddy beams!
Lower and lower it descends; and sails,
With flickering motion, borne on evening gales,
Rapidly on; and gently seeks the ground,
Before Elisha's feet, with whispering sound!
What tongue may speak the rapture of that hour?
It is! it is!-the Robe of magic power!
Elisha dash'd his vesture to the ground,

And with his master's Mantle wrapp'd him round;
And stood, from that day forth, before the Lord,

His Power on earth-his Wisdom-and his Word !'-pp. 18-20.

This is the finest passage in the poem; but there are many lines among those which precede it, that indicate the possession of powers which, we trust, Mr. Parkinson may long continue to cultivate.

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The author of the Sketches of Genius' has undertaken to sing of almost every person who has figured in metre from Solomon himself down to Childe Harold. This, it must be admitted, was a comprehensive undertaking, the mere idea of which reflects credit on Mr. Corkindale. We fear, however, that one stanza will satisfy every body as to the purity of his taste, and the delicacy of his phraseology. The poet varies his theme by the introduction of a chop-house scene.

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"Tis sad to dine on chop-house miseries,

Disgust and pain are at the sound unnumbered;

There sit you, squeezed like cheese within a press,

And when to hoarseness for the "Times" you've hummed,
Brought you betimes, all buttered and bethumbed,

Now comes your bill, as custom has appointed;

But ah! your miseries linger still unsummed,
For the sad joint your stomach has disjointed,

And your grave neighbour has with gravy you anointed.'-p. 41. We are sorry to say that Mr. Corkindale's minor poems are no better.

Let the reader imagine a country curate seated in a cheerful room in a snug cottage, the woodbine, the clematis, and monthly roses shedding their mingled flowers and fragrance round his window, a small green patch of garden smiling before it, a brook singing merrily at a short distance, which descends from a mountain, a charming wife teaching a blue eyed, fair haired child by her side to read or draw, and he will have a fair idea of the circumstances under which the Rev. Mr Whitfield applied himself to the

poetical vocation. He evidently writes for the sake of amusement, to give form to the pleasant and airy nothings which float over his imagination. He publishes also to please himself and his family, and we have no desire whatever to lessen their enjoyment. Happy they, if they can derive delight and benefit from his lines to a Butterfly,' and his heroics on a Gray Hair.' Friendship, charity, sympathy, melancholy, enthusiasm, religion, have found in Mr. Whitfield a modest and zealous advocate, and we pray that his verses may be immortal.

Depending on the favour with which her prettily printed and gilt-edged poem, the "Maid of Scio" was received,-by us at least, Miss Eleanor Snowden has promoted her muse from the rank of a sex-decimo to an octavo! But this difference, we fear, is all that she has gained by her new volume; it will not extend her reputation much beyond the precincts of Dover. Strange to say we like her Epigrams better than her Epics.

'A frigid Earl lolls listlessly beside

Yon love-sick belle, who fain would be his bride;
Down her fair cheek as trickling tear-drops stray,
She weeps because she's peerless, strange to say!'
Was ever an entanglement

Like this?-with such disaster fraught?
Miss Lureall's habit (dire event!)

By Major Hooker's rowels caught.
Fie! what a falling from thy throne,
Coquettish queen, of short-liv'd reign ;
Thy suite of buzzing flats all flown,
A sharper now is in thy train!'

Why for the gaming-table should we sigh,
When life's a hazard, and its ends a die?'
With scandal-mongers wasps may well compare,
The stings of both are in the tales they bear.'


'A fausse-montre, on whose fair, inanimate face
Admiration at first we bestow;

Then turn with disgust from the fine, empty case,

And most heartily wish it would go.'-pp. 165, 166.

If we should be asked why we occasionally gather together in an olla podrida article, our opinions upon a number of poetical works, which, after all, have little merit to recommend them, our answer is that we deem it a part of our duty to hold the mirror up to the passing publications of the day, whether they be of an excellent, or an inferior kind. Our pages will thus shew what is actually going on in all grades of intellect, and every class of composition, and enable thinking minds to trace the history of our literature as well through its dark spots, as through those which,

beam with light. We have, moreover, long had a habit of reading and criticising verse of every order, and that habit has now become a pleasant relaxation from grave pursuits. "A man," says Addison, "may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is unable to pass his time without it; not to mention how our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises and improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow upon it. Thus what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertainment."

ART. VI.-A Selection from the Papers of the Earls of Marchmont, in the Possession of the Right Honorable Sir George Henry Rose, illustrative of Events from 1685 to 1750. In three volumes, 8vo. London: Murray. 1831.

THE title of Marchmont, by which these papers are designated, belonged in succession to three earls of the Scotch family of Hume, and as it began with the first, so did it become extinct with the last of these noblemen. The Earls of Marchmont respectively took part-more or less conspicuously, in the political transactions of their time, and their united history links itself with an interval in our annals, reaching almost from the Restoration to the time of George the Third, a term exceeding that which has been set forth in the title-page. The first Earl of the family, better known, perhaps, as Sir Patrick Hume, acted a distinguished part in Scotland against the Stuarts. He opposed, by every means in his power, the succession of James the Second to the throne, and for his ardent and incessant hostility to that family, was rewarded by King William, after the revolution, with the honours of the peerage. He was succeeded by his son, Alexander, the second Earl, who filled several exalted offices both in Scotland and England, and from him again the title devolved to his son, Hugh, who, for several years, was considered one of the most accomplished debaters in the House of Commons.

Such are the personages from whose papers the present selection has been made; and, considering the situations which they held, and the affairs which they were called on to assist in managing, we confess we feel disappointed that so little appears to be gleaned from their cabinets that is interesting or important. To Sir George Rose, as representing his father, the executor to whom these papers were confided, properly belonged the duty of exercising a discretion in sending forth any portion of the collection to the world. But with every feeling of respect and courtesy for that gentleman, we must say that in this accidental circumstance alone, lay the whole of his qualifications for the important office of editor of the Marchmont Papers. In the first place the volumes may with strict propriety be said to be a chaos, in which neither dates, nor persons, nor papers, are arranged according to the necessary laws of seniority. The first volume is occupied with a diary kept by the


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