Shall tell such acts of shameless lust, as seen
Would call a blush of shame from Aretin;
Such orgies that should Lewis hear them told, a
Lewis would swear his "Monk" is chaste and cold,
Then hastening to his closet, should bestow
Fresh heightening tints, bid new descriptions glow,
And work, and toil, that none might say, and smile,
"Lewis is vanquished in his fav'rite style;"

a This gentleman seems to have set up his banners in open and avowed hostility as well to decency as to good taste. But the public will not be blue-bearded for ever by either Mr. George Colman the younger, or Mr. Lewis. The latter of these gentlemen may know that his Adelmorn was not cordially received, notwithstanding it was assisted by the glimmering ghostly vision, and the compilations of Mr. Kelly. And Mr. Kelly does compile with a vengeance. When a man publishes in his own name mere musical centos, it is time to hint to him that borrowing here a little, and there a little, procured Arne the appellation of " pilfering Tommy Arne." But enough of musical rogues.

Mr. Lewis has lately published a bundle of Tales calculated to dilate the eyelids, and astonish the weak minds of the good people of England. They are also a compilation, at least chiefly so, but published in such a manner as to create a supposition that the work is altogether original. This is rather too bad in G. M. Lewis, Esq. M. P.-N. B. M. P. means simply "Member of Parliament," and not Meretricum Proeses, or Modestie Proditor, as the readers of "The Monk" may be apt to imagine.

Morris should swear that these are higher things* Then all the songs he writes, or, writing, sings.

a The experience of every day affords ample proof of the justice of that acute remark made by M. Despraux, that

Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l'admire.

Yet it is to be lamented that there are those who cannot be persuaded to think that

En vain par sa grimace un buffon odieux

A table nous fait rire, et divertit nos yeux,

if his pleasantries bear no proportion to his nonsense and his nastiness; when it is possible for indelicate wit to make us smile, yet

BOIL.

De ses propres rieurs se fait des enemies. Those for whose amusement M. le grand Capitaine sings, would do well to peruse this passage of Demosthenes, and to pe. ruse it attentively: Ει δε τις σωφρων, η δικαιος άλλως την καθη ήμεραν ακασιαν τα βιδ, και μέθην, και κορδακισμός 8 δυνάμενος φερειν, παρέώραςθαι και εν «δένος είναι μέρει τον τοιςτον λοιπως δε περί αυτόν είναι λήσας, και κολακας, και τοιέτες ανθρωπος, όσες μεθυσθεντας ορχείσθαι τοιαυτά, δια εγω νιν οκνω προς ύμας ονομάσαι.

Δηλον δ' οτι ταυτ' εςιν αληθῆ

και γαρ ές ενθεν δε ωαντες απήλαυνον ὡς πολυ των θαυματοπο των ασελγεσέρας οντας ΚΑΛΛΙΑΝ εκείνον τον ΔΗΜΟΣΙΟΝ και τοι τές ανθρώπες ΜΙΜΟΥΣ ΓΕΛΟΙΩΝ και ΠΟΙΗΤΑΣ ΑΙΣΧΩΝ ΑΙΣΜΑΤΩΝ, ὧν εις τας συνοντας ποιόσιν, ἕνεκα τε γελασθηναι, τότες αγαπα και περι αυτον έχει, και τοι ταύτα, » Λησαs, says the scholiast, οιονει αρπαγας τινας α

ρατιώτας.

Where shall these evils stop? what power shall

bound

The vice that spreads its growing circle round,
Assumes each hour a wide and wider sway,
And sees its strength dilating every day?
While those whom Vice has taught its sway to feel,
With indefatigable popish zeal

Labour and toil, and try all craft to gain
Converts and subjects to their monarch's reign;
Unnumbered are the arts with which they ply
Their cursed trade, the blandisments they try;
And him whom all the cunning they employ
And soft seductions, skilful to destroy,
Assail in vain, they hamper with false shame,
And foolish dread, lest sneers attend his name.
Perverted shame! of Vice the surest friend,
On thee her best and dearest hopes depend :
Man, foolish man, to 'scape thy empty power,
Shall rush where fiends are ready to devour,
Shall quake if Ridicule shall smile or nod,
Yet walk a braggart in the sight of God.

Is this the world! must all my dreams of youth
Vanish before this mortifying truth!

ει και μικρά τις ἡγειται, μεγάλα, ω άνδρες Αθηναίοι, δειγ ματα της εκείνο γνώμης και κακοδαιμονίας εσι τοις ευ φρονέω OLYNTH. I.

Must I, whene'er I walk, be doomed to meet
Folly and Vice in triumph in each street,
Goodness and Virtue but n visions see,
Or see them made the jest of Villany?
Dear native Wever, by whose gentle stream
I gave my soul to many a blissful dream,
Though now in discontent and gloom I stray
Far from the vale that sees thy waters play,
Where'er I go, where'er my footsteps roam,
My fancy still returns to thee and home;
Bids thy known banks and loved recesses rise
To soothe my soul, and cheat my longing eyes,
Bids scenes endeared by past events employ
My thoughts, and charm with momentary joy.
But ah not long the smiling visions stay,
Vice comes........in air they melt, they fade away.
The baleful power rears high in pride her face,
And shews a different form in every place,
Meets me at every turn where'er I go,
Nor suffers me one hour of peace to know;
In vain her presence I attempt to fly,
Turn where I will she meets my sickening eye.

Thus some poor Indian, on his unknown way, Worn with fatigue, and trembling with dismay Wanders 'till night has spread her shades around, Then throws him in despair upon the ground;

Sleep seals his eyes; he finds a short repose,
A short and sweet oblivion of his woes;

Wrapt in a blissful dream he seems to rove
Through the sweet mazes of a spicy grove,
Where cool rills murmur though the tangled glade,
And tall bananas spread their graceful shade;
Or where through green savannahs, clear and
strong,

The deep majestic waters sweep along.
And ever to his senses stands displayed

The beauteous image of his much-loved maid;
Near in the tamarind shade she seems to stand,
Arrayed in smiles, and beckoning waves her hand;
Glowing with love he gazes on her charms,
Then sighs, and wide extends his eager arms;
Already holds her in his strict embrace,

And hangs with maddening rapture o'er her face.
Ah, bliss how short! he wakes, and all aghast
Hears the fierce yell of tigers in the blast,
Hears the gaunt lion roaring for his prey,
And fears the fell hyæna in his way...
Frantic along his dismal way he speeds,

And dreads, when murmuring in the giant reeds,
Strange whispers sound, as in the winds they shake,
Some unknown monster crouching in the brake.