Where they meet accordingly, p. 15, and Tydides is exhorted

"to declare

What cause convenes the senate of the war."

Tydides thus replied:

"Princes! I have not now the host conven'd,

For secrets by intelligence obtain'd."

It is said this poem is a Scotch production; but p. 31, we meet with the following notorious Londonism:

"Presumptuous youth forbear,

To tempt the fury of my flying spear,

That warrior there was by my javelin slain."

That there, and this here, had, doubtless, their origin in Cheapside; but how they found their way down to Scotland, is a mystery which our poet is best able to unriddle. Elsewhere, however, our bard seems more strongly attracted towards the Hibernian shores; particularly where he makes Jupiter apprehensive lest fate should forget to be fatal, and, harlequin-like, jump down her own throat. To explain this enigma, we must give our author's own words; for no others can do him equal justice. Jove's messenger thus addresses Apollo, p. 74:

"Ruler of light! let now thy car descend,

So Jove commands, and night her shade extend,
Else Thebes must perish; and the doom of fate,
Anticipated, have an earlier date,

Than fate decrees: for, like devouring flame,
Tydides threatens all the Theban name."

But it is no uncommon thing for this poet to employ his celestials in a manner somewhat incomprehensible to mere mortal understandings. Page 76, War, like a brawling brat, who cries and frets himself to sleep in his cradle, rocks itself to rest in much the same mood:

And war tumultuous lulls itself to peace."

As contending countries and cities severally claimed the honor of having given us the author of the Iliad, so, we foresee, will various parts of the British empire contend for that of having given us the author of the Epigoniad. And as the authority of the review will, doubtless, be quoted in support of the conjectures and proofs that shall in future times be advanced on this occasion, we have been careful to note our several observations with regard to this matter. England, Ireland, and Scotland, have been mentioned; but here comes a line that seems to vacate all their claims, and by its gurgling or turkey-cock sound, to point out some other part of the world, but whether Wales, or Germany, or, the Cape of Good Hope, let the reader determine. Here it is, taken from p. 114, where Discord is described in her flight from hell:

Gliding meteorous, like a stream of flame."

But if sometimes a rumbling line chance to offend the nicer ear, it will meet with more frequent opportunities of lulling itself to peace, by the help of many a soothing couplet, like the following:

Again:

"In ev'ry art, my friends! you all excel,

And each deserves a prize for shooting well."

"here, in doubtful poise, the battle hings,*

Faint is the host, and wounded halft the Kings.

Rank above rank the living structure grows,

As settling bees the pendent heap compose,
Which in some shade or vaulted cavern, hings,
Woven thick with complicated feet and wings."

* What country word is this?

+ Precisely half?

If bad rhymes are to be deemed, as some think they are, a capital defect, our author will be capitally convicted on many an indictment in the court of criticism. For instance, p. 242, we have the following strange couplet:

The badness of the rhyme in the two first lines is, however, their smallest imperfection: Minerva, sure, will never pardon the ungraceful mention of her goddess-ship's vociferation; which, according to the idea here raised, would even silence the loudest water-nymph in the neighborhood of Thames-street.

But as it may, and not unreasonably, be urged, in our poet's favor, that a few single lines, or couplets, culled from different parts of his work, are by no means to be considered as a fair specmen of the whole; we shall conclude with his entire description of a swimming-match, which, though we have disapproved his choice of the sport, will show the author to somewhat more advantage than, possibly, the reader may expect, from the samples already produced:

"With thirst of glory fir'd,

Crete's valiant monarch to the prize aspir'd;
With Sparta's younger chief, Ulysses came;
And brave Clearchus, emulous of fame,
A wealthy warrior from the Samian shore,
In cattle rich, and heaps of precious ore;
Distinguish'd in the midst the heroes stood,
Eager to plunge into the shining flood.

"His brother's ardor purpos'd to restrain,
Atrides strove, and counsell'd thus in vain:
Desist, my brother! shun th' unequal strife;
For late you stood upon the verge of life:

No mortal man his vigor can retain,

When flowing wounds have emptied ev'ry vein.
If now you perish in the wat'ry way,

Grief upon grief shall cloud this mournful day.
Desist, respect my counsel, and be wise,
Some other Spartan in your place will rise.
To change his brother's purpose thus he tried,
But Menelaus resolute replied:

Brother, in vain you urge me to forbear,
From love and fond affection prompt to fear;
For firm as e'er before my limbs remain,
To dash the fluid waves, or scour the plain.

"He said; and went before. The heroes move To the dark covert of a neighboring grove; Which to the bank its shady walks extends, Where, mixing with the lake, a riv❜let ends. Prompt to contend, their purple robes they loose, Their figur'd vests, and gold embroider'd shoes; And through the grove descending to the strand, Along the flow'ry bank in order stand. As when in some fair temple's sacred shrine, A statue stands, express'd by skill divine, Apollo's, or the herald pow'rs, who brings Jove's mighty mandates on his airy wings; The form majestic awes the bending crowd: In port and stature such the heroes stood.

"Starting at once; with equal strokes they sweep The smooth expanse, and shoot into the deep;

The Cretan chief exerting all his force,

His rivals far surpass'd, and led the course;

Behind, Atrides, emulous of fame;

Clearchus next; and last Ulysses came.

And now they measur'd back the wat'ry space,

And saw from far the limits of the race.

Ulysses then with thirst of glory fir'd,

The Samian left, and to the prize aspir'd;

Who, emulous, and dreading to be last,
With equal speed the Spartan hero pass'd.
Alarm'd, the Cretan monarch strove with pain,
His doubtful hopes of conquest to maintain;
Exerting ev'ry nerve, his limbs he plied,
And wishing, from afar the shore descried:
For near and nearer still Ulysses press'd,
The waves he left rebounding from his breast.
With equal zeal for victory they strove,

When gliding sudden from the roofs of Jove,
Pallas approach'd; behind a cloud conceal'd,
Ulysses only saw her form reveal'd.
Majestic by the hero's side she stood;

Her shining sandals press'd the trembling flood.
She whisper'd soft, as when the western breeze
Stirs the thick reeds, or shakes the rustling trees
Still shall thy soul, with endless thirst of fame,
Aspire to victory in ev'ry game.

The honors which from bones and sinews rise,
Are lightly valu'd by the good and wise:
To envy still they rouse the human kind;
And oft, than courted, better far declin'd.
To brave Idomeneus yield the race,
Contented to obtain the second place.

The goddess thus: while, stretching to the land,
With joy the Cretan chief approach'd the strand;

Ulysses next arriv'd, and, spent with toil,

The weary Samian grasp'd the welcome soil.

"But far behind, the Spartan warrior lay, Fatigu'd and fainting in the wat❜ry way. Thrice struggling from the lake, his head he rear'd; And thrice imploring aid, his voice was heard. The Cretan monarch hastes the youth to save, And Ithacus again divides the wave: With force renew'd, their manly limbs they ply, And from their breasts the whit'ning billows fly.