those most who are most worthy to be pleased, and always seem most beautiful to those who give it the greatest share of their attention.

Of the smaller pieces which fill up the volume, we have scarce left ourselves room to say anything. The greater part of them have been printed before; and there are probably few readers of English poetry who are not already familiar with the Lochiel and the Hohinlinden the one by far the most spirited and poetical denunciation of wo since the days of Cassandra; the other the only representation of a modern battle, which possesses either interest or sublimity. The song to The Mariners of England,' is also very generally known. It is a splendid instance of the most magnificent diction adapted to a familiar and even trivial metre. Nothing can be finer than the first and the last stanzas. Ye mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle, and the breeze!

Your glorious standard lanch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep, &c.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,

And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Our song

and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceas'd to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceas'd to blow.

"The battle of the Baltic,' though we think it has been printed before, is much less known. Though written in a strange, and we think an unfortunate metre, it has great force and grandeur, both of concep tion and expression-that sort of force and grandeur which results from the simple and concise expression of great events and natural emotions, altogether unassisted by any splendor or amplification of expression. The characteristic merit, indeed, both of this piece and of Hohinlinden, is, that, by the forcible delineation of one or two great circumstances, they give a clear and most energetic representation of events as complicated as they are impressive, and thus impress the mind of the reader with all the terror and sublimity of the subject, while they rescue him from the fatigue and perplexity of its details. Nothing, in our judgment, can be more impressive than the following very short and simple description of the British fleet bearing up to close

action.

As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath,
For a time.-

The description of the battle itself (though it begins with a tremendous line) is in the same spirit of homely sublimity; and worth a thousand stanzas of thunder, shrieks, shouts, tridents, and heroes.

"Hearts of oak," our captains cried! when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:
Then cease, and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

There are two little ballad pieces, published for the first time, in this collection, which have both very considerable merit, and afford a favourable specimen of Mr. Campbell's powers in this new line of exertion. The longest is the most beautiful; but we give our readers the shortest, because we can give it entire.

O heard you yon pibrach sound sad in the gale,

Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourn'd not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They march'd all in silence—they look'd on the ground,

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn:
66 Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
"And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclos'd, and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
'Twas the youth who had lov'd the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
VOL. II.

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We close this volume, on the whole, with feelings of regret for its shortness, and of admiration for the genius of its author. There are but two noble sorts of poetry,-the pathetic and the sublime; and we think he has given very extraordinary proofs of his talents for both. There is something, too, we will venture to add, in the style of many of his conceptions, which irresistibly impresses us with conviction, that he can do much greater things than he has hitherto accomplished; and leads us to regard him, even yet, as a poet of still greater promise than performance. It seems to us, as if the natural force and boldness of his ideas were habitually checked by a certain fastidious timidity, and an anxiety about the minor graces of correct and chastened composition. Certain it is, at least, that his greatest and most lofty flights have been made in those smaller pieces, about which, it is natural to think, he must have felt least solicitude; and that he has succeeded most splendidly where he must have been most free from the fear of failure. We wish any praises or exhortations of ours had the power to give him confidence in his own great talents; and hope earnestly, that he will now meet with such encouragement, as may set him above all restraints that proceed from apprehension, and induce him to give free scope to that genius, of which we are persuaded that the world has hitherto seen rather the grace than the richness,

TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.

THE enthusiasm, with which the pure mind of a zealous FRIEND is fired, is worthy of the goodness of his heart, the liberality of his views, and the magnitude of his cause. Well may he exclaim, in a burst of legitimate passion and honest pride,

Thou, if there be a Thou in this great town,
Who dares, with angry Eupolis, to frown;
He, who with bold Cratinus, is inspir'd,

With Zeal and equal Indignation fir'd,

Who at ENORMOUS VILLAINY TURNS PALE,

And STEERS AGAINST IT WITH A FULL-BLOWN SAIL;

Like Aristophanes, let him but smile

On this my honest work, though plain the style;

And if two lines, or three, in all my strain,
Appear less drossy, read those lines again.
May they perform their author's just intent,
Glow in thy ears, and in thy breast ferment.
But from the reading of my book, and me;
Be far, ye foes to virtuous Poverty,

Who Fortune's fault upon the poor can throw,
Point to the faded coat, and sullied shoe,
Lay Nature's failings to their charge, and jeer

The dim, weak eyesight, WHEN THE MIND IS CLear.

To Dr. HOSACK, of New-York, we tender our acknowledgments for his anecdotical letter. We shall be glad to hear from this gentleman, on topics either literary, or scientific, as often as the cares of his salutary and benevolent profession will give him leave. We have enjoyed numerous opportunities of remarking, that he, who has had the enviable privilege of an intimacy with the scholars of Edinburg, that hot-bed of literature, leaves that glorious society, with a mind deeply tinged with the colours of genius at once bright and lasting.

It is not only hoped, but believed, that every man of correct Judgment and delicate Taste will approve of our plan to avail ourselves, occasionally, of the wisdom that is without.

Although from the number of our communications the Editor would find little difficulty in filling all his pages with original matter; yet this, however easy to him, would, in many cases, be little to the advantage of his readers. It has appeared more eligible to insert only such as possessed superior merit in point of subject, or manner, and, instead of refuse, or ordinary composition, to introduce interesting extracts from rare or valuable books, not accessible to the generality of our readers; and particularly translations from authors in foreign languages, which have not appeared in an English dress. From connexions, which have been recently established, it is hoped we shall be able greatly to enlarge our command of foreign works for this latter purpose. Almost all of the ephemeral productions of the English press are our closet companions, and a large proportion of literary and philosophical productions, upon a larger scale, is by no means inaccessible to our curiosity. In the multitude of these pages, whether light or serious, a diligent reader will discover numerous passages either brilliant, or solid, which, from their rarity, originality, use, or beauty, deserve a faithful transcription into this miscellany. A shallow or imperfect essay, merely because the rickety bantling was born on this side of the Atlantic, shall never supersede the hardy and graceful offspring of LEARNING, IMPREGNATED BY GENIUSs. Domestic talents, and domestic industry, shall always be fondly fostered; but we shall always keep wide open the doors of communication, for the admission of wisdom from every part of the world.

Of the various and elegant essays we have received with gratitude and inserted with alacrity since the establishment of this magazine,

few have arrested our attention more strongly than a very subtle speculation with which we were recently favoured, on the character of Hamlet. We are fully of the author's opinion, which he has supported with the solidity of argument and decorated with the ornaments of style. There is a passage in one of the letters of an eminent critic and polite scholar, so pertinent to our correspondent's theory and so coincident with our own sentiments, that we will copy it as a just tribute to the poet, the player, the common feelings of our nature, and the rights of good sense.

cause.

It is in vain to indulge one's self in unavailing complaints, otherwise I could rail by the hour at dame Fortune for placing me beyond the reach of GARRICK, that arch magician, as Horace would have called him. I well remember, and I think can never forget, how he once affected me in Macbeth, `and made me almost throw myself over the front seat of the two shilling gallery. I wish I had another opportunity of risking my neck and nerves in the same To fall by the hands of Garrick and Shakspeare, would enoble my memory to all generations. To be serious, if all actors were like this one, I do not think it would be possible for a person of sensibility to outlive the representation of Hamlet, Lear, or Macbeth: which, by the bye, seems to suggest a reason for that mixture of comedy and tragedy of which our great poet was so fond, and which the Frenchified critics think such an intolerable outrage both against nature and decency. Against nature it is no outrage at all: the inferior officers of a court know little of what passes among kings and statesmen; and may be very merry when their superiors are very sad; and if so, the porter's soliloquy in Macbeth may be a very just imitation of nature. I can never accuse of indecency the man, who by the introduction of a little unexpected merriment, saves me from a disordered head, or a broken heart. If Shakspeare knew his own powers, he must have seen the necessity of tempering his tragic rage by a mixture of comic ridicule; otherwise there was some danger of his running into greater extremes than deer stealing, by sporting with the lives of all the people of taste in these realms. Other playrights must conduct their approaches to the human heart, with the utmost circumspection, a single false step may make them lose a great deal of ground; but Shakspeare made his way to it at once, and could make his audience burst their sides this moment and break their hearts the next. I have often seen Hamlet performed by the underlings of the theatre, but none of these seemed to understand what they were about. Hamlet's character, though perfectly natural, is so very uncommon, that few, even of our critics, can enter into it. Sorrow, indignation, revenge, and consciousness of his own irresolution, tear his heart; the peculiarity of his circumstances often obliges him to counterfeit madness, and the storm of passions within him often drives him to the verge of real madness. This produces a situation so interesting, and a conduct so complicated, as none but Shakspeare could have the courage to describe, or even juvent, and none but Garrick will ever be able to exhibit.

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