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ART. IX. Original Poems, by Thomas GREEN FESSENDEN, 4. M. 12mo. pp. 198.

MR. Thomas Green Fessenden, A. M. of some American university we sup. pose, is puffer extraordinary to Mr. Per. ns, the tractorist; for in our days quacks of every description puff in verse. Dr. Senate has an occasional laureat, nd Mr. Packwood keeps a poet. But, aving and excepting the laudable purse of puffing Mr. Perkins, we were at less to conjecture why these American rems should be published in England, lating as they do wholly to American tanners, and American party politics. In examination, we discovered a very eighty reason. Mr. Fessenden wants king in America, abuses all persons ho differ from him in opinion, and calls e of the members of congress, whom names at full length, an infamous scounl. Mr. Fessenden very prudently ints on this side the Atlantic.

Of the manner of these poems, an exct from the Rustic Rout may suffice a specimen: the characters described said to be taken from the life.

'ut us down the squire and lawyer, ncy Tubbs and Betty Sawyer; y Jinks is somewhat brown, , her brother, quite a clown; e, but this one thing I'd speak on, ir good father is a deacon; 1, if we should leave them out, us deaçon would, no doubt, t it into many a thick-head at our junketing is wicked; e in parish deal of rumpus, ple vexed enough to thump us. Lest we have a scanty ball down marri'd folks and all. r Grievous, and his black wife, ugh they have both had the jack-knife, are rich, and cut a dash,

them down, for they have cash.

Dicky Dapper, lady's man,

be noted in our plan,

ugh his brains won't fill a thimble,

- Dapper dances nimble.

"Betty Bilbo too, the heiress, Though her homely phfiz might scare us, Many a lad would fain get round her, For she is a thousand pounder.

Matters now adjusted right, Let us dance this very night; Send for Sambo with his fiddle, Speak to landlord, and his lady,

Tiddle diddle, tiddle diddle,

Bid them make the ball-room ready,
Stores of punch, of wine, and brandy,
Cake and cheese must all be handy
Seize the moment ere it passes.
Lads send billets to your lasses;
Almost time we should begin it,
Tackle chaise in half a minute.
Polly, prettiest of a million,
Ride behind me on a pillion;

Powder'd beaus, and maccaronies,
Fops too proud to ride on ponies;
Lawyers grand, and judges bulkey,
Ride with honey in a sulkey.
Now assembled at the hall,"
Let us caper, one and all;
Squire, to top, I wish you'd trudge up,
Call a dance to ope the fudge up.
Lads and lasses take your places;
Holo, fiddler! play the Graees!"
Right and left, chisée at top-
Wrong below there, stop! stop! stop!
Palance Dick, then down in iniddle,
Deuce is in that fellow's tiddle.
Sure Miss Airy dances topping,
Lighter than a cricket hopping;
Sally Squad, as round as bumpkin,
Capers cuts with Betty Bumpkin;
Balance Joe, to Lucy Wiggle,
Pho! you're wrong, all bigle-piggle!
Now you're right, and keep it going,
Tim, you dance like man a mowing,
Graceless as a colt a prancing,

Can't you stand up when you're dancing?
Sammy Snider trots like thunder,
Sure lie'll split the floor asunder;
See his partner pull and haul bin,
Out of patience, I could maul him!
Well, the fan'd Egyptian camel
Dances much like our friend Samu`1!”

So much for the manner: the matter is for the most part very malignant pus.

. X. The Powers of Genius; a Poem, in three Parts. By JOHN BLAIR LYNN, A. M.

8vo. pp. 155,

A POEM without any power of genius;-lucus, a non lucendo.

n America they have a custom of presenting a person who has an ugly appearance with -knife. The donee, in such case, preserves the present, till he can find some one whose piz, in his opinion, gives him a superior claim to the favour.

ART. XI. An Ode, in celebration of the Emancipation of the Blacks of Saint Domingo, November 29, 1803; by THOMAS CLIO RICKMAN. 4to. pp. 12.

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THE imprimatur of Capel Lofft is affixed to this poem, with the following eulogium. A subject more suitable for an ode in its novelty, its greatness, and the just and generous emotions which it inspires, can hardly be conceived. And in this poem the freedom, spirit, and variety of its numbers, its diction and sentiments, I trust will appear to others as they do to me, not unworthy of the subject.'

In his opinion of the subject Mr. Lofft is perfectly right; let the poetry which he has pronounced not unworthy of it, speak for itself.

"A trade that long has curs'd the christian

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ART. XII. The Poetical Register, and Repository of Fugitive Poetry, for 1803. 8vo. pp. 468.

THE "original" part of this volume possesses, we think, less merit than that of the last volume; the selected, we might perhaps say pilfered part, contains several pieces of superior excellence. It is not our business to enter into questions of copy-right, but it is our business to apprize the purchasers of the Monthly Magazine, that they already possess a very large portion of the best matter contained in this collection, the editor of which has acknowledged his obligations neither to it nor to any other publication. Among original contributors the names of Preston, Swift, Boyd, Davenport, and Park, occur most frequently; and we believe the public will allow that to these no very large share of poetical celebrity is attached. Miss Pearson has communicated a very elegant version of the first canto of Vertvert; Mr. Maurice two small pieces. We select one of the liveliest and one of the most elegant trifles contained in this portion of the work.

"Yes, false one, triumph in my woes,

And joy these flowing tears to view! How just to wound that heart's repose

That gladly would have bled for you!

"Yet, poor the pleasure thou hast gain'd, And very soon will it be o'er ;

That bosom, where thou long hast reign'd,

Shall fondly throb for thee no more.
"Nor vainly think my tears, my sighs,
Love's still unvanquish'd power proclaim:
Each drop that trickles from my eyes
But helps to quench his dying flame."
R. A. D.

"EPIGRAM,

By Theophilus Swift, Esq. "The rooted aversion entertained by the late Judge Robinson, of the king's bench, in Ireland, to the volunteers of that country, ia the year 1780, is well known. The following Epigram was occasioned by a circumstance that actually took place about that pe riod, in the court where he was then sitting. "That soldier so rude-he that swaggers in scarlet

"Put him out of the court-I'll imprison

the varlet,"

As in judgment he sat, frowning Robinson

said:

"A soldier I'm not," quoth the hero in red;
"No soldier, my lord, but an officer I,
"A captain who carries his sword on his
thigh."

Stern Robinson then, with sarcastical sneer,
Roll'd his sharp eagle eye on the vain vo-

lunteer,

AndTipstaff," he cried, as the captain grew bolder,

"Out, out, with that officer who is soldier."

"

THE POETICAL REGISTER.

The author of Sir Roland," mistakes in speaking of " the Sir Bertrand of Mrs. Barbauld;" that fragment is by Dr. Aikin. The strange expression, " from hence to whence," was what surprised us most in the strange tale of Sir Archibald. Among the "fugitive poetry" we were struck with a solemn memento mori," eminently worthy of the grave and vigorous mind of its ad

mirable author.

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Two or three small poems, besides a ry fine one copied from the Monthly agazine, bear the signature of our faurite Alcaus; with one of these, and beautiful ode by the author of "Engh Lyrics," we shall close our extracts.

At fond sixteen, my roving heart
as pierced by Love's delightful dart:
En transport throbb'd in every vein→
ever felt so sweet a pain!

nere circling woods embower'd the glade, et the dear romantic maid:

ole her hand-it shrunk-but, no!
ould not let my captive go.
h all the fervency of youth,
ile passion told the tale of truth,
ark'd my Hannah's downcast eye;
was kind, but beautifully shy.

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Yet, in the glory of my pride,
I stood and all his wrath defied;
Istood-though whirlwinds shook my brain,
And lightning cleft my soul in twain.
I shunn'd my nymph; yet knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye:
I shunn'd her-for I could not hear

To marry her to my despair.
Yet sick at heart, with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanc'd, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.
The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon peace rebuilt her nest;
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild

The sea of youth and pleasure smiled.
'Twas on the morning of that day,
When Phoebus marries rosy May,
I sought once more the charming spot,
Where bloom'd the thorn by Hannah's cot.
I lived my wooing days again;
O! as I cross'd the neighbouring plain,
And fancy sketch'd my future life,
My home, my children, and my wife.
I saw the village steeple rise—
My soul sprang, sparkling, in mine
eyes;
The rural bells rang sweet and clear-
My fond heart listened in mine ear.
I reach'd the hamlet;-all was gay;
I love a rustic holiday!
I met a wedding-stept aside;
O, God!-my Hannah was the bride!

There is a grief that cannot feel;
It leaves a wound that will not heal!

My heart grew cold-it felt not then! When shall it cease to feel again?"

"Ode to the Sky Lark.

"Sweetest warbler of the skies,
Soon as morning's purple dyes
O'er the eastern mountains float,
Waken'd by thy merry note,
Thro' the fields of yellow corn,
That Mersey's winding banks adorn,
O'er green meads I gaily pass,
And lightly brush the dewy grass.

I love to hear thy matin lav,
And warbling wild notes die away;
I love to mark thy npward flight,
And see thee lessen from my sight:
Then, ended thy sweet madrigal,
Sudden swift I see thee fall,
With wearied wing, and beating breast,
Near thy chirping younglings' nest.

Ah! who that hears thee carol free
Those jocund notes of liberty,
And sees thee independent soar,
With gladsome wing, the blue sky o'er,
In wiry cage would thee restrain,
To pant for liberty in vain;
And see thee 'gainst thy prison grate
Thy little wings indignant beat,
And peck and flutter round and round
Thy narrow, lonely, hated bound;

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And yet not ope thy prison door,
To give thee liberty once more.

None! none! but he whose vicious eye
The charms of nature can't enjoy;
Who dozes those sweet hours away,
When thou begin'st thy merry lay;
And 'cause his lazy limbs refuse
To tread the meadow's morning dews,
And there thy early wild notes hear,
He keeps thee lonely prisoner.
Not such am I, sweet warbler; no,
For should thy strains as sweetly flow,

ART. XIII. Good Tidings; or, News
BLOOMFIELD.

THE cow-pox is the subject of this little poem. Many of our readers will recollect the Oxford verses Inoculation! heavenly maid descend!' But the Farmer's Boy has too much good sense to deal in these despicable common places of poetastry. Every one will be interested by the following account of the poet's own escape from small-pox in infancy, and of his father's death; it is, he says, strictly true.

"There dwelt, beside a brook that creeps along

Midst infant hills and meads unknown to
song,

And alder-groves, and many a flow'ry lea
Still winding onward, to the northern sea;
One to whom poverty and faith were giv'n,
Calm village silence, and the hope of heaven:
Alone she dwelt; and while each morn
brought peace,,

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Liverpool, April 6, 1797. from the Farm. A Poem, by ROM 4to. pp. 37.

"Whoe'er survives the shock, that chili w
die!"

But vain the fiat,-Heaven restored ther
And destin'd one of riper years to fall.
Midnight beheld the close of all his pair
His grave was clos'd when midnight
again;

No bell was heard to toll, no funeral pr
No kindred bow'd, no wife, no cik

there;

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And health was smiling on her year's increase,Why tell us tales of woe, thou who

And haply still a flatt'ring prospect drew,
'Twas well, but there are days of trouble

too.

Sudden and fearful, rushing through her.
frame,

Unusual pains and feverish symptoms came;
Then, when debilitated, faint, and poor,
How sweet to hear a footstep at her door!
To see a neighbour watch life's silent sand,
To hear the sigh, and feel the helping hand!
But woe o'erspread the interdicted ground,
And consternation seiz'd the hamlets round:

Uprose the pest-its fated victim died;
The foul contagion spread on ev'ry side;
She, who had help'd the sick with kind
regard,

Bore home a dreadful tribute of reward,
Home, where six children, yielding to its
pow'r,

Cave hope and patience a most trying hour;
One at her breast still drew the living stream,
(No sense of danger mars an infant's dream,)
Yet every tongue exprest, and ev'ry cye,

give

Thy soul to rural themes, and bade live?

What means this zeal of thine, this ling fire!

The rescu'd infant and the dying sire Kind heart, who o'er the pictur'd su glow'd,

Whose smiles have crown'd the verse, of

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ART. XIV. The Year of Sorrow, written in the Spring of 1903, by W. R. Sr: CER. 4to. pp. 22.

AN elegiac poem upon many of the author's friends and relations, to whom

the year appears to have been rem... ably fatal. It opens thus :

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hy car, have heard th' irrevocable law, The world has felt thy renovating rays, il nature jubilant, resounds thy praise, cation lifts to thee her grateful voice, spring's brief charter licens'd to rejoice, nd as thy genial steps progressive move, me lifeless all revive, and all the living love!

RT. XV. British Purity; or the World THESE writers have wit enough, if ey knew what to do with it. The folving are the best lines.

For their safety at home, half the heads in the nation,

gether are laid for a fortification; h district-a jacketted association! compulsion is us'd, and th' occasion may hold years,

= frolic so flashy of diers!

playing at sol

n the counter, the gran'ry, the garret, the cellar,

office, the warehouse, hastes each fierce repeller:

he smell of the powder nor staggers nor finches,

ad of guarding his parish-and shewing

his inches!

n whilst punctually true to the training diurnal,

ecting the ledger, forgetting the journal; ud halt's sometimes heard, and the tactic position

in what it began-a gazetted commission!

nre loyalty stream from without and within,

a vast April shower, till you're sous'd

o the skin :

the great water spout of the fe! fa! m! flag ship,

These are thy works of grace!-thy works

of woe

Man, only man, is privileg'd to know;
Man, only man, creation's lord confess'd,
Amidst his happy realm remains unbless'd,
On the bright carth, his flow'r-embroider'd
throne,

Th'imperial mourner reigns and weeps alone!
Sad year! whilst yet I hold one social joy,
Suspend thy dire commission to destroy.
My heart, so late of many joys possess'd,
Laments for many lost, and trembles for the
rest!"

The whole is in the same polished strain, and we cannot but wish a happier subject to a writer of such powers.

we live in ; a poetic Tale of two Centuries. Doors and windows full streaming with many a rag slip,

'Gainst four-footed Napoleone, the fierce giant killer,

Poison-merchant, rape-broker, and wholesale blood spiller:

The framer of treaties, all-swindling to trap

man;

And in every religion a dealer and chapman! Quite puerile in talent; in head and heart

rotten;

Dropt by Beelzebub flying;-not born nor begotten!"

"Now the larger the debt swells, the nation is richer;

Just as liquor increases by swigging the pitcher!

If felicity brightens by adding of millions, Perfect bliss can be gain'd but by making them trillions!

Nay to this happy end, there are hopes of attaining,

And a million'd millenium thus casily gaining."

The versification is very harsh, and the language often obscure, so that much wit is marred. Perhaps the writers might succeed better in a shorter metre. There would be no want of perspicuity if they could but versify with ease.

. XVI. The Wiccamical Chaplet, a Selection of original Poetry: comprising, smal Poems, serious and comic; classical Trifles; Sonnets; Inscriptions and Ep taphs; gs and Ballads; Mock-heroic Poems; Epigrams; Fragments, &c. &c.; edited GEORGE HUDDESFORD. 8vo. pp. 225.

IS collection, says the editor, "conhiefly of smaller pieces, written by men educated at the same seminary the editor of these poems, and was pally made while the editor was nt in the university." To include a general character pieces of va

rious authors, united by so slight a bond of union, would obviously be a vain attempt. There are few collections of this kind in which there is not something that is good, none in which there is not a good deal that is indifferent. We have selder found so great a proportion of

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