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-Say, when to kindle foft delight,
That hand has chanc'd with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite
A figh so short, and yet so sweet?

O fay-but no, it must not be,

Adieu, enchanting girl, adieu!
-Yet still, methinks, you frown on me,
Or never could I fly from you."

TO THE KNAT.

"When by the greenwood fide, at fummer eve,
Poetic vifions charm my clofing eye;
And fairy-fcenes, that fancy loves to weave,
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy;
'Tis thine to range in busy quest of prey,
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight,
Brush from my lids the hues of heav'n away,
And all is folitude, and all is night!
-Ah! now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly,
Unsheaths its terrors in the fultry air!
No guardian sylph, in golden panoply,

Lifts the broad shield, and points the sparkling spear.
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings,
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore:
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings!

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-I wake in horror, and "dare sleep no more!" These pieces which are entitled to our praise as compofitions of elegance and feeling, are however in no respect fuperior to those which may now be met with among the poetry of our periodical works. Elegance is, indeed, almost the only attribute of the modern muse.

Naucratia; or Naval Dominion: a Poem. By Henry James Pye, Esq. Nicol.

THE poet Laureat is particularly happy in the choice of his subject. At all times our naval dominion has been the pride and boast of our countrymen. Now, our eyes are more especially directed to her efforts. Threatened with an invasion, our navy conftitutes our chief

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chief bulwark. To its valour we look up with no ordinary expectation; nor shall we look in vain.

The poem is divided into three books. The bard takes an ample sweep into the history of Britain. He enumerates in animated and flowing verse, our various naval triumphs. We could select many beautiful pafsages. But we must refrain from numerous quotations. Our limits will not permit it. We however will present the reader with two specimens, which will afford him an idea of the manner in which the whole poem is executed. The first shall be a description of the British failor, and will not fail of commanding our approbation.

"'Tis not the oak whose hardy branches wave
O'er Britan's cliffs, and all her tempests brave;
'Tis not the ore her iron bowels yield,
The cordage growing on her fertile field,
That form her naval strength. 'Tis the bold race
Laughing at toil, and gay in danger's face,
Who quit with joy, when fame and glory lead,
Their richest pasture and their greenest mead,
The perils of the stormy deep to dare,
And jocund own their dearest pleasures there.
One common zeal the manly race inspires,
One common cause each ardent bosom fires,
From the bold youth whose agile limbs afcend
The giddy mast when angry winds contend,
And while the yard dips low its pointed arm,
Clings to the cord, and fings amidit the storm,
To the experienced chief, who knows to guide
The labouring vessel through the rolling tide;
Or when contending squadrons fierce engage,
Directs the battle's thunder where to rage :-
All, all alike with cool unfeign'd delight
Brave the tempestuous gale, and court the fight.
Britain! with jealous industry maintain
The sacred sources of this generous train,
Daring beyond what fable sings of old,
Yet mild in conquest, and humane as bold;

Now

Now rushing on the foe with frown fevere,
Now mov'd to mercy by compaffion's tear.-
Fierce as the ruthless elements they brave
When their wrong'd country calls them to the wave;
Mild as the softeit breeze that fans thy ifle,
When footh'd by peace and wooing beauty's smile.
A race peculiar to thy happy coast,
But loft by folly once, for ever loft.
Ne'er from the lap of luxury and ease
Shall spring the hardy warrior of the feas.-
A toilfome youth the mariner must form,
Nurs'd on the wave, and cradled in the storm."

The second specimen shall contain the poet's spirited apoftrophe to our naval heroes.

" Imperial mistress of the briny plains,
Without a rival, now Britannia reigns.
Where'er in warlike pomp her barks appear,
Abath'd her recreant foes avow their fear,
On Gallia's threat'ning boasts, with scornful frown,
From her white cliffs the looks indignant down;
And while her fleet each clime remote explores,
While wide increasing commerce spreads her ftores,
Wealth, science, courage, mingled flowers bestow
To deck the naval crown on George's brow.

Ye laurel'd chiefs, who rais'd his billowy reign!
Ye living heroes, who that power maintain !
Whose actions of renown my voice has fung
In feeble accents with a faltering tongue,
Forgive the daring effort, nor repine,
Though but recorded in a verse like mine.
The proudest muse who foars on fiction's wings
Dims the bright lustre of the deeds she sings,
The minftrels of the epic fong of old,
Who mighty acts of fabled chiefs unfold,
What feeds of fame for others have they sown,
Whofe glorious works ennobled but their own?-
Your worth on that eternal base shall live,
Nor fiction can destroy nor fiction give;

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an anfwer, politely fignifying, "That they did not think it would fucceed in representation."

"With this answer the Tranflator rested fully fatisfied," until he saw the Stranger " announced for representation: but, when he saw it acted, with scarcely any alteration from his own manufcript, except in the names of the characters, and with the addition of a fong, and fome dancing, entirely unconnected with the fubjea, he could not help feeling that he had been ungeneroufly

treated."

"On comparing all circumstances," he thinks he may "stand excused for fuppofing that a manager 'who writes himfel,' may fometimes (as SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY says) ferve the thoughts of others as gypfies do stolen children: disfigure them to make them pass for his own."

This tranflation, we are informed, is " printed from the copy which was fent to the managers, and " most of the nonfenfe, which was hiffed on the stage, is omitted." The Tranflator has also ventured to deviate from the original plot in one delicate particular. He has not made the wife actually commit that crime which is a ftain to the female character, though she was on the brink of ruin, by eloping from her husband. This liberty he trufts will be excused; partly because he feels that, according to the dictates of nature, reconciliation would in fuch circumstances be more easily obtained: but chiefly, because he confidered it as more confiftent with the moral fentiment, and more congenial to the heart of an English audience, than the forgiveness of a wife who had been actually guilty."

So much for the justice of managers and the encouragement of genius!-Eight or ten days was certainly a fufficient length of time, in which to mutilate, change the characters of, and introduce a fong into a dramatic piece:-one stanza of which fong, however, if not a direct theft, is a palpable plagiarim from Mr. Tickell.

This play, neither in its acted nor printed state, is properly adapted to the English stage. It poffeffes all the weight without any of the intereft of tragedy. With the exception of its moral, all the objections adduced in our Dramatic Review attach with equal strength to the printed copy, and we again affert, it never can become a ftandard favourite with the Public.

He's Much to Blame, a Comedy; in Five Acts. pp. 96. 8vo. 25. Robinfons.

IN this degenerate age, the perufal of a legitimate comedy is a treat which we do not experience every day.-Mr. Holcroft is the reputed author of this play. if he be really so, we think him much to blame in not avowing it, as it is unquestionably a much better piece than any which have received the sanction of his name.

He's Much to Blame is a comedy-it is not a five-act farce. We present our Readers with the following scenes:

"Sir G. Nay then, I am on the wing! "Maria, (advancing) Whither?

"Sir G. Ah! Have I found you again? So much the better! I have been thinking of you this half hour.

"Mar. Ay? That must have been a prodigious effort! "Sir G. What?

"Mar. To think of one person for so great a length of time.

"Sir G. True. Were you my bitterest enemy, you could not have uttered a more galling truth. I am glad I have met with you, however.

"Mar. So am I. 'Tis my errand here.

"Sir G. You now, I hope, will let me fee your face? "Mar. I might, perhaps, were it but possible to fee your heart.

"Sir G. No, no: that cannot be. I have no heart. "Mar. I am forry for it!

"Sir G. So am I. But come, I wish to be better ac

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