"Oh, most beloved! my sister and my friend*
While kindred woes still breathe around thine urn,
Long with the tear of absence must I blend

The sigh, that speaks Thou never shalt return!'
Yet, not for thee reserved, the gloomy power
Shook o'er thy fading form his fiercer dart,
A gentler mandate mark'd thy parting hour,
And hush d the keener throbbings of thy heart.

Twas Faith, that bending o'er the bed of death,
Shot o'er thy pallid cheek a transient ray,
With softer effort sooth'd thy labouring breath,
Gave grace to anguish, beauty to decay.

"Thy friends, thy children claimed thy latest care,
Their's was the last that to thy bosom clung;
For them, to heaven put up th' expiring prayer,
The last that faultered on thy trembling tongue.

"Oh, most beloved! my sister and my friend!
Thy death, thus lovely, still must I deplore;
Still, as some new regrets my bosom rend,

Dwell on past pleasures to return no more.
"And though an angel's bliss may now be thine,
And holier transports lift thy thoughts, above ;
May one, one last sad solace still be mine,

The fond remembrance of the sister's love.

"Let me retrace those early, happy years,
When kind indulgence oped her store of charms,
When flush'd with joy, or scared by childish fears,
I press'd the mother in the sister's arms.

"When to the lyre with timid hope I sung,

Affection beaming from thine eyes the while,
And my young heart, with wild emotion, sprung
To catch each glance, each dear approving smile:

"When, as I grew, thy ever watchful zeal

Check'd each rash impulse of my wavering youth, Taught me each manlier sentiment to feel,

And walk with honour in the paths of truth.

"When at the last; ah, then! when hope had flown, Thy mind unchang'd its best monition gave;

It seem'd to speak a lesson scarce its own,

To breathe a purity beyond the grave.

"The late Mrs. Sheridan."

"That

"That lesson, fix'd for ever in my breast,

Shall teach me, now, my sorrows to suppress;
Drive feverish fancies from my couch of rest,

And picture brighter scenes to soothe and bless.
"So shall my soul, resign'd to heaven's decree,

To virtue's tranquil meed once more aspire,
Nor shall my thoughts, though fondly turn'd to thee,

Bid pleasure leave me, or be mute my lyre." P. 117.

Mr. Linley has passed much of his time in India, the greater part of his thoughts are therefore clothed in an Indian dress, which so far from concealing their beauties, gives them a new and a pleasing turn. The following lines in the author's " Outward hound" are to our taste far preferable to any in the cold and gloomy Adieu of the selfish and disgusting" Childe."

"Absent from those I love; my native isle,
From whose rich soil the social blessings flow,
Where friendship daily cheer'd me with a smile,
And spread around my heart her warmest glow:
"Keen is the memory of these pleasures past,
Yet hope may soon a brighter scene portray,
And from the gloom which doubt may round me cast,
Shed one soft beam to light me on my way.

"And see, once more revives the prosperous gale,
And to the north directs the friendly vane;

Bright in the sun's meridian swells the sail,

Steady the good ship goes, and cuts the yielding main."

P. 116.

The following ode to Music appears to be written con amore.

MUSIC,

Friend of my youth, soother of every care

That cross'd its flowery path; O! may'st thou long
With all thy tenderest eloquence of a song

Beguile life's sorrows; from my bosom tear
Each stormy passion that its rest invades.
Lull'd by thy strain, a sad remembrance steals
Into my thoughts, and for a moment fades
Hope's fairy prospect from my longing sight;
For then my mind a mournful impulse feels

To dwell on days, long lost, of past delight,
When by my father's side* I bent mine ear

To sweet instruction in thy winning art.

"The late Thomas Linley, Esq. one of the patentees of Old Drury-lane Theatre, died in November 1795.

And shall I check the sigh, suppress the tear

That flows from filial love, and stills my throbbing heart? Ah! no; for ever let me turn to thee

Delightful power of harmony,

And, from thy ever varying measure,
Snatch the purest sweets of pleasure,

In strains that bid grief's wilder tumults cease,
That warm to piety, and sooth to peace." P. 165.

We e are sorry that as literary censors we cannot intrude into a department, foreign to our profession, otherwise we should estimate the talents of Mr. Linley as high in musical as in poetical composition. As critics, however, we may say, that we never heard the words of Shakespeare's songs, adapted to notes with more real feeling, sound taste, and classical expression, than by our author in his recent publication. It rarely happens that we meet with such a combination of the sister arts, of poetry and music in the same person,

To return to the volume before us. Mr. Linley is entitled to our thanks for both parts of the work; for the strains both of his friend and of himself. We are sorry that we have noticed them so late, but we trust that the volume will still rise into public favour.

ART. XII. Fair Isabel, of Cotehele. A Cornish Romance, in Six Cantos. By the Author of Local Attachment, and Translator of Theocritus. 12mo. 371 pp. Cawthorn. 1815. IT certainly must be allowed that the Critic, who for some reason or another may be inclined to quiz the poem before us, will not want food for his imagination to work upon. He may every now and then find a passage which may make him happy in the power of exciting the ludicrous. Now as this has been already done to its full extent, we will take the other side of the question, and endeavour to select from a very pretty poem such passages as may shew the author, Mr. Polwhele, no mean adept in the poetical art. The following description of a still evening in winter, is a fair specimen of Mr. Polwhele's talent.

"The wintery sun had sunk to rest:
A glow yet linger'd in the west.
And high amidst that western glow,
Brighten'd the crescent moon to throw
Thro' the glimmering of the day,
A silver, solitary ray.

The

The air in dim transparence cold,
A pause of stillness seem'd to hold:
And, as the horizon's frosty blue
In crimson radiance flush'd anew,
The ivy, that its meshes flung

O'er shafts and clustering panes, and clung
To the chapel's northern wall,

Fell, deepening like a funeral pall." P. 57.

A setting sun in winter is a novel idea, and Mr. Polwhele has done it ample justice. The poem is dedicated to Walter Scott, of whose friendship the author appears to be justly proud. With the following lines in the dedication we were much pleased. Mr. Polwhele seems to cherish the spirit of a Cornish man, and to be awakened to every feeling of his native county.

"Her guerdon yet hath Cornwall won

In many a bold heroic son;

From those who wore the hoary crown,
The car-borne chiefs of old renown,
To these who strew'd with rebel dead
'The blazon'd field where Granville bled.

"And shall we not retrace the line
In long long splendours from Locrine,
Whilst in Dunstanville blend the fires
Transmitted from his banner'd sires,
With all that whilom wont to glow
In Arundel and Caerminow;

While high Boscawen, more rich and deep
Thy greenwoods swell their breezy sweep,
And, flankt with more than former pride,
New turrets shadow Vala's tide:
Kindling, while Valetort reveres

The vision of departed years,

Stills seems to grasp the patriot steel,
And worships in his own Cotehele,

As o'er the shrine of glory bent,

Its patriarchal monument!

"Twas at the time when wealth and birth

Flung lustre on their simple worth,

My tires, allied to Valetort,

Would to Cotehele's lov'd bowers resort;

As all the rites of genial cheer

Bless'd, in high glee, the closing year.
"And well, I ween, one festive bard
Paid to those rites his fond regard;
Still bidding jokes and gives avail,
To season many a Christmas tale!
"For me, if Valetort but deign
To listen to the eventful strain,

Perhaps

Perhaps, in no degenerate lays
May flow my tale of other days!
And with no ineffectual aim,
To give to praise an ancient name,
Contrasting honest fair desert
With mean malignity and art,
My minstrel-muse shall marvels tell,
Such as beseem the Christmas well;
Such as may bid the guests draw near
With cordial laughter mingling fear,
O'er the gay groupe
where blazes flash

From hissing hollies, flying ash,

And in each countenance pourtray
The passions, rapid as they play,
To every quick transition true,

What never Rembrandt's pencil drew." P. 5.

The following description of Isabel, the heroine of the tale, upon hearing the departing steps of her father, when scarcely her mother had been consigned to the grave, is both pretty and affecting.

"Scarce had she heard his pawing horse,
Ere he commenc'd his rapid course:
Scarce had she caught his helmet-plume
Ere he had plung'd thro' forest-gloom:
When sounds retreating mark'd his way,
And every echo seem'd to say,
Quivering on her startled ear,
Dying, yet in accents clear:

Gone is thine only earthly stay!"
Then, hastening from her lattice dim,
She thought upon her orphan-state;
Her only trust (save Heaven) in him!
And her poor heart was desolate." P. 30.

We hope that Mr. Polwhele will not be deterred from publishing again. He must submit his Muse, however, to stricter discipline, he must rein in his fancy, and must court severe and scrutinizing correction. Had this poem undergone the alterations and erasures, which a sound critic would have enforced, Mr. Polwhele would not have found a voice raised against its

success.

ART. XIII. A Year in Canada; with other Poems. By Ann Cuthbert Knight. pp. 134. 12mo. 5s. Baldwin. 1816. THE poetry in this little volume is exceedingly pretty, and shews a correct and cultivated taste. We are pleased to listen to

the