It would be mere affectation in us to pretend to entertain any doubts with regard to the author of the present volume. It bears the marks of his genius too strongly, and is too full of his characteristic beauties and defects, to allow us for a moment to hesitate in attributing it to the pen of the same distinguished writer, whose productions have so mainly contributed to the celebrity of this Miscellany. Before we had read two pages, indeed, we were quite satisfied of the fact, and could have exclaimed with as much certainty as Erasmus-" Aut Dohertiades aut Diabolus." For Mr Odoherty to maintain an incognito under any circumstances, is indeed no easy task. His style is so peculiarly his own-so widely different from that of any of the other great poets of the day, that we can scarcely fail to recognize him under any disguise. There is nothing in truth more admirable in his character as an author, than his complete originality. His genius is too prolific, and the stores of his own fine imagination are too copious to lay him under the necessity of either borrowing from his contemporaries, or of imitating the great poets of antiquity. When Mr Ŏdoherty sings of war he has not the slightest resemblance to Homer; though he scatters his ordure with full as much grace as Virgil, yet his manner of doing so is very different from that of the stately Mantuan; and though his subjects frequently bear a strong analogy to those celebrated by Mr Wordsworth, yet the most sharpeyed critic would perhaps be puzzled to discover any similitude in their productions.

The views of external nature which he delights to take, display strong marks of an original and powerful mind. He chiefly deals in that homely yet true philosophy which has less regard to causes than effects; and he betrays much more disposition to view things as they really are, than as they seem to be. His vision, it is true, does not extend very far, but then it is clear and distinct. He neither views nature through a microscope nor a quizzing-glass, but exa

mines her with a good pair of gray eyes, which he finds to answer the purpose much better. Thus, in the mind of Mr Wordsworth, and probably in that of every other poet now extant, the sight of sheep browsing on the mountains of lambkins sporting by the side of their dams-and the sound of the shepherd's pipe, would excite only ideas of innocence and beauty. The images, on the other hand, which such a prospect would suggest to Mr Odoherty, are those of flannel jackets and roast mutton. In his imagination the spectacle of the lordly ox is uniformly linked with the associations of a spit and of a smoke jack. Let him behold the horse with

his neck clothed in thunder," pawing the ground in his beauty and his pride, and he will think only on his price at Tattersalls, or what sort of figure he would cut in a buggy.

Another great charm of the poetry of Mr Odoherty is the utter absence of all affectation. We are delighted with the insight which he affords us to his own character, and charmed with the conviction which he forces upon us— that

"He is himself the great sublime he draws." He is not indeed what Mr Hogg elegantly terms Mr Carnegie"The bard of tender tears and gentle sighs;" for no man deals less in such ware than the standard-bearer. His aversion to all sentiment is quite as strong as that of Sir Peter Teazle, and he always scorns to appear any thing better than he really is. Thus while Lord Byron is continually guilty of the vile affectation of thrusting himself on the public under the masque rade character of Childe Harold, he takes an honest pride in never suffering his readers to forget that he is merely plain Morgan Odoherty, late ensign and adjutant of the 99th, or King's own Tipperary Regiment. When he issues from the press, he never takes the trouble of providing himself with a bag-wig and a goldheaded cane. He comes before us in complete dishabille, and we feel the same pleasure in beholding him that we should experience in contemplating the

Prince Regent without his Brutus, or Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington in his gown and slippers, with his nose in eclipse from the soapy fingers of a barber. This it is which lends a charm to his poetry, and snatches for it "a grace beyond the reach of art." On this pedestal has he built his fame, and on this it will securely rest, when the loftier erections of more aspiring bards shall have crumbled into dust.

We are inclined to think, however, that the present volume will add but little to Mr Odoherty's fame as an author. Of the longer poem in the collection, entitled "The Feast of Bellona," it would be difficult to say much in commendation. It is a sort of rambling-scrambling work, a sort of puffing of generals and of regiments, which owes at least as much to the Gazette extraordinary as to the fancy of the poet. That our army have always fought well, we have not the smallest doubt; and they have uniformly afforded us the least questionable proof of it, in beating the enemy. But it is really too much to make us march through the armylist, and read elaborate encomiums on every regiment, from the Royals to the Rifle Brigade. There is no man who can regard the triumphs of his country with a more partial and admiring eye than we ourselves. But we are not disposed to enter into the details of every battle, and feel so completely satisfied with the general result, as to think it matter of the merest moonshine by what portions of the army it was achieved. We therefore entertain a most perfect indifference whether the forty-second regiment fought on this hill or t'other valley; whether Captain M'Kirdy's brigade of artillery got up in time for action, or were left sticking in the mud; and care not one pin whether a certain regiment of heavy dragoons were ordered to charge the enemy, or remain with the baggage. To read all this interesting information in prose, were quite bad enough in all conscience; but to have it thrust upon us in verse, is utterly intolerable. We do not hesitate, therefore, to condemn Mr Odoherty as guilty of extreme bad taste, in lavishing his poetical talents on a subject so utterly unworthy of them. In fact, when we read in the "Feast of Bellona" long eulogiums "the ever-glorious fifty-seventh,"

on

and the "never-to-be-forgotten triumphs of the hundred-and-third," we cannot help confessing this to be more in the style of puffing adopted by crimps and recruiting officers, than might have been expected from one of the first poets of the nineteenth century. Faulty, however, as this poem is, both in its conception and its execution, it cannot be denied, that it contains many spirited and powerful passages. The rays of the author's genius are continually breaking through the dim and cloudy atmosphere in which he has thought proper to involve it. We may, indeed, with confidence assert, even when his power is least conspicuous, that he has only failed where it was impossible to succeed. But the merits of detached portions, great as they may be, cannot redeem the poem. Its doom, we fear, is irrevocably sealed, and we must regret, that this poetical Phæton, instead of attempting to guide the chariot of the sun, should have thought proper to get himself bogged in a dung-cart; or that he who, like feathered Mercury, might have winged his way through realms of air and light, should have wilfully dirtied his pumps and flesh-coloured silk stockings, by wading through every pool and puddle in the parish.

Having said thus much, and we could not in conscience say less, we shall proceed to lay before our readers a few extracts from the volume. The most interesting, we think, will be found in that portion of it relating to the eighty-eighth regiment, who have rendered themselves so acceptable to the inhabitants of this metropolis, by their conciliating manners and peaceable demeanour. It commences with the following fine poetry :

Safe from the dangers and the dire alarms Of trumpet-sounding war. Love gives a zest To every toil

Our next extract will, we think, afford still greater pleasure to our readers, though its poetical merits are perhaps of a less lofty character. It is, in fact, a most graphic and accurate description of the habits and enjoyments of half-pay officers-such as generally frequent Prince's Street in the forenoon, and Ben Waters' in the evening. It is no slight praise to assert, that the following stanzas are such as Wastle need not have blushed to own, nor the author of Beppo to have written,

CLXVI.

Ye brave unfortunates, whom harsher stars
Have doomed to pine upon the half-pay list,
Returning hoary-headed from the wars,
To starve on chaff, while others get the
grist,

Wounds all your wealth, and all your bad. ges scars!

By you no maiden presses to be kist,
For you no beauty smiles, no eye looks gay,
For why? because ye are upon half-pay.
CLXVII.

Oh peace be with you, whether ye be found
In the Lawnmarket, up nine pair of stairs,
Or blooming in a cellar under ground,
Where shirtless embryo Doctors sleep in

Had lisped thy praises. Oh, if yet unhung By grim Morillo, &c. &c.