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“ Like you a father's grief I know,
Like
you

Í loft a son,
Yet, yet I feel the dreadful blow,
But God's high will be done.

“ He will not break the bruised reed,
Nor quench the smoking flax;
He hears us in the time of need,
When hopeless anguith racks.

“O then, whate'er we feel or fear,
In him securely trust,
For tho' man's fufferings are severe,

God cannot be unjust.*” There is a respectable list of Subscribers prefixed to the book, but, from some hints which the author has thrown out in the publication, noticed in the following article, we fear, that many who put down their names, did not put down their money.

Art. VIII. Critical Trifles, in a Familiar Epiftle to John

Fisher, Esq. LL. D. By the Rev. Charles Edward Stewart. 12mo. Pp. 25. Price is. 6d. Bickerstaff, Essex Street, London, 1797

N this poetical epistle to a friend, composed in the style and

manner of the New Bath Guide, the author humorously reviews the different sentences pronounced on his “ Collection of Trifles” by critics convivial and profesional. In answer to

** Mr. Burke, in answer to these lines and some observations upon his invaluable works, condescended to honour me with a letter, which gratitude for 1o fattering a testimony from such a man will not suffer me to suppress.

“SIR, " I receive a very real consolation from the verses you are so good Lo send me. They are animated with an high spirit of poetry and piety. I am happy to find, that any thing I have done in favour of a cause (to which I am the more attached in finding that I have it in common with you) has obtained the suffrage of to able a judge. Your zeal for that cause may perhaps a little have warped your judgement. One naturally thinks with favour of thote performances which are exerted in favour of principles to which we with well, Whatever be your motives, I ought to be highly flattered with a justice to intentions, which has so large a measure of kindness and indulgence to the execution.

" I have the honour to be, Beconsfield,

EDMUND BURKE." Viarch 21, 1790.

a charge a charge of want of delicacy, preferred against him by some female critics, he offers the following plea. P. 14, 15.

" Will the ladies permit me to offer before 'em
A story well known and of perfect decorum ?

“When *Salisbury's fam'd countess was dancing with glee,
The ftocking's security fell from her knee,
Rival beauties and courtiers (they could not do less)
Kindly pitied the fair, and enjoy'd her distress,
Allusions and hints, sneers and whispers went round,
And the trifle was scouted, and left on the ground;
But Edward the brave, with trus foldier-like spirit,
Cries, the garter is mine, 'tis the order of merit,
The first Knights of my court shall be happy to wear
(Proud distinction) the garter that fell from the fair,
Whilst in letters of gold ('tis your monarch's high will)
Shall these words be inserib’d, “Ill to him who thinks ill.'

“ Fair critics, whenever to propagate scandal
My innocent Trifles severely you handle,
When, by fancy aslisted, you stoop to invent,
And impute to me meanings that never were meant,
Or, by envy excited, you wish to impeach
Beauty, virtue, and excellence out of reach,

Ill to her who thinks ill,' be the motto of each." He thus comments on the decision of a critic of a different description.

“ A PROFESSIONAL Critic,† of exquisite taste,
Tho'

iny verse is unequal, my rhymes are not chaste,
Says · I'm not quite devoid of the powers of a poet,
And fome Lines on a Marriage completely will thew it.
Which, tho' founded, it feemis, on the play of a pun,
(Sure the worst fort of play) are lines-not badly done,
That an Epigram too (tho' the point's rather rough)
On the Birtb day of Witless, he thinks-neat enough.
But diparuge to favage, I by way of a rhyme,
In the lowest burlesque would be reckoned a crime,

your

“ Tie ir gin of the order of the garter, every schoolboy and tehoolgirl knox, ils owing to this dreaiful calamity, that befel the Countess of Salisbury in Edward the Third's time."

+ “ The BRITISH CRITIC. “These verses are unequal, yet, trat the author is not deftitute of the talents of a poet will completely appear by some lines, though founded on a pun. The Epigram on the thirtieb of Janary, being the birth-day of some blockhead, is neat enough. Sich fubftiities for rhymes as Sarrage and disparue are not allowable even in the lowest burlesque ; and there are a few more tich faults, but, altogether, the Trifies have merit."

1 “ This unfortunate no-rhyme did certainly escape observation, till it was too late to amend it; but I did not lippote that a fingle error would be so ieverely reprehended by any critic.”

Yet

Yet in spite of this fault and some moret of the kind,
(Which the critic, I trust, will be puzzled to find,)
He declares with a candid and liberal spirit,
Altogether.-the Trifles-perhaps---may-have-merit'

“ If the critic speak out in a fair manly strain,
And condemn me at once, I will scorn to complain,
But a ftrange sort of see-saw | between that and this,
Now high, and now low, now up master, now miss,
Flat fpiritlets censure, faint negative praise,
I deprecate this for the fate of iny lays;
E'en for this bold attempt, which I feel must be vain,
One feather from Anttey’s rich plumage to gain,
While I follow with steps all unequal the path,

Where I am led by the Guide and the Poet of Bath." The bard consoles himself for such censures with the approbation of friends, whose worth, genius, and merit, stamp a sterling value on their applause. There are some elegant lines, in p. 21, fent hiin by a Mr. WADDINGTON; and the following Jen d'Esprit from Sir CHARLES BUNBURY, accompanying his subscription, which deserve notice:

“ For the Trifles in verse, give me leave to propose
These light and new play things, these Trifies in profe;
With pleasure the critic your poetry quotes,
And Newland's, we know, are unparallel'd notes."

Art. IX. The Battle of the Nile, a Poem. By William

Sotheby, Esq. 4to. Pp. 27. Price 2s. 6d, Hatchard,

London. 1799.

T "HE Hero of the Nile has found, in Mr. Sotheby,

judgement to appreciate, and genius to celebrate, his exploits ;-a bard, in thort, worthy of himself. The poem opens with a description of the French fleet laying, in fancied fecurity, in the bay of Aboukir, the officers and men rioting in mirth and revelry, and exulting in the spoils of plundered Egypt and the promised subjugation of the East. The approach of the British fleet affords a fair opportunity for paying à tribute of justice to the gallant TROWBRIDGE, whose Tip struck before the could be brought into action.

† “ An author never knows his own deficiencies; if the Trifles have any merit, I thought, and still think, it is in the accuracy of the rhymes, and with the exception of the above and, perhaps, one or two others, I do not believe a fourth instance can be produced in thirteen hundred lines."

# "Pope's Prologue to his Satires."

« Ah,

" Ah, gallant chief ! who led'st th' adventurous hoft,
I see thee wreck'd on Egypt's faithless coaft!-
Let others fing that oft'

mid Tips on flame
Thy hand has pluck'd from death the wreath of fame,
I hail the warrior in misfortune great-
The hero rising from the storms of fate !
Yes !--- firm of foul, I view thee, TROWBRIDGE! ftand,
Point the low tide, and mark the treacherous strand ;---
O'er Britain's glory watch with guardian eye,
And guide to fame each warrior floating by." P.

.-4. The battle is next described with true poetic fire, and soon as the din of arms had ceased

" — Nelson, bleeding on his victor prow,
Look'd down with pity on his proftrate foe;
Rear'd his proud flag a captive navy o’er;
And still d, with hymn of praise, the battle's roar---
* Almighty ! Lord of Hofts! hear, hear our cry!...
Thine, God of battle! thine, the victory!'

“ Bold hero! grac'd by many a glorious scar...
Whose arm, unconquer'd, fell in front of war !...
Nelson! a nation's voice thy name shall raise ;
Applauding senates consecrate thy praise ;
A grateful monarch twine around thy head
Wreaths that shall deck the wound where Britain bled.
But not a nation's voice that swells thy name,
Senates that fix, and Kings that crown thy fame ;
Nor rescu'd realms aveng'd, confer thy prize ;---
A purer source the high reward supplies.
Favour'd of Heav'n ...-fit inftrument, design'd
To stay the pestilence that wastes mankind;
Thy arm, again, on Ham's astonish'd shore,
Renews the wonders of the days of yore ;
O'er ocean lifts th' avenger's fiery rod,

And smites the spoiler that blafphem'd his God!" P. 7, 8. The bard proceeds to recapitulate the vain-boasting threats of the French to destroy the British power in the East, and exclaims

• How art thou fall’n! gaunt famine, day by day,
Has traced from corfe to corse thy desperate way :
Strewn o'er the waste th’ expiring warriors lye,
Fair Gallia floats before their closing eye,
While hov'ring vultures on a diftant shore,
Shriek to their cry, and plunge their beaks in gore.

" The Arab war-horse has thy strength subdu'd,
And waded fetlock-deep in Gallic blood !
Press' on thy steel, regardless of the wound,
Swept with red mane thy chiefs that bit the ground,

And,

1

And, wildly neighing to the brazen roar,

Arch'd his proud crelt thy flaming phalanx o'er !" The destructive progress of French liberty, at home and abroad, is admirably depicted in the following animated lines:

« Gaul! in whose foul, through ev'ry thirsty vein,
Swells the ' fierce spirit of the first born Cain ;'
Whose banner, flaming from th' infernal loom,
In vengeance waves o’er nature's crouded tomb,.--
Where'er thy hoft, beneath its pomp unfurl'd,
O'ershadow'd, as they pass'd, th' unpeopled world :
Scern foe! when Albion bade the battle cease,
And, arm'd for victory, woo'd returning peace,
Thy rage let flip th' exterminating brood,
The dogs of war, that lap the stream of blood,
Famine, that grasps in death th' unfurrow'd clod,
And peftilence, that scents where slaughter trod !

Ah! had thy soul to soothing peace inclin'd,
A narrower coinpass had thy crimes confin'd:
Now arming vengeance flames th' Atlantic o'er,
And taunting insult shakes thy threaten'd shore ;...
• The idols of thy worship, France, behold :---
• The sceptred regicides, that ftab for gold !

“ Though howling furies urge thee on to war,
And rage and mad ambition yoke thy car;
Yet, holier held-ador'd above the rest,
Base Mammon builds his altar in thy breast.

“ Where marble temples wav'd their vanes on high,
Or the low fane retiring fled the eye ;
Saints, round whose brow the silver glory roll’d,
The God that o'er his altar flam'd in gold,
The cup by consecrated myft'ries blest,
Cross, Crosier, Cope, and rich embroider'd vest,
Each votive gift, that pain and sorrow gave,
And the gilt trophy o'er the warrior's grave,
These, price of blood, th' apoftate spoiler bore,
And sternly grasp'd the facrilegious ore !

" Ah! from that hour, when, in th' abyss below,
Exulting fiends awhile forgot their woe...
When, on the plunder'd shrine thy fenate trod,
Hail'd the blafphemer that deny'd a God...
Bade death triumphant seal th' eternal doom,
And close the gates of mercy on the tomb.;
Hell has enlarg'd thy bounds, to swell thy shame
With crimes unknown, and deeds without a name.

“Oh, thou! that, by the Loire's forsaken fide,
Day after day, each flow returning tide;
While interdicted billows, foul with gore,

Heav'd back the dead upon their native shore, NO. VIII, VOL. 11. х

'Mid

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