Southey's Thalaba the martyrdom of a red-haired Christian, by hanging him with his head downwards, and beating upon his belly, which we heartily recommend to our readers, if they have any delight in being perfectly nauseated with sensation! We shall not produce any part of this shocking catastrophe of Morris, but shall rather now close our hasty and imperfect criticism with two short descriptions of natural scenery, a kind of writing in which our author is no less eminently successful than in his admirable pictures of life and manners. The first is a sketch of the more gloomy features of the Highlands.

"I had need of all the spirits a good dinner could give, to resist the dejection which crept insensibly on my spirits, when I combined the strange uncertainty of my errand, with the disconsolate aspect of the country through which it was leading me. Our road continued to be, if possible, more waste and wild than that we had travelled in the forenoon. The few miserable hovels that shewed some marks of human habitation, were now of still rarer occurrence; and, at length, as we began to ascend a huge and uninterrupted swell of moorland, they totally disappeared. The only exercise which my imagination received was, when some particular turns of the road gave us a partial view to the left of a large assemblage of dark-blue mountains stretching to the north and north-west, which promised to include within their recesses, a country as wild perhaps, but certainly differing greatly in point of interest, from that which we now travelled. The peaks of this screen of mountains were as wildly varied and distinguished as the hills which we had seen on the right were tame and lumpish; and while I gazed on this Al. pine region, I felt a longing to explore its recesses, though with toil and danger, similar to that which a sailor feels when he wishes for the risks and animation of a battle or a gale, in exchange for the insupportable monotony of a protracted calm. I made various inquiries at my friend Mr Jarvie, respecting the names and positions

of these remarkable mountains; but it was a subject on which he had no information, or did not chuse to be communicative. 'They're the Hieland hills-the Hicland hills Ye'll see and heare eneugh about them before ye see Glasgow Cross againI downa look at them-I never see them but they gar me grewe.-It's no for fearno for fear, but just for grief, for the puir blinded half starved creatures that inhabit them-But say nae mair about it it's ill speaking o' Hielandmen sae near the line.

VOL. II.

I hae kenn'd mony an honest man wadna hae ventured this length without he had made his last will and testament-Mattie had ill will to see me set awa' on this ride,

and grat awee the silly tawpie; but its nae mair ferlie to see a woman greet than to see a goose gang barefit.' ”

The scene which follows is more pleasing, but not less correctly Highland.

"I shall never forget the delightful sensation with which I exchanged the dark, smoky, smothering atmosphere of the Highland hut, in which we had passed the night so uncomfortably, for the refreshing fragrance of the morning air, and the glorious beams of the rising sun, which, from a tabernacle of purple and golden clouds, were darted full on such a scene of natural romance and beauty as had never before greeted my eyes. To the left lay the valley, down which the Forth wandered on its easterly course, surrounding the beautiful detached hill, with all its garland of woods. On the right, amid a profusion of thickets, knolls, and crags, lay the bed of a broad mountain lake, lightly curled into tiny waves by the breath of the morning breeze, each glittering in its course under the influence of the sun-beams. High hills, rocks, and banks, waving with natural forests of birch and oak, formed the borders of this enchanting sheet of water; and, as their leaves rustled to the wind and twinkled in the sun, gave to the depth of solitude a sort of life and vivacity. Man alone seemed to be placed in a state of inferiority, in a scene where all the ordinary features of nature were raised and exalted. The miserable little bourocks, as the Baillie termed them, of which about a dozen formed the village called the Clachan of Aberfoil, were composed of loose stones, cemented by clay instead of mortar, and thatched by turfs, laid rudely upon rafters formed of native and unhewn birches and oaks from the woods around. The roofs approached the ground so nearly, that Andrew Fairservice observed we might have ridden over the village the night before, and never found out we were near it, unless our horses' feet had gane thro' the riggin." "

Agnes, A Poem. In Four Parts. By

THOMAS BROWN, M. D., Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Univer¬ sity of Edinburgh. 12mo, pp. 176. Edinburgh, Constable and Company. London, Longman and Company, 1818.

WE are persuaded that there is a tendency among readers of poetry to admire only one kind of excellence at a time. Whenever that preferred ex

U

cellence is such as gives breadth to the deeper shades of passion, or ministers, by vividness of description, or force and ease of narrative, to that unquenchable and permanent demand for emotion, which must be fed, and flattered, and soothed from the sense of palledness and exhaustion which follows on its gratification, as on the gratification of other appetites, -there is no space left for the Doric reed or Mantuan lay. All who read and think sociably must follow the current: And those who adventurously write and recommend a more measured tone of sentiment, or a milder strain of poetical illusion, must, at last, submit to this current, which is as powerful as a second fate, with an acquiescence which, as one virtuous exertion, may sufficiently characterize for ever the blandness of their temperament. It should not be forgotten, and, of course, will not be overlooked by the poets themselves, that, as our author has remarked, in his beautiful and ingenious preface,

"He who has attended to the caprices of Fashion, and to all the accidental and local causes which have influence on literature as on every thing else, will soon learn to consider the excellence, that is admired in one age, as far from being necessarily the same, with that which would have been equally admired in the ages that preceded it, and, therefore, very possibly, as different also from the sort of excellence, that is to be viewed with similar admiration, when the present age will be only one of the many ages that are past. By comparing time with time, and country with country, he will distinguish what is more or less relative in the widest celebrity;

and with a mind thus habituated to trace the varieties and fluctuations of sentiment, will, perhaps, with undiminished opinion of his own high merit, feel little astonishment, that the merit is ranked far lower than its just point, by those whom he considers as looking on it, through the mist or the glitter of the illusive atmosphere that

is between."

If variety of merit could please, the poetry of Dr Brown ought to have as great a chance of popularity as any which does not come recommended by the three great names which shine brightest in the poetical firmament. It is stored with images of beauty, which are expressed with great delicacy of perception. It abounds with ideas of emotion and conceptions of situation, which shew a fine tact for

what is chaste and becoming, and a considerable knowledge of what is graceful. It affords examples of success in different styles of composition and various measures of verse. We find every where uncommon delicacy, elevation, and propriety of sentiment. In the playful parts there is great lightness and vivacity; and in the serious much feeling, earnestness, and susceptibility of tender emotion. In the first there is, perhaps, some languor-as if the author had looked at the fresh and sturdy world rather than mixed with it ;-and, in the latter, there is sometimes the apparent constraint of one who tries to imagine more than he learns to feel,-and sometimes ideas are balanced, or contrasted, or followed out with a nicety which bears rather hard on the reality of the impression. But the blank verse has much of the force and seriousness of Cowper, joined to the free sweep of cadence, and the various harmony, of Milton. The heroic verse has a melody and smoothness, greater, really, than we know where to find in any other author; and the couplets are pointed off with an ease and precision, of which Pope himself had been supposed alone to know the secret, Notwithstanding these excellencies, Dr Brown's success has not been, among the sortes poetarum, so brilliant as to make him " blush to find it fame." And, in spite of our fond veneration for every thing which comes from his pen, we cannot venture to expect half so much from AGNES as from the promised new edition of his Essay on Cause and Effect. The academical public, we believe, had some reason to expect, ere now, that he would have given a course of lectures on political economy. And we must say that his fine capacity for generalization, applied to the history of society and government, and his various knowledge and felicity of remark brought to illustrate the conjectural history, of which that science is mainly composed, might secure him a reputation more lasting, and an influence far more useful, than he could gain, even as the author of the first or second best poem of the age.

Agnes has, we apprehend, more variety, painting, and passion, than any of his former long poems, and is likely also to be more generally read, and, possibly, better liked and understood.

As a story, however, it wants that degree of obviousness which is requisite to give it interest and tenacity It is, though, a quoteable poem; and we imagine that our readers will perceive more of its beauty and merit from some very fine quotations than could be imparted by a regular or painful account of the book as it stands. These parts resemble the style of Lord Byron.

"It is no murder, that pale wretch has wrought,

It is no murder ;-for his hands have used No outward force, and mix'd no deadly drug,

For her, who breathes not, tho' his startled

Creaks in the wind, half wither'd-at whose doom

No heart relenting throbb'd, nor, on the day

Which clos'd it, ev'n the softest of the crowd

More sadly at his life's last struggle clasp'd Her infant to her breast,-he, who for none Felt pity, and from none receiv'd, or wish'd, What had been poorer solace, than the laugh

Which, ev'n alone, his fearful mirth could give

To some new blasphemy,-he never felt Pangs, such as rage within that old man's heart,

Who, as all sense were inward, o'er those lips

So pale hangs speechless, tearless, motion

less.

"Yet, tho' dark thoughts are hurrying thro' his soul,

Not o'er a far-spread space eventful broods

Smiles of more pensive grace. A single hour,

A single purpose which that hour fulfill'd,
Fixes his soul or if on other years
A fleet thought passes, 'tis a moment's
dream,

And waking agony again is there."

"The battle had been there, and fight on fight

Press'd warm;-the vanquish'd of a doubtful day,

Not shunning, but more keenly quick to seek

The morrow's combat. On the field behind,

Where there were groanings still of lips, that sought,

Not life, for that was hateful, but one draught

To slake awhile thirst's more than deathly

Of thousands backward driven, that once again,

Where yesterday they conquer'd, were to mix

The slayer with the gasping wretch he slew, And spread o'er mangled corses half devour'd

Another feast more fresh."

The first of these is finely conceived, and both have an impressiveness which would almost make one imagine that the author possesses powers of which he himself is hardly conscious, or which, at least, he has not thought of tasking to his purposes.

character which Lord Byron assumes The following are of that cast of

in his softer moments. But the impressions are more fully made out by the mode of expression than in Lord Byron; and that, again, is more soft, tender, and harmonious.

"In every fading grace there is a charm Most tender in its fading.-The thin wreaths,

Which from the cottage chimney, thro' the boughs

But had not strength to fix the silken tie In which she strove to bind it.-One fond look

Turn'd upward :-'twas a smile,-like those which oft

Had bless'd the gazer;-but what then was life,

Was a cold stillness,-mute and changeless now."

We subjoin a few graces which have struck us in passing quickly over the book.

"In Edward's heart

There was so quick a sympathy, to share All nature's gladness, all which mutest life Could feel of agony, that still he shrunk From pastimes, where the terror or the blood

Of helpless innocence was all the bliss; And when at morn, while still 'twixt leaf and leaf

Hung fix'd the glittering dewdrop, thro' the brake

He wander'd, listening to the songs, that made

The living air, from furze to sunny cloud, One voice of worship to the gladd'ning day,

Or mark'd the leveret, frolicking untired By nightly gambol, at his slow approach Half scar'd, half playful still, thro' the deep fern

Bound, that with upward-shaken moisture mark'd

The rustling leap below,-O! then, how strange

He deem'd it, that there should be one cold eye,

To gaze on that wide loveliness, and wish To be the marrer of a scene so fair!

Yet was not EDWARD's pity such as springs From timid weakness, from the sluggish dread

Less of the pangs which savage sport inflicts,

Than of its toil and peril. If alone

To him were danger, scarcely knew his heart

Fears, which the bravest feel. His vigor

ous arm

Oft buffetted the torrent, when its rage Maturer strength appall'd. From rock to rock,

When other steps paus'd shuddering at the chasm

And the scant footing of the onward cliff, His leap was first. It was a joy, to tread The airy height, and gaze on all below. And feel no hazard but in the firm heart That dar'd to master it. Each rugged path He knew, and steep recess, whose shadows nurs'd

The mountain flower; and oft as AGNES spoke

Of some sweet favourite blossom, 'twas not long,