Sheds not a ray in all his annual courfe;
Nor there the Moon, wont to attend her bed,
And thine upon her, as the flept in peace
At Elmer's. Now her difmal chamber needs
The taper's light at noon, obfcur'd by blinds
And windows dull with duft. No verdant lawn
Sprinkled with tufts, and folitary paks,
Delights her eye, oft rais'd, but rais'd in vain.
No lofty poplar, birch, or ancient elm
Shakes his green honours in the western fun,
Checq'ring the wainfcot with amufive dance.
No leaf is feen, fave what the batter'd crock,
And fpoutlefs tea-pot yield, from fickly flow'rs,
Starv'd myrtles, and geraniums loth to live.
It was a corner Nature had forfook,

Shut out for ever from the longing eye
By crowded buildings. And what peace within
Could thy uneafy heart, Ophelia, find,
No books, no inftrument, no chofen friend,
No mufic, and no voice to fing, no clock
To count the tardy hours, no maid to wait,
No pen and ink, no work-bag, and no cards.
She curs'd her folly, and a thousand times
Refolv'd to ask forgiveness, but her heart
A thousand times recoil'd. So there the liv'd,
And often wander'd through the streets alone,
Defpis'd, and little notic'd. For the found
That poverty and want were crime enough,
Though virtue ftill remain'd.'

From this wretched manfion fhe was relieved by an old friend of Elmer, who removed her to his houfe; where the was happy, till his fon attempted her virtue; for poor Ophelia was ever pursued by Misfortune in the fhape of Love; and though the rafcal luckily failed in his grand robbery, he always got fome inferior booty: fhe ran away from this houfe, leaving her purfe and money in a private drawer.' The mode of her departure muft, however, be quoted :

So when the time of reft was come, and night
Muffled in gloomy clouds, without her moon,
Drew to her darkest hour; while the hall lamp
Yet in the focket blinck'd, and yet was heard
The found of noify fervants gone to bed,
She left her room, and filently unbarr'd,
Unbolted, and unlock'd the outer door,
Lifted the latch, went out, and drew it to,
And fled. Happy fhe was, for her good heart
Approv'd the virtuous deed, and to itself
Teem'd with congratulation.

But where now

Shall houfelefs Virtue find a waking friend?

Where

Where fhall her fleepy eye be clos'd in peace?
Who will regard her fighs, and ftrew the couch
Of kind indulgence for her weary limbs ?
Silent and cold fhe travel'd ev'ry street,
But faw no friendly light and heard no voice
Save at the public inn. And there a ring
Of clam'rous bacchanals, involv'd in smoke,
Sat roaring o'er their cups. Each in his turn
Bray'd uncouth fong, half drunk and half asleep.
Then loud applaufe en fued, encores and claps,
Bravos and hearty laughs. The heavy fift
Fell on the table, and with fudden bounce
Thunder'd the transport of the clownish heart,
Till pipes and glaffes danc'd upon the board.
She heard and trembl'd, half inclin❜d to fly,
Nor feek the bar alone to ask a bed.

She paus'd, the gather'd courage, and at length
Went to the door."

The purse, as we have already said, was gone! Ophelia had no alternative, but to spend the night in the meadow. The description, that fucceeds, of the opening of a fummer morning, near a country town, is good:

At length a breeze

Blew from the east, and rent the fable clouds
That all night long had veil'd the ftarry Heav'ns.
From many a cheerful loophole thro' the gloom
Peeps the clear azure with its living gems.
Faft flies the fcud, and now the glowing dawn
Stands unobfcur'd upon the mountain's top,
Her lovely forehead with a waning moon

And her own brilliant day-ftar grac'd. The clouds,
Still floating overhead, touch'd by the beam
Of the flow fun emerging from the deep

(But to Ophelia's eye not yet reveal'd)
Are fleeces dipt in filver, dappled pearl,

And feathers fmoother than the cygnet's down;
Here red and fiery as the ferret's eye,

Here dun and wavy as the turtle's breast.

The fainting ftars withdraw, the moon grows pale,
And the clear planet, meffenger of light,
Hides in the fplendor of returning day.

The mountains are on fire. The foreft burns
With glory not to be be held. The Heav'ns
Are ftreak'd with rays from the relumin'd eaft,
As from the center of a flaming wheel,

Shot round. The fun appears. The jovial hills
Rejoice and fing, the cheerful valleys laugh.
All Nature utters from her thankful heart
Audible gratitude. The voice of man
Returning to his labor fills the land.

The

The fhepherd whiftles, and the cow-boy fings.
The team with clinking harness seeks the field.
The plough begins to move. The tinkling flock
Streams from the fold and fpots the dewy down.
The mounting bell upon his axle fwings
And fills the country with his cheerful note.
Wak'd at the found, the daw has taken wing
And fkims about the fteeple. Lo! the fmoke
Afcending from a thoufand chimney tops
And by its upright course prefaging calm.
Hark! how the fawyer labours with his faw,
The joiner with his hammer and his plane.
The farmer's wife comes jogging to the town,
Timing her ditty to old Dobbin's foot.

The railing fish-dame follows with her panniers.
The chimney-fweeper bawls. The milk-maid cries.
The blacksmith beats his anvil, and the dray,
Stage-coach and waggon lumber thro' the streets.

Then to the town once more Ophelia turn'd, And briskly stepping thro' the bufy street, Went on to Elmer's. Thrice fhe halted, thrice Her heart mifgave her, thrice fhe firmly vow'd Not to retreat. To Elmer's gate fhe comes, Throbbing with hurry, and her trembling hand Scarce dares to lift the latch. She hears a noise, And like the tim'rous hare with ear erect Stands lift'ning, and furveys the country round. 'Twas nothing but the woodman at his work, So on fhe went, at ev'ry perching bird Surpris'd, and ftartled at the falling leaf. In a bye-way the walks, that thro' a wood Leads to the house, and now beholds a feat In former days belov'd and aften fought, On ev'ry fide from the cold wind fecur'd, But open to the fouth. To it the fpeeds, But ere fhe enters, liftens and looks round. Nothing was heard. So fainting with fatigue, Here the refolves to reft. Once more fhe ftops, And looking round, fteps in and takes her feat.' Here Elmer enters; and with a defcription of his forgiveness, and of her penitence and recovered happiness, the poem closes. The fecond and fourth poems, called The Hue and Cry, and The Orphan Twins, are avowedly trifles; the former a happy one; the latter not fo.

PANTHEA, the third, is long and tedious. For fome reafon, it should seem that this Greek tale will not receive English decorations. In the prefent attempt, difcrimination of character, expreffion of paffion, and loftinefs of defcription,' are fought the fearch is not crowned with remarkable success. Of the poet's defects in this, as in other places, the effence or

character

character is littleness or meannefs: grandeur or fublimity does not, however, characterize his excellence: he is often pretty, frequently beautiful, but feldom fublime: his defcription delights, but never aftonishes: he animates his reader to joy, but does not exalt him into rapture: he foothes him to forrow, but does not deprefs him into despair: his muse exerts herself rather to analyfe, than to combine: fhe fhews the moft brilliant fragments, but fails to produce a finished whole.

Norwich,

ART. X. Genuine Poetical Compofitions, on various Subjects. By
Elizabeth Bentley. Small 8vo.
PP. 70. fewed.
Crouse and Stevenfon. 1791.
THE Pierian Dames, unlike the ariftocratic fine ladies of

Great Britain, do not difdain to affociate with the lowborn and obfcure, but have been frequently observed to seek them out, and to honour them with a diftinguished preference; in fo much, that poverty and poetry, from the days of blind Mæonides to the prefent, have been confidered as very nearly allied. Reviewers, therefore, are not furprized at beholding genius in a ruffet garb, nor at poetical compofitions written under the preffure of indigence:-yet fuch publications we deem entitled to indulgence, and our readers might have fome plea for calling the goodness of our hearts in queftion, were we to view them through the medium of ftern and remorseless criticism. The poetry of a female pen, compofed in youth, and in poverty, would difpofe us to still farther mildnefs; and with our minds thus foftened by the fhort hiftory of Elizabeth Bentley, prefixed to her poems, we entered on their perusal. It is but juftice, however, to add, that we found not much occafion for the exercise of critical forbearance.

In a letter addreffed to the Rev. Mr. Walker, in Norwich, our female poet gives the following account of herself :

I was born at Norwich, in the parish of All Saints, in November, 1767, and was the only child of my parents. My father's name was Daniel Bentley, by trade a journeyman cordwainer; who, having received a good education himself, took upon him to teach me reading and fpelling, but never gave me the leaft idea of grammar. Being naturally fond of reading, I used to employ my leisure hours with fuch books as were in the houfe; which were chiefly a fpellingbook, fable-book, dictionary, and books of arithmetic ; and with fuch little pamphlets as I could borrow of my neighbours. When I was about ten years of age, my father was afflicted with a paralytic stroke, which took from him the use of one fide, and disabled him from working at his bufinefs; but ftill retaining the use of his right hand, and his disorder not affecting his mental faculties, he taught me the art of writing, from copies in the fpelling-book. My fa

ther

ther was now obliged to go about felling garden-stuff for a living, till (a few months before his death) he obtained the place of bookkeeper to the London Coach, which then fet out from the King's His lameness continued till his deHead, in the Market-Place. ceafe, which happened by a fecond stroke of the fame diforder, on the 25th of January 1783, in the 48th year of his age; I being then about fifteen years old. My father died in the parish of St. Stephen, in which place my mother and I have continued ever fince. About two years after my father's death, I difcovered in myself an inclination for writing verfes, which I had no thought nor defire of being feen; but my mother fhewing my firft productions to fome acquaintances, they encouraged me to proceed. Soon after I purchafed a small grammar-book, fecond-hand, from which I attained the art of expreffing myfelf correctly in my native language. My mother's maiden name was Lawrence; her father, when living, kept a cooper's fhop in St. Stephen's parish.'

From this fhort narrative, it appears that this poetess of Nature enjoyed few advantages of education, and had few incentives to ftudy: but she must certainly have read more than she enumerates, for the mentions no books of poetry, and some of these she doubtlefs had feen. Her poems are, nevertheless, generally elegant and harmonious. As a fpecimen, we shall extract the following Ode

To HOPE.

O thou! advance, whofe heav'nly light
Can make each scene of fadness please;
On future blifs can fix the fight,

And anguish change to eafe.

'Tis thou, fweet Hope, of race divine,
Who bid'it the Poet's thoughts aspire;

Thou breath'ft thy influence o'er each line,
And add'ft celeftial fire.

Thou bid'ft his anxious bofom glow,
To climb the fteep afcent of fame;
To share that praise the just bestow,
And gain a deathless name.
The Painter, fir'd by thee, can trace
Each genuine beauty Nature gives,
As on the canvas fhines each grace,
Renown'd his mem❜ry lives.

'Tis thou, fweet Hope, whofe magic pow'r
The griefs of abfence beft can calm;
While Friendship chides each loit'ring hour,
Thou fhed'ft thy foothing balm.

Thou mak'ft the captive's heart rejoice
In gloomy regions of defpair;

In thought he hears fair Freedom's voice,
And breathes in purer air.

But