ART. VI. English Lyricks. pp. 60. 8vo. 2s. 6d. Cadell and Davies.

THIS lyre is no common lyre; and it is attuned by no common hand. In these hours of depreffion and fufpence, it boafts a peculiar charm. Were the mufes unusually vocal, we should still linger to these delightful tones; but when the graces are driven into folitude, and their harps fufpended from "the willows," we confefs that we are led captive" by this inftrument, and that we rejoice to communicate to others fome portion of that pleasure which we have received.

LINES FOUND IN A BOWER FACING THE SOUTH.

"Soft cherub of the fouthern breeze!
Oh! thou whofe voice I love to hear,
When lingering thro' the rustling trees,
With lengthened fighs it fooths mine ear:
Oh! thou whofe fond embrace to meet,
The young fpring all enamoured flies,
And robs thee of thy kiffes fweet,

And on thee pours her laughing eyes!
Thou at whofe call the light fays ftart,
That filent in their hidden bower
Lie penciling with tendereft art,

The bloffom thin and infant flower!

Soft cherub of the southern breeze!
Oh! if aright I tune the reed

Which thus thine ear would hope to please,
By fimple lay and humble meed:

And if aright, with anxious zeal,

My willing hands this bower have made,
Still let this bower thine influence feel,
And be its gloom thy favourite fhade!

For

For thee, of all the cherub train,
Alone my votive mufe would woo;
Of all that skim along the main,

Or walk at dawn yon mountains blue:
Of all that flumber in the grove,

Or playful urge the goffamer's flight,
Or down the vale or ftreamlet move,
With whisper foft, and pinion light:
I court thee, thro' the glimmering air,
When morning fprings from fluinbers still,
And waving bright his golden hair,
Stands tiptoe on yon eastern hill.
I'court thee, when at noon reclined,
I watch the murmuring infect throng
In many an airy fpiral wind,

Or filent climb the leaf along.

I court thee, when the flow'rets clofe,
And drink no more receding light,
And when calm eve to foft repofe
Sinks on the bofom of the night.

And when beneath the moon's pale beam,
Alonte mid fhadowy rocks I roam,
And waking visions round me gleam,
Of beings, and of worlds to come,

Smooth glides with thee my penfive hour,
Thou warm'ft to life my languid mind;
Thou cheer'it a frame with genial power,
That droops in every ruder wind.

Breathe, cherub, breathe! once soft and warm,
Like thine, the gale of fortune blew,

How has the defolating storm

Swept all I gazed on from my view!

Unfeen, unknown, I wait my doom,
The haunts of men indignant flee,
Hold to my heart a listless gloom,
And joy but in the mufe and thee."

We meet, in an addrefs to "a Dream," with the following most beautiful conclufion—

"Ah! know, that to thy shadowy aid,
Thy mimic power, my breast must owe
The only joy the cruel maid

Will ever on my love bestow."

And there are few who will not admire this descrip tion

"The heart to cheer, affection warm extends

Her beauteous web around with fingers fine;
But ah! when fate or chance the texture rends,
She finds with fighs, "the liv'd along the line.” ̈

But whither have my thoughts unbidden firay'd,
Where fled the dreams that did my fenfes fold;
Ah! mirth, while scarce my vows to thee were paid,
Is the gleam o'er, and is my heart grown cold?
Enchantress fair! to gain one happy hour
Like me, if e'er another fuppliant bend,
Unceafing let thy wand its influence pour,

For if thy votary think-thy vifions end."

Before we accompany the poet to the feverer confines of reason, we are most agreeably detained by these verfes

SENT TO A LADY WITH A PRIZE CARNATION.

"To her, who fhall thy beauties know,
With taste to mark, with fkill explore;

Go, flower, in modest triumph go,

And charm the maid that I adore-
Go, envied flower, and whilft her eye
Surveys thy form with critic care,
And while the fmiles beftows, which I

Would barter worlds with thee to share,

In thine own hiftory, if thou canst, impart

The thought I cannot speak that glows within my heart.

Thus

Thus tell her, that in thee the views
A flower for beauty far renown'd,
The fairest form, the brightest hues,
Approv'd, admir'd the country round;
Tell her to find a flower as fair,

That I myself with happy pride,
Search'd every garden and parterre,

But flower like thee I none defcried :
No flower by nature's hand fo richly dreft,
So partially adorned, so exquifitely bloft.

But tell her, I with reason fear'd,

A ftem like thine could ne'er fuftain,
Singly, fo weak, so unprepar'd,
The driving wind, the beating rain;
And fay, that hence a stronger reed
I ftationed at thy friendlefs fide,
A guardian band round each convey'd,
And both in happy union tied:
That wedded thus, fafe could thy gentle form

Pour forth its opening fweets, and mock the coming form.
Thus, fweet ambaffadrefs, from me,

Thus, beauteous flower, befpeak the fair,

And if the should the mural fee,

(For more is meant than meets the ear)

And if thou mark a truant fmile,

Quick o'er her bright'ning features fly,
And if a vivid gleam, the while,

Fire the blue luftre of her eye;

Ah! then, thou lovelieft flower! kind, faithful be, And bear one fond, one warm, one trembling vow from me."

Reason, it must be admitted, though a subject of little, fcope to the fofter affections, opens a wide expanfe for the difplay of imagination and fublimity. But the author of this "Ode to Reafon" falls under fome difadvantage, by commencing with a purer atmosphere than the one in which we breathe.

"Oh bear me to the realms that own thy fway!

No burning fiends are there

Of paffion or despair—

No fhapes fantaftic, bred in fashion's ray,
Nor there can dwell with thee

The forms of wilder'd fympathy-

Nor fanguine hope, whofe veft in rainbow dyes
Still glitters gay, who mocks thy whifper'd fears,
Pours on fome diftant good her eager eyes,
Steps on deftruction's gulf, and shrieking disappears——
Nor there, with languid mien,
Is feverish pleasure seen,

Nor, vanity with fcorn unmark'd behind,
Nor fuperftition with her shuddering train,
Nor fancy's ills, that agonize the mind,
Keen as the real minifters of pain-

Nor floth, that dreft in wifdom's garb deludes,
Nor hot ambition, nor exhausted care,

Nor vice, too late that o'er tranfgreffion broods,
Wakes from his trance profound, yet wakes but to defpair."

We do not, at prefent, see the juftice of this image"And o'er the cold dark defert of the world,

Full rolls in glittering tide the luftre of the mind."

If our author alluded to the flood, which fome late metaphyficians have poured, even to the very "deferts of the world," it was certainly but a glittering tide," though it has tempted thoufands from the courfe of peace to the abyss of woe.

It has become very fashionable of late, to lament the wretchedness of all uncivilized beings. What Rouffeau, who was fuch a devotee to a state of nature, would fay to these lines, may be eafily gueffed:

"And Afric's fon beneath his palmy groves,

Feel's not the night that o'er his bofom reigns.-"

Now, really, we do not fee any caufe to bewail this circumftance. For, granting the fact, this " Afric's

fon"