are tautological expressions. The word, beatifick, is misapplied, for it is appropriated to heavenly enjoy ments after death. To say, 'enthroned in regions of uncreated light,' is ridiculous: we may as well say, 'placed on an uncreated stool'; and this rhyme,

ment, and this little production is the vilest, on the whole, that we have seen throughout the book :

...turpiter atrum, Desinit in piscem mulier formosa su perne.'

In the 'Summer Evening' theré is this expression, evening sheds We can shed

verse,

And fix it in immortal characters, would not have disgraced the ungovernable pen of Sternhold or Hopkins. When speaking of Jehovah, the poet has this expression,

On the thick bosses of his buckler rush'd ;' the absurdity here is evident. This little poem is by no means without some excellent lines, and beautiful expressions.

Thence distant worlds shall catch the glorious strain, And heav'n's eternal arch th' exalted notes retain.

CHORUS.

Seraphs! begin the sacred sound,
Empyreal echoes! bear it round,
Let world to world the joy convey,
Far as extends creation's day;
Cherubick harps! the notes prolong,
And fondly dwell upon the song.'

There are some others, but the performance is very unequal.

This poem is followed by a number of others, not worth an examination here; and, among these, one to a sleeping infant,' which begins prettily enough, and ends very prettily; but when the poet pronounced the following:

On his hard couch when restless

av'rice quakes,'

we presume the infant must have been very considerably roused, by the rough sibilation of the line.

The next in order, of which we can make up our mouths to say any thing, is the Exile.' From the first stanza, we were led to hope for a pretty little poem; but the hopes of man are blasted in a mo

our blood, a serpent can shed his skin, &c., but we do not conceive it possible to shed a smile. The Elegy on the death of Dr. Joseph Youle,' is very much like a sermon in verse, without possessing one characteristick of a good discourse. The verse is so inharmonious, that it would have answered very well, instead of DeWho mosthenes' pebblestones. can pronounce the second line of this performance, without some compassion for the society, before whom it was delivered?

'Sorrow, thy louder ecstacies restrain.'

We next come to the Epitaph on my Grandmother,' which we cannot resist the pleasure of transcribing, it is so perfectly harmless: Sweet are the peaceful slumbers of the just,

And guardian angels watch their sacred dust;

Death is to them in richest mercy giv

obliged to apply the shepherd's admonition, in its full force, 'nimium ne crede colori.' There is

often too great distance between the design and execution, and this position is admirably realized in the translation of this little ode. It is intended as a translation of the seventh ode of the third book, * Ad Asterien ;' which Dr. Francis has barbarously murdered with his clerical quill; and whoever will trouble himself to survey the Doctor's translation, will see how cruelly he has mangled poor Asteria, and that she expires, not without many groans. Now, that such a kind-hearted man, as Mr. Davis is represented to have been, should ever take it into his head to murder poor Asteria over again, is past all bearing; and we shall therefore be as just to his translation, as we possibly can. Mr. Davis has changed the name Gyges for Damon, because the latter was somewhat prettier and softer, &c., but he has here already stepped one foot out of the way of a translator. He knew well enough that Gyges did not mean Damon. Had he intended this as an imitation, he might have called him Cory. don, or Balthazar, or any thing he pleased; but, as a translator, he should have called him Gyges. In the translation of the first stanza, he has omitted Thyna merce beatum.' In the second, he has omitted 'Ille notis actus ad Oricum.' What he means by Guided by the midnight star,' we can form no sort of conjecture; if he has contrived to weave this line out of Post insana Capra sidera,' he is truly a most ingenious weaver, for this passage is directly contrary to the signification he has given it. But we are tired of this: in short, this 'ode from Horace' is not from Horace. The fundamental rules,

established by Dr. Campbell, of Aberdeen, are three. 1... That the translation should give a complete transcript of the ideas of the original. 2...That the style and manner of the original should be preserved in the translation. 3...That the translation should have all the ease of the original composition. In all these points, Mr. Davis has failed; and we are sorry, since the versification of this ode has given us the best example of his art, in the mechanicks of metrical composition.

་

The Elegy on an old wig found in the street,' might have been a much better elegy than it is. It is a good subject for mock-elegy, and Mr. Davis has, for the most part, handled it with palsied fingers. In justice to merit, however, we cannot pass over these truly facetious stanzas without wishing, that the author had been as fortunate in the other parts of the poem, as in that, where he addresses the wig;

'Some judge sagacious, learned in the law,

Us'd thee, perhaps, his solemn frown t'improve;

While culprits, juries, courts, with
Shook like Olympus at the nod of Jove.
rev'rend awe,
Some grave professor's head has been

thy place,

Haply 'twas thine his office to bespeak; While, clinging closely round his classick face,

Each learned curl seem'd buckled stiff with Greek.

Some bard, perhaps, in meditation deep, Some student hard of Demosthenian stamp,

Giving to study the soft hours of sleep, Hath sing'd thy tresses at the midnight lamp.'

The adjective, formed from Demosthenes, is Demosthenean; the antepenult short, & the penult long.

The other poems, in this colleçtion, are of no importance to the.

critick; for they will produce no effect upon the reader, either plea sant or otherwise. They belong to that numerous tribe of negative productions, that are published every day, which are read, and are forgotten; for they have no adhe sive quality, whereby they can fasten themselves upon the mind, and perpetuate their remembrance. This collection of poems is, on the whole, hardly worth the trouble of perusing. The ideas are considerably poetical in some of these performances, although novelty is the least prominent feature on the face of this collection. The execution of these verses is by no means rude, and by no means polished. The versification, however, is very unequal. We are very far from saying these verses are composed, Musis et Apolline nullo,' but we do not hesitate to affirm, they are composed, Musis et Apolline parvo.

Wishing does not belong to our province, but we cannot prevent ourselves from wishing, that Mr. Davis had lived to a more advanced age; or that he had applied himself more studiously to poetry, in his earlier years. Had this been the case, we should have had the satisfaction of enjoying the fruits of a genius more matured, and the Muses would not have blushed when weeping on his grave.

written with that even judgment" and just taste, for which the Doctor is distinguished, and though less laboured,intentionally perhaps, than the popular Letters to his Son, is in no respect unworthy the author. To be at once easy, entertaining, and instructive, requires a union of talents, which is rarely possessed, and which the Doctor, not deserving perhaps of the first honours of criticism, may be allowed to enjoy in an eminent degree. If the performance of more than we promise entitle us to praise, we conceive ourselves indebted to the author to the amount of another compliment ; for his present labour is not only worthy, as he would have it, of the attention of a young student of poetry, but may be read with edification by the oldest admirer of the Muses.

We understand that some of the wits of England accuse theAikins of book-making; an employment, it seems, not the most honourary which letters afford, and in nowise, we should presume, appropriable to any branch of the family. If the lighter, but useful, publications, which Mrs. Barbauld and her brother have obligingly put together for the improvement of youth, are considered as specimens of this kind of manufacture, we can only observe, that we feel a respect for the craft, and wish success to its partners. It may appear rash in us to call in question the awards of our superiours, and we hope for our own sakes, that what we have heard may be traced in the end to the scandalous club; yet we cannot avoid expressing our disapprobation of any ungentle remarks upon the Doctor and his connexions. If they are not to be admitted on the valued file of authors, we should

one

like to be directed, in this dearth of polite literature, to those whose pretensions are fairer. We suspect that their numbers are easily computed; unless the eccentricks of the new school of poetry are to be thrown into the account, who compose elegies en asses, or annually lie-in with an epick. The occasion, however, of this disaffection to the Doctor is readily explained. There are in all literary communities a set of difficult sparks, who pronounce every thing execrable, which is not positively divine, and with sweeping clause cut up by the root a second-rate author, with the same unconcern, as they cut open his leaves. But we have been too long acquainted with the pretensions of inferiour excellence not to allow, that there is much worth preserving, which falls short of their standard. Though the Doctor in his poetical criticisms may be less copious than Johnson, or elaborate than Hurd, he has performed to the utmost what he seems to have intended, and we could wish, that his opponents were invariably as fortunate.

It is a reviving reflection to an author, that it is not in the power of a name to destroy his pretensions; that though the world may be set against him for a time by the oracle of the day, he will attain in the end the celebrity he merits. Notwithstanding Johnson's reputation as a critick, it has been suspected of late that his taste was confined, and it is now considered excusable to fall out with the Prefaces. Poor Collins is every day getting better of the faint praise of his friend, and it is thought that the bard may yet pass for a prophet. We must not be charged with a want of reverence for the Rambler, for there Vol. IV. No. 5. LI

are none more alive to his merits, than the gentlemen of the Anthology. We know, that he moved in the literary world with the firm step and imposing port of a giant, but it cannot be concealed, that he sometimes passed,unimpressed, by a sublimity, and sometimes uncouthly set his foot on a grace. In pursuing the track of his predecessor, in the series before us, Doctor Aikin has occasionally done justice to those, who have suffered by his severity. Among the numbers, who have been reinstated in their literary claims, we were happy to notice the eccentrick Dean of St. Patrick's. Whether, because Johnson's aristocracy was hurt by the Doctor's familiarities with the great, or because his Deanship had neglected to procure him a degree, or on what account, or no account, he entertained his dislike, our readers, if disposed, may conjecture for themselves: but we are convinced, either for something or nothing, that he was inclined to disparage both the man and his works. However, the superiority of Swift is not easily veiled; and those, who would deny him the first praise as a wit, may expect to be accused of stupidity or prejudice. Sheridan has lately acquainted us with the moral excellences of the Drapier, and Doctor Aikin has now pronounced him a writer perfect in his kind.

With the criticisms on Hammond and Young (we beg pardon of the Muses for coupling them) we are not, we confess, so perfectly satisfied. We conceive that the Doctor has spoken rather timidly in praise of the latter, and and that he might, conscientiously, have said less of the former. Upon the merits of the Love Elegies perhaps we ought to be silent,

for some time has elapsed since we had the heart to peruse them. However, should we, from existing impressions, venture an opinion concerning them, we should agree, what with the cloying nature of their theme, and the dieaway style, in which it is treated, that they were peculiarly adapted to give one a surfeit.

'Love, only love, their forceless numbers mean.'

Be

Of any ill effects, that might attend a close acquaintance with the Night Thoughts, we cannot conceive. Few minds, we believe, owe their melancholy or cheerfulness to the influence of song; and the fears, which our author entertertains of the dejected muse of Doctor Young, appear, we must say, altogether extravagant. sides, allowing the lady aforesaid to be rather grave in her sugges tions, the critick should recollect that it is wholesome, occasionally, to visit the tombs. We own we love at midnight to follow this mournful sister of poesy over the uneven footing of the church yard, or to pause with her by moonlight on the broken colonade.

، The tombs And monumental caves of death look cold,

And shoot a chilness to my trembling

have been rendered more entertaining; and its airiness is not obtained at the expense of sound comment.

This work is neatly executed.

ART. 26.

The Echo: printed at the Porcupine Press, by Pasquin Petronius. 8vo. New-York, 1807. OF the type and paper of this volume, which contains 331 pages, we may justly speak with appro bation. The plates likewise, which are eight in number, designed by Tisdale, and engraved by Leney, possess considerable merit. That of the negro-ball contains an admirable likeness of a ci-devant governor of this state. The work itself is said to be the production of various political wits in Connecticut, who, at different periods, have employed their talents in ludicrously versifying the prosaick absurdities, which occasionally appeared in the democratick papers. The Echo amused the publick for the moment, was read, excited a laugh, and was forgotten.

We little expected to see a performance, thus local in its subjects, and therefore not likely to excite more than a temporary interest, come forward, at the expiration of several years, in all the dignity of octavo, and ornamented with splendid type, paper, and engravings; nor did we imagine, that the crude and unfinished trifles of an idle hour, would obtrude themselves on the grave tribunal of profest criticism. Vanity is said to be our national foible, and we are sorry that the authors of the Echo have afforded additional confirmation to the truth of the remark.

We cannot, indeed, discover sufficient merit, in the contents of