to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contemptuously còndemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY*.

SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe:

And o'er the wintery desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow,

And as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,

The melody of death.

2.

Come funeral flow'r! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

* The Rosemary buds in January-It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead.

Come press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly Alder tree,

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude
To break the marble solitude,

So peaceful, and so deep.

3.

And hark! the wind-god as he flies,
Moans hollow in the Forest-trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

TO THE MORNING:

Written during Illness.

BEAMS of the day-break faint! I hail
Your dubious hues, as on the robe

Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe,
I mark your traces pale.
Tired with the taper's sickly light,
And with the wearying, numbered night,
I hail the streaks of morn divine:

And lo! they break between the dewy wreathes
That round my rural casement twine;

The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes,

It fans my feverish brow,--it calms the mental strife, And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of life.

The Lark has her gay song begun,

She leaves her grassy nest,

And soars 'till the unrisen sun

Gleams on her speckled breast.

Now, let me leave my restless bed,
And o'er the spangled uplands tread.

Now thro' the custom'd wood-walk wend;

By many a green lane lies my way,

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend,
"Till on the Mountain's summit grey,

I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day.

Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale

It breathes into my breast,

My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale
Is with new colours drest.

`Blythe Health! thou soul of life and ease!
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze,
Invigorate my frame:

I'll join, with thee, the buskin'd chace,
With thee the distant clime will trace,

Beyond those clouds of flame,

Above, below, what charms unfold
In all the varied view;
Before me all is burnish'd gold,
Behind the twilight's hue,

The mists which on old Night await,

Far to the West, they hold their state,

They shun the clear, blue face of Morn;
Along the fine cerulean sky

The fleecy clouds successive fly,

While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn,

And hark! the Thatcher has begun

His whistle on the eaves,

And oft the Hedger's Bill is heard

Among the rustling leaves.

The slow team creaks upon the road,

The noisy whip resounds,

The driver's voice, his carol blythe,

The Mower's stroke, his whetting scythe,
Mix with the morning's sounds.

Who would not rather take his seat,

Beneath these clumps of trees,
The early dawn of day to greet,

And catch the healthy breeze,

Than on the silken couch of sloth,
Luxurious to lie;

Who would not from life's dreary waste,

Snatch when he could, with eager haste,
An interval of joy!

To him, who simply thus recounts
The morning's pleasures o'er,

Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close

To ope on him no more.

Yet Morning! unrepining still

He'll greet thy beams awhile,
And, surely thou, when o'er his grave
Solemn the whisp'ring willows wave,
Wilt sweetly on him smile.

And the pale Glow-worm's pensive light,

Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night.

An author is proof against reviewing, when, like myself, he has been reviewed above seventy times; but the opinion of a reviewer upon his first publication, has more effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the ungentle craft were more generally understood. Henry wrote to the Editor, to complain of the cruelty with which he had been treated. This remonstrance produced the following answer in the next month.

Monthly Review, March, 1804.

ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

"In the course of our long critical labours, we have necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, or withstand the lamen