From these childish and absurd affecta- | Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The poem that stands first in the volume, is that to which we have already alluded as having been first given to the public upwards of twenty years ago. It is so old, and has of late been so scarce, that it is probably new to many of our readers. We shall venture, therefore, to give a few extracts from it as a specimen of Mr. Crabbe's original style of composition. We have already hinted at the description of the Parish Workhouse, and insert it as an example of no common poetry :— Theirs is yon house that holds the parish poor, "Here, too, the sick their final doom receive, The consequential apothecary, who gives an impatient attendance in these abodes of misery, is admirably described; but we pass to the last scene : Now to the church behold the mourners come, So close, you'd say that they were bent, To drag it to the ground; And all had join'd in one endeavour, To bury this poor thorn for ever." pp. 16. 17. The scope of the poem is to show, that the Contend with weakness, weariness, and shame; "Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell, We shall only give one other extract from this poem; and we select the following fine description of that peculiar sort of barrenness which prevails along the sandy and thinly inhabited shores of the Channel: "Lo! where the heath, with with'ring brake grown The next poem, and the longest in the volume, is now presented for the first time to And this it seems, is Nature, and Pathos, and the public. It is dedicated, like the former, Poetry! to the delineation of rural life and characters, and is entitled, "The Village Register;" and, upon a very simple but singular plan, is divided into three parts, viz. Baptisms, Marriages, and Burials. After an introductory and general view of village manners, the reverend author proceeds to present his readers with an account of all the remarkable baptisms, marriages, and funerals, that appear on his register for the preceding year; with a sketch of the character and behaviour of the respective parties, and such reflections and exhortations as are suggested by the subject. The poem consists, therefore, of a series of portraits taken from the middling and lower ranks of rustic life, and delineated on occasions at once more common and more interesting, than any other that could well be imagined. They are selected, we think, with great judgment, and drawn with inimitable accuracy and strength of colouring. They are finished with much more minuteness and detail, indeed, than the more general pictures in "The Village" and, on this account, may appear occasionally deficient in comprehension, or in dignity. They are, no doubt, executed in some instances with too much of a Chinese accuracy; and enter into details which many readers may pronounce tedious and unnecessary. Yet there is a justness and force in the representation which is entitled to something more than indulgence; and though several of the groups are composed of low and disagreeable subjects, still, we think that some allowance is to be made for the author's plan of giving a full and exact view of village life, which could not possibly be accomplished without including those baser varieties. He aims at an important moral effect by this exhibition; and must not be defrauded either of that, or of the praise which is due to the coarser efforts of his pen, out of deference to the sickly delicacy of his more fastidious readers. We admit, however, that there is more carelessness, as well as more quaintness in this poem than in the other; and that he has now and then apparently heaped up circumstances rather to gratify his own taste for detail and accumulation, than to give any additional effect to his description. With this general observation, we beg the reader's attention to the following abstract and citations. "See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest! What nauseous fragments on yon fractur'd chest! And round these posts that serve this bed for feet · What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat! This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie, Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by. See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head, Left by neglect, and burrow'd in that bed; The mother-gossip has the love supprest, An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast," &c. But packs of cards-made up of sundry packs; "Here are no wheels for either wool or flax, Here are no books, but ballads on the wall, Are some abusive, and indecent all; Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks, Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks; An ample flask that nightly rovers fill, A box of tools with wires of various size, With recent poison from the Dutchman's still; Frocks, wigs, and hats, for night or day disguise, And bludgeons stout to gain or guard a prize. "Here his poor bird, th' inhuman cocker bring Arms his hard heel, and clips his golden wings; And shouts and curses as the battle bleeds: With spicy food th' impatient spirit feeds, Struck through the brain, depriv'd of both his eyes, The vanquish'd bird must combat till he dies! Must faintly peck at his victorious foe, And reel and stagger at each feeble blow; When fall'n, the savage grasps his dabbled plumes, His blood-stain'd arms, for other deaths assumes; And damns the craven-fowl, that lost his stake, And only bled and perish'd for his sake!" pp. 40-44. Mr. Crabbe now opens his chronicle; and the first babe that appears on the list is a natural child of the miller's daughter. This damsel fell in love with a sailor; but her father refused his consent, and no priest would unite them without it. The poor girl yielded to her passion; and her lover went to sea, to seek a portion for his bride:The varying look, the wand'ring appetite; "Then came the days of shame, the grievous night, The joy assum'd, while sorrow dimm'd the eyes, The forc'd sad smiles that follow'd sudden sighs, And every art, long us'd, but us'd in vain, To hide thy progress, Nature, and thy pain. 44 Day after day were past in grief and pain, Her boy was born :-No lads nor lasses came Week after week, nor came the youth again; To grace the rite or give the child a name; Nor grave conceited nurse, of office proud, Bore the young Christian, roaring through the In a small chamber was my office done, [crowd; Where blinks, through paper'd panes, the setting Where noisy sparrows, perch'd on penthouse near, Chirp tuneless joy, and mock the frequent tear.' sun; [close, Throughout the lanes, she glides at evening's There softly lulls her infant to repose; Then sits and gazes, but with viewless look, As gilds the moon the rimpling of the brook; She hears their murmurs as the waters flow; Then sings her vespers, but in voice so low, And she too murmurs, and begins to find The solemn wand'rings of a wounded mind! pp. 47-49. We pass the rest of the Baptisms; and proceed to the more interesting chapter of Marriages. The first pair here is an old snug bachelor, who, in the first days of dotage, had married his maid-servant. The reverend Mr. Crabbe is very facetious on this match; and not very scrupulously delicate. The following picture, though liable in part to the same objection, is perfect, we think, in that style of drawing: 385 "If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; "Next at our altar stood a luckless pair, [strove Look'd on the lad, and faintly try'd to smile; pp. 74, 75 Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the (Seen but by few, and blushing to be seen-- [green, Dejected, thoughtful, anxious and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: Slow through the meadows rov'd they, many a mile, Toy'd by each bank, and trifled at each stile; Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the fair prospect with prophetic tears." pp. 76, 77. This is the taking side of the picture: At the end of two years, here is the reverse. Nothing can be more touching, we think, than the quiet suffering and solitary hysterics of this ill-fated young woman: "Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And seems, with patience, striving with her pains; And every step with cautious terror makes; "And now her path, but not her peace, she gains, And sobbing struggles with the rising fits! p. 79. readers will take in this simple story, to be It may add to the interest which some told, that it was the last piece of poetry that was read to Mr. Fox during his fatal illness; and that he examined and made some flattering remarks on the manuscript of it a few days before his death. We are obliged to pass over the rest of the "Forsaken stood the hall, The old maid follows next to the shades of mortality. The description of her house, furniture, and person, is admirable, and affords a fine specimen of Mr. Crabbe's most minute finishing; but it is too long for extracting. We rather present our readers with a part of the character of Isaac Ashford :— " 'Next to these ladies, but in nought allied, The rest of the character is drawn with In vain!-they come-she feels th' inflaming grief, equal spirit: but we can only make room for That shuts the swelling bosom from relief; That speaks in feeble cries a soul distrest, The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and flies pp. 77, 78. the author's final commemoration of him. 386 No more that meek, that suppliant look in prayer, We then bury the village midwife, super- poem ends We think this the most important of the new pieces in the volume; and have extended our account of it so much, that we can "The afford to say but little of the others. Library" and "The Newspaper" are republications. They are written with a good deal of terseness, sarcasm, and beauty; but the subjects are not very interesting, and they will rather be approved, we think, than admired or delighted in. We are not much taken either with "The Birth of Flattery." With many nervous lines and ingenious allusions, it has something of the languor which seems inseparable from an allegory which exceeds the length of an epigram. "Sir Eustace Grey" is quite unlike any of the preceding compositions. It is written in a sort of lyric measure; and is intended to represent the perturbed fancies of the most terrible insanity settling by degrees into a sort of devotional enthusiasm. The opening stanza, spoken by a visiter in the madhouse, is very striking. "I'll see no more!-the heart is torn By views of woe we cannot heal; And oft again their griefs shall feel, And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile, There is great force, both of language and conception, in the wild narrative Sir Eustace gives of his frenzy; though we are not sure whether there is not something too elaborate, and too much worked up, in the picture. We give only one image, which we think is original. He supposed himself hurried along by two tormenting demons. "Through lands we fled, o'er seas we flew, And halted on a boundless plain; "Upon that boundless plain, below, The setting sun's last rays were shed, Where all were still, asleep, or dead; Pillars and pediments sublime, "There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to stay; "The Hall of Justice," or the story of the Gipsy Convict, is another experiment of Mr. Crabbe's. It is very nervous-very shocking and very powerfully represented. The woman is accused of stealing, and tells her story in impetuous and lofty language. "My crime! this sick'ning child to feed, 66 Troubles and sorrows more severe; A friend to help-find one to hear. Their sorrows and their sins I knew; Like them, I base and guilty grew! His looks would all his soul declare, All in the May of youthful pride; pp. 240-242. The father felon falls in love with the betrothed of his son, whom he despatches on some distant errand. The consummation of his horrid passion is told in these powerful stanzas: "The night was dark, the lanes were deep, For mercy!-and be so refus'd!"'—p. 243. "I brought a lovely daughter forth, His father's child, in Aaron's bed! 'Where is my child?'-Thy child is dead." ""Twas false ! We wander'd far and wide, Through town and country, field and fen, Till Aaron fighting, fell and died, And I became a wife again."-p. 248. We have not room to give the sequel of this dreadful ballad. It cer ́ainly is not pleasing The Borough: a Poem, in Twenty-four Letters. By the Rev. GEORGE CRABBE, LL. B. 8vo. pp. 344. London: 1810. WE are very glad to meet with Mr. Crabbe so soon again; and particularly glad to find, that his early return has been occasioned, in part, by the encouragement he received on his last appearance. This late spring of public favour, we hope, he will yet live to see ripen into mature fame. We scarcely know any poet who deserves it better; and are quite certain there is none who is more secure of keeping with posterity whatever he may win from his contemporaries. The present poem is precisely of the character of The Village and The Parish Register. It has the same peculiarities, and the same faults and beauties; though a severe critic might perhaps add, that its peculiarities are more obtrusive, its faults greater, and its beauties less. However that be, both faults and beauties are so plainly produced by the peculiarity, that it may be worth while, before giving any more particular account of it, to try if we can ascertain in what that consists. And here we shall very speedily discover, that Mr. Crabbe is distinguished from all other poets, both by the choice of his subjects, and by his manner of treating them. All his persons are taken from the lower ranks of life; and all his scenery from the most ordinary and familiar objects of nature or art. His characters and incidents, too, are as common as the elements out of which they are compounded are humble; and not only has he nothing prodigious or astonishing in any of his representations, but he has not even attempted to impart any of the ordinary colours of poetry to those vulgar materials. He has no moralising swains or sentimental tradesmen; and scarcely ever seeks to charm us by the artless graces or lowly virtues of his personages. On the contrary, he has represented his villagers and humble burghers as altogether as dissipated, and more dishonest and discontented, than the profligates of higher life; and, instead of conducting us through blooming groves and pastoral meadows, has led us along filthy lanes and crowded wharfs, to hospitals, alms-houses, and gin-shops. In some of these delineations, he may be considered as the Satirist of low life-an occupation sufficiently arduous, and, in a great degree, new and original in our language. But by far the greater part of his poetry is of a different and a higher character; and aims at moving or delighting us by lively, touching, and finely contrasted representations of the dispositions, sufferings, and occupations of those ordinary persons who form the far greater part of our fellow-creatures. This, too, he has sought to effect, merely by placing before us the clearest, most brief, and most striking sketches of their external condition— the most sagacious and unexpected strokes of character-and the truest and most pathetic pictures of natural feeling and common suffering. By the mere force of his art, and the novelty of his style, he forces us to attend to objects that are usually neglected, and to enter into feelings from which we are in general but too eager to escape;-and then trusts to nature for the effect of the representation. It is obvious, at first sight, that this is not a task for an ordinary hand; and that many ingenious writers, who make a very good figure with battles, nymphs, and moonlight landscapes, would find themselves quite helpless, if set down among streets, harbours, and taverns. The difficulty of such subjects, in short, is sufficiently visible-and some of the causes of that difficulty: But they have their advantages also;-and of these, and their hazards, it seems natural to say a few words, before entering more minutely into the merits of the work before us. The first great advantage of such familiar subjects is, that every one is necessarily wel acquainted with the originals; and is there. fore sure to feel all that pleasure, from a faithful representation of them, which results from the perception of a perfect and successful imitation. In the kindred art of painting, we find that this single consideration has been sufficient to stamp a very high value upon accurate and lively delineations of objects, in themselves uninteresting, and even disagreeable; and no very inconsiderable part of the pleasure which may be derived from Mr Crabbe's poetry may probably be referred to its mere truth and fidelity; and to the brevity and clearness with which he sets before his readers, objects and characters with which they have been all their days familiar. In his happier passages, however, he has a |