There fhine the yellow fields with corn o'erfpread;
There lifts Britannia's oak its towering head;
Sweils the brown hill, the floping vales retire,
And o'er the woodland peeps the rural spire;
Above the rest the Cambrian mountains rife,
Clofe the long view, and mingle with the skies.
"Can Gallia's vine-crown'd hills with thefe compare ;
Tho' there the peasant breathes a milder air?
Or can Iberia's lovelieft landscapes fhow
So rich a profpect, or so bright a glow ?
There funs all fultry parch the cracking foil,
The hardening meadow mocks the peasant's toil;
The fpirits droop beneath the noon tide blaze,
And all the rofeate bloom of health decays:
But here she loves her choicefts gifts to pour,
Breathes in each gale, and melts in every shower;
Sheds joy, and gladnefs, o'er the temperate plain,
And crowns the cottage of the labouring fwain:
Midst the throng'd vale, as the imparts her fmile,
Care smooths her front, and Labour scorns his toil;
And Love, his dewy locks with roses bound,

Trips o'er the lawn, and meditates the wound."

The merit of this performance, however, does not lie mere, ly in poetical description: the moral fentiments, conveyed in nervous and harmonious numbers, ftamp an additional value on the scenery,

His defcription of the ftate of flavery in the West India Iflands, and the juft indignation he expreffes at the commercial avarice and falfe policy which are the cause of it, do him particular honour.

"There Afric's fwarthy fons their toils repeat,
Beneath the fervors of the noon-tide heat;
Torn from each joy that crown'd their native foil,
No sweet reflections mitigate their toil;
From morn to eve, by rigorous hands oppreft,
Dull fly their hours, of every hope unbleit:
Till, broke with Labour, helpless, and forlorn,
From their weak grafp the lingering morfel torn,
The reed-built hovel's friendly fhade deny'd,
The jeft of folly, and the fcorn of pride,
Prooping beneath meridian funs they lie,
Lift the faint head, and bend th' imploring eye;
Till Death, in kindness, from the tortur'd breaft
Calls the free fpirit to the realms of rest.

We must except fome few lines, and falfe Rhimes, which, as we hare often obferved, we look upon as a capital defect in modern verfifica

tion.

Shame

"Shame to Mankind! But fhame to Britons moft,
Who all the fweets of Liberty can boast ;
Yet, deaf to every human claim, deny
That blifs to others, which themselves enjoy
Life's bitter draught with harfher bitter fill;
Biaft every joy, and add to every ill;

The trembling limbs with galling iron bind,
Nor loofe the heavier bondage of the mind.

"Yet whence these horrors this inhuman rage;
That brands with blackeft infamy the age?
Is it, our varied interefts difagree,

And Britain finks if Afric's fons be free?
-No-Hence a few fuperfluous flores we claim,
That tempt our avarice, but increase our shame;
The fickly palate touch with more delight,
Or fwell the fenfelefs riot of the night.

-Bleft were the days ere Foreign Climes were known,
Our wants contracted, and our wealth our own;
When Health could crown, and Innocence endear,
The temperate meal, that cost no eye a tear:
Our drink, the beverage of the crystal flood,
-Not madly purchas'd by a brother's blood-
Ere the wide-fpreading ills of Trade began,
Or Luxury trampled on the rights of Man."

Nor does his comparison, between the infant and adult ftate of Commerce, lefs honour to his feelings.

" When Commerce, yet an infant, rais'd her head,
'Twas mutual want her growing empire spread:
Thofe mutual wants a diftant realm fupply'd,
And like advantage every clime enjoy'd.
Diftruftless then of every treacherous view,
An open welcome met the stranger crew;
And, whilst the whitening fleet approach'd the land,
The wondering natives hail'd them from the strand;
Fearless to meet, amidst the flow of foul,
The lurking dagger, or the poifon'd bowl.

"Now, more deftructive than a blighting storm,
A bloated monster, Commerce, rears her form;
Throws the meek olive from her daring hand,
Grafps the red fword, and whirls the flaming brand:
True to no faith; by no restraints controul'd;
By guilt made cautious, and by avarice bold;
Each feature reddens with the tinge of fhame,
Whilft Patna's plain, and Buxar's fields, I name.
How droops Bengal beneath Oppreffion's reign!
How groans Oriffa with the weight of flain!
To glut her rage, what thousands there have bled,
What thrones are vacant, and what princes dead!
In vain may War's relenting fury fpare,
Attendant Famine follows in the rear ;

And

And the poor natives but furvive, to know
The lingering horrors of feverer woe.

Can this be fhe, who promis'd once to bind
In leagues of ftricteft amity, mankind ?

This fiend, whose breath inflames the spark of ftrife,
And pays with trivial toys the price of life?"

The annexed Ode was written on the inftitution of a fociety in Liverpool for the encouragement of defigning, drawing, painting, &c. Our poetical readers will thank us for extracting its exordium, written in a ftrain, well characterised by the poet's own words, applied to Angelo and Milton"Majeftic, nervous, bold, and ftrong.'

"From climes where Slavery's iron chain
Has bound to earth the foaring mind,
Where Grecia mourns her blasted plain
To want and indolence refign'd;
From fair Italia's once lov'd shore,
(The land of Freedom now no more)
Difdainful of each former feat,
The Arts, a lovely train, retreat:
Sull profpering under Freedom's eye,

With her they bloom, with her they fly;

And, when the Power transferr'd her fmile

To Albion's ever grateful ifle,

The lovely Fugitives forgot to roam,

But rais'd their altars here, and fix'd their happier home.

Swift fly the hovering fhades of Night,

When burfts the orient dawn of Day;
As fwift before their mental light

The clouds of Ignorance decay.

First came the Muse-her

great defign

Each dull fenfation to refine;

To plant in every rugged breast
The feeds of Genius and of Tafte;
To bid the heart expand with woe,

Or with the great example glow,
Or fmile along the fportive page,

Or fhrink at Satire's pointed rage;

Thro' Fancy's realms the wondering mind to bear,
And for her fifter Arts an easier path prepare.

"Of power to ftill the raging deep,
To damp the gay, to warm the cold,
To bid the steel-ribb'd warrior weep,
And make the trembling dastard bold,

An Institution, we are forry to hear, already come to decay.

Το

To free the flave, the wild to tame,
Queen of the Spheres, next Music came :---
Her ftrains can every care controul,
And waft to heaven the listening foul;
Can every foft affection move,

And tune the amorous pulfe to love:
Now chaste and rapturous joys infpire,

Pure as the vestal's facred fire;

Now loud and dreadful fwell the strong alarms,
Foment the thirst of blood, the glorious rage of arms.

Next came the power, in whom conjoin'd
Their different excellence is fhewn;
Yet fweetly blended, and combin'd
With charms peculiarly her own.
Beneath the great Creator's eye,
'Twas the with azure fpread the sky;
And, when Creation first had birth,
In happiest hues array'd the earth;
Still varying in each varied scene,
Bedeck'd the fmiling meads with green,
Blush'd in the flower, and ting'd the fruit,
More lovely ftill as more minute;
O'er every part the veil of beauty cait,

In heavenly colours bright, thro' numerous years to last.

Hers is the glowing bold defign,
The juft and leffening perfpective,
The beauties of the waving line,
And all the pencil's power can give.
'Tis true-the Bard's harmonious tongue
May draw the landscape bright and strong;
Defcribe the dreadful scenes of war,
The crested helm, the rattling car;
The generous thirft of praise infpire,

And kindle virtue's facred fire:
Yet ftill may Painting's glowing hand
An equal share of praife command;
In every province claim her mingled part,

The wondering sense to charm, or moralize the heart.”

K.

A Letter to Courtney Melmoth, Efq; occafioned by his Apology for the Life and Writings of David Hume, Efq; &c.By a Country Curate. 12mo. Is. Richardfon and Urquhart.

There is fomething fo fecure in confiftency, that, whenever it is departed from, we lay ourselves open on every fide to reproach.

proach. This feems to have been the cafe with Mr. Melmoth, at leaft fuch is the appearance, which our Country Curaté hath laid hold of, to manifeft his own orthodoxy, and to reprobate the religious pretenfions of Mr. M. The Apology for the Life of Mr. Hume, of which we gave our opinion in a former Review, followed, it feems, too clofely on the heels of the fublime and beautiful of Scripture, another publication of Mr. M.'s the one exhibiting this author as an advocate for the facred writings; the other befpeaking him a friend to the cause of infidelity.-There is doubtlefs a great appearance of inconfiftency in all this, if Mr. M. be really the writer of the Apology* but before our Country Curate took upon him to be fo fevere on this gentleman on that account, he should have remembered that the Comment on the Scriptures was written many years ago, while the author was a candidate for holy orders. He may poffibly have entered into very different orders fince; and, tho' that denote his apoftacy, it fkreens him from the charge of inconfiftency.-Not that we take any part with apoftate parfons, tho' we think them, after all, rather more refpectable than hypocritical ones. We beg Mr. Melmoth's pardon, however, as well as that of our Country Curate, for this freedom of expreffion, if it be inapplicable to either. We should do the latter injuftice, alfo, did not we confess that he hath been fometimes very juftly fevere, in his animadverfions on the flirting (if we may fo term it) reflections he has unneceffarily caft on the higher ranks of society, as well as on the characters of fome refpectable individuals, in his Apology.

"You have very severely and unjustly handled our modern nobility, by animadverting fo boldly on the contemptible ignorance of the most part of them. It would be a happy circumftance if they were all ignorant of Hume's dangerous philofophy. Ignorance in that respect would be fuperior to knowledge.

Many of the nobility, all muft allow, fhamefully neglect the cultivation of their mind. But had you in the leaft confidered right, you would not have been fo fevere, in your determination of a matter, which now, I muft plainly tell you, your judgment is incapable of deciding. Many of noble birth have shone, and do now fine, in the lite rary world.

"You, Sir, again contemptuoufly fay that the "modern great "(who are but too commonly the least of all God's little atomns) must "be amongst the worst judges of literary merit." I hope, that, fince you have degraded the nobility, as ufelefs members of Society, you don't defign to fit in the critical chair. To be fure, you have a deal of

Of which, however, we have only anonymous and unfupported information,