WE are informed by the preface that the poem before us is the produce of the leisure of a naval officer, who was obliged to spend some time on shore in order to recruit a constitution impaired by hard ser

vice.

That the scenes here described are copied from the life by one who has himself been personally engaged

in them, we are fully convinced by the accuracy of detail and the vivid stamp of reality by which the whole is impressed. We have to regret however, that the very imperfect knowledge which the author betrays of the art of versification, will at the very outset disgust most belles lettres readers, and thus deprive them of the entertainment

which the narrative part of the work is so capable of affording.

For ourselves we are not so fastidious as to reject an interesting production, though uncouth, though occasionally vulgar, if, as is the case with the one before us, it evinces sound sense, just sentiments, and describes with the nervous accuracy of truth those scenes both ludicrous and terrible, which very rarely present themselves to the accomplished poet.

The events here treated of are supposed to occur on board a British frigate, during a cruize of two months off the coast of Spain. The first canto describes the unmooring, weighing anchor, and departure, and the routine of duty during the first night. The second canto commences with the morning watch, a little before day-break, then proceeds to a forcible exposition of the necessity of employment to the crew of a man of war, and the duty of repressing a spirit of gaming. The reader is next entertained with an animated description of a general exercise at great guns and small arms, and is introduced to the first lieutenant; to this succeeds the description of dinner, of the afternoon's employment, and of the evening sports.

The third canto describes various pastimes and amusements both of the officers and men, including two pitched battles at single-stick. The captain's library is enumerated, and the cominander of the marines, the surgeon, and the chap. lain are introduced.

latter are called by the sailors, Mother Carey's chickens, and are the objects of much superstitious reverence. The captain of marines shoots at one of these winged witches, and a young midshipman begins to whistle. These inauspicious circumstances are observed by "old ugly John the cook," who,

Than gummy Jack begins to drizzle,
Not pearly dew drops from the rose,
Such as from weeping beauty flows;
But such as slowly oozes when,
The coal is full of bitumen!-
As much from nose, as e'er from eyes,
Accompanied by heavy sighs:
"O Lord!-ould Mother Carey vext,
Davy, with whistling d-d perplext;
And in the ship too Parson Text!—
It's all up with us!-that's most sartin!
Devil a bit, we make our fortín !
I would my whole allowance bet!"
All hands will be misfortunet,
Thus vex'd in spirit, down he goes,
Blowing like horn his great conch nose.

"No sooner heard the fearful whistle,

Unsettled weather had indeed begun, Becoming worse, as clos'd our this day's

That is, it is of such compact adherence As to have to an ir'n-bound coast ap

pearance+:

Tho' now we're cruising very far from

shore,

Lisbon, the nearest port within our pow'r.”

which a man falls overboard, and is with difficulty recovered.

In the fifth canto the gale bursts on the ship in a squall of wind, lightLing, and rain, just at sunset, the particulars of which are introduced by the following very striking de. scription.

"So then conceive the ship made tight,
As real seamen think it right ;-
That helmsmen's ship the hooded coat
Of painted canvass, dress afloat,
In weather rough, of right good worth:
Thus are they dry, as in their birth.-
For boots of hardy Fisher suit,
When oil'd, from feet the wet to shoot.
That but the watch looks out at last.
That onward comes the rushing blast;
That deepest darkness spreads around,
That hollow thunders 'gin to sound,
And foaming, mountain-billows bound.
That, as the tempest comes apace,
Lightnings alone illume the space
Of Heav'n's contracted vault, and sear
its face!

The feeling I can never tell
That first I felt,-it was farewell,
A sort of solemn, dread farewell
To our own world,; as tho' we were
Shut out from circumambient air;
As tho' ordain'd from light to go,
And sail 'mongst shades to worlds below."

The gale increases in the night so as to require the utmost exertions of the most active and boldest sailors, emphatically styled "sheetanchor men." Towards morning the violence of the wind begins to abate.

The sixth canto is introduced by a description of the method of harpooning bonettas, and afterwards composing of them a sea dainty called Lobscouse. A French frigate is then descried, and an animated, but unsuccessful chase ensues, which terminates by the enemy gaining the harbour of Vigo. The British captain then receives information from a neutral, that a Spanish privateer and large merchant ship are at anchor in a neighbouring port, upon which he resolves to attempt to board and cut them out in the course of the following night. The

frigate proceeds to her station off the destined harbour, the boats are manned, and the expedition is committed to the care of the first lieutenant. After a time a distant gun announces to their comrades in the ship that the boats are discovered; this is immediately followed by a general discharge and a confused tumult, the effect of which on the anxious listeners is deline ated with great nature and energy. At length all is silent, and the agony of expectation is at its height, when it is in part relieved by the artil lery from the battery in the harbour beginning to fire, thus rendering it probable that the British have taken, and are carrying off, the objects of their attack. By daylight the prizes arrive, and the wounded and prisoners are received on board.

In the seventh canto is shown the whole form and process of naval punishment, inflicted on a sailor for robbing one of the prisoners. The ship then steers for the nearest Spanish port to discharge the prisoners on parole, and the prizes are dispatched to England. The frigate returns off Vigo, stands into the harbour, and challenges the French frigate to action, which is

declined. A cruize for some days then takes place, in the course of which the ship is disguised so as to appear like a merchantman: the French frigate takes the opportunity to escape from Vigo, falls in with the British ship, and advances towards her, thinking to make an easy prize. At the proper time the disguise is thrown off, and after a hard-fought battle the enemy is taken by boarding.

It would not be fair towards the author, nog would our limits permit us, to extract the account of the battle, which abounds with particulars that could only be collected by an eye-witness, and presents the terrible but spirited scene in a most

lively manner to the imagination of the reader. We therefore proceed to the last canto. In this is described with much feeling the impressive ceremony of committing to the deep at midnight, the body of a seaman who died of his wounds, which is succeeded by, and contrasted with, the joyful hurry of arriving at Plymouth, and sailing in triumph with the captured enemy into harbour.

We have given this short analysis of the poem before us, because as a true representation of naval life, it is, we believe, unrivalled, With seamen who will not be dis gusted at the uncouthness of the versification, it cannot fail of becoming a favourite, and of exalting in them that active perseverance, that deliberate valour, and that prompt humanity, which so nobly characterize the British navy.

THE name of epic has not been given to this poem by its author, but unless machinery be regarded as essential to that species, to the epic it must belong. But of this remark we shall take no advantage. Without trying Mr. Cottle by the rules of Aristotle, or comparing him with Milton, we shall probably be able to satisfy our readers on the point, whether or not these twenty-five books of blank verse are, or are not, worthy of their attention. With respect to subject, they relate with no unpardonable deviations from the truth of history, as far as events only, not characters, are concerned, the conquest of Wales by Edward the First, completed by the defeat and death of Llewellyn, the last of the Cynethian dynasty, a theme which might well have engaged a contemporary lyre, had any English poet then existed, or Cambrian bard survived, but one which at the present day lies open to a most material objection. For which party are the readers to wish? It is impossible not to think the subjugation of Wales by the English as a circumstance eventually fortunate to both nations. We ought therefore to be on the side of Edward; but he himself was an ambitious and sanguinary conqueror. and all that is noble in man's nature rouses itself on the part of the

patriot who resists an invader.Amidst such a contrariety of feciing, the interest must be lost.

We shall enable our readers to judge of the execution of this poem by three extracts: the first is Llewellyn's address on assembling his army, in which of course the author would exert all his eloquence. The second is intended to display his imagination and happy turn for allegory and moral reflection, and the third, Caradoc's lamentation over the massacre of the bards, may exhibit his lyric style, and his powers in the pathetic way. "Men, to your country dear, I welcome you!

Your sires, now slumbering, 'neath this hallowed ground,

The native heirs of Freedom! 'mid the winds,

Which now we feel, and on this moun

Never to let the foot of enemy Press down our sward. We, their inheritance,

So dearly purchased, at this hour enjoy! And shall we not, like our brave fathers,

swear

Still to transmit the uncorrupted boon Down to our children? The hard labouring breath

With which you stem your spirits, answers yes!

Sons of illustrious sires, this is the hour, When words must e'en assume substantial form,

And rise to action. Edward our proud foe,

Whose might we erst have combated and scorn'd,

Now hastens, with a host, numerous as

stars

Nor mourn, o'er the impending hurri

cane,

The tempest, louring, and ordain'd to fall, Ere long, in showers of blood! Where then will be

These hamlets, scatter'd o'er the fertile land,

Where peace hath stray'd, and happiness, full long,

Held her calm dwelling? Where will then be found

These flocks, now brousing on the mountain herb.

These shepherds, peaceful men, from morn to night

Tending their charge? Great changes are at hand,

lected force,

With all the habiliments and pomp of war, Hovers upon our frontiers-knights and squires,

And barons bold, with rage implacable, And swearing to reduce, us and our race To abject chains. Vain threat of impotence!

Fetter the mountain sons of liberty! Teach us to eat subjection's bitter bread! Extinguish the immortal spark, which glows

Within our breast, kindled, when Brutus fell,

Our great progenitor! Impossible!
Th' unconquer'd sword, wielded by arms

like ours,

Will teach this fierce Plantagenet, once

reign,

The ghost of manhood, be the potent prince Whose voice the thunders drown'd, and whose command