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and in great measure composed, on the model of Milton's Comus, that beautiful specimen of Doric excellence.' The incident which gave rise to it, was an attack of incubus, during an illness in which the Author was attended by three young relatives who make a conspicuous figure in the poem, and for whose pleasure this ingenious little drama was originally designed. The attack is fancied to be made by an evil spirit, Setebos, to whom permission is given, for one night in the year, to torment whom he would in the neighbourhood of the cave in which he is at all other times confined, and who takes this opportunity, through the agency of Hecate, of terrifying him in his sleep, in revenge for having interfered with the rites of his worship. The fancy of none but a poet, one would think, would thus, have been prompted by so simple an incident. The Dramatis Persona are, the Brother, supposed to be a shepherd, his three Sisters, the Guardian Spirit, Ariel, Setebos the Dæmon, Hecate, and Shepherds. The poem opens with a sonnet of the Sisters to the setting sun, in a beautiful island, where the Brother is confined by sickness, and whither the Sisters have followed to attend him. The Guardian Spirit is then heard in mid air, proclaiming the purpose of the mission on which he was sent :

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But now my errand lies to yon green Isle

Fixed in the Atlantic; and best haste is due ;
For mark how Titan threats his flaming steeds,
And they, ere now, have bathed their burning hoofs,
In th' Ocean flood-Evening comes on apace,
And Dian soon will crown the spangled night.
Down through the dusky air I swiftly shoot,
Following a meteor's track, whose lamp might guide,
If light were needful, my star-paved course.
And, lo! beneath me sleeps th' enchanted shore :
How beautiful is th' island-it would seem

The labour of fairy hands, in happy hour,

Called by some master-spirit from the deep.

The rocks, the strand, wear such fantastic features,-
So like, and yet so unlike, Nature's moulding-
Such strange varieties of shape and colour,

In combination endless, lovely all,

That it reminds me of the abode of those
Whose mortal deeds have won immortal glory.
See now th' enamoured Lady of the Moon
Looks sweetest on yon slope facing the South,
And through rich clustering vines, with rubies hung.
That mantle a cave's mouth, peeps in to spy
The Shepherd Youth, whose genius I am.
This stripling youth, behoves it I should tell,

Tending long time his simple rural charge
In this still vale-at best a shepherd seeming
To casual eyes-yet such repute hath gained
Of various learning, which true goodness heightens,
Among the neighbouring hinds, who feed their flocks
On these blue hills, that they far other deem
His birth and parentage; and oft when eve
To meditation prompts, they fold their sheep,
And hither hie, to drink at wisdom's fount;
For he will tell them of th' all-bounteous Pan;
Of the starry train that watchful Hesper leads;
Or of those herbs, fruits, flowers, medicinal,
Which Earth's green lap adorn: these, and much more,
With grateful interlude of voice or pipe,

Their mountain melodies, have much endeared him
To all the country round; but now, alas!
Consuming thought has well-nigh snapped his stem,
As some pretend, or the black noxious dew

nipt his young bud.

Nor is the worst yet told. In this same isle,
Within the spent womb of an old volcano,

Whose frightful cliffs, fire-scarred, in hideous forms,
Through clinging ivy and vile scrambling weeds,
Like haunted ruins frown, a dæmon dwells,
Called Setebos, whom Sytorax adored.
To this spot, by attraction, all things base,
Grovelling, or venemous, which the soil produces,
As to their wicked centre, nightly troops
And from the ragged entrails of the rocks,
And hollow-eaten caverns, where they hive,
An ugly swarm of uncouth things creep forth,
To pay their homage to this deity.

To night, the base-born god, by long prescript,
Deduced from fabulous times, hath leave to roam
The island through, and vex, or vent his spite,
Where Jove permits, on man, beast, shrub, and tree;
This brings me down; for well I know what deep
Infixed antipathy there ever rankles

Betwixt the evil and good, and therefore fear
Some fresh attempt upon the innocent head
Of him I guard, though it shall harmless prove.
First will I fetch my round, and then attend
Till Ariel comes, for whose light services
I shall find much occasion ere morn break.”

lis

The Guardian Spirit disappears, and Ariel is introduced, singing, of course, and announces the orders he has received. The scene is then changed to the volcanic cavern, where Setebos is represented, crowned with night-shade, uttering his

complaints in soliloquy, and denouncing vengeance against the young shepherd. The scene changes to a grotto, in which the Brother, reclined on a mossy couch, is uttering his disconsolate lament accompanied by a lute.

When I reflect on my sad destiny,

And reckon up' the ills that mar my lot,
How dark-browed Fate hath made my life a blot,
Turning its fair tide into one black sea,
Whereon my ill-starred bark hath gone to lee,
Ever in tempest tost, or else dead calm-
The seeming good still backed by certain harm-
Death ending all, and setting all things free-
I wonder not that men should love their graves,
As weary, o'er-done taskers love their bed,
Bidding glad welcome, like surcharged slaves,
To that kind friend who hath their ransom paid.
Much more, the valley-clods look sweet to those

Who find in death new life, and in heaven's court repose.'

The three Sisters, who have been listening, in front of the grotto, to his querulous soliloquy, now enter, and find him asleep. In the mean time, Setebos has summoned Hecate to his aid, and is preparing his mischievous operations, when he suddenly finds his powers fail him. Hecate, however, undertakes to raise a storm, and inflict nightmare on the youth; but the Author has strangely neglected to give to that disorder a poetical shape and being, although Fuseli had drawn its likeness ready to his hand. While the youth is writhing under the power of the enchantment, to the great consternation of the Sisters, the Guardian Spirit enters in the guise of a hermit or leech, and summoning Ariel as his page, proceeds to the performance of certain rites which counterwork the spell. The Brother of course, awakes, and, after a conversation between the mortals and the ethereals, the drama concludes.

In a composition of this slight texture, we must not look for originality of invention, or dramatic character. Ariel, it would be insufferable presumption to exhibit otherwise than as represented in the Tempest. There is but one Ariel in the world, and that is Shakspeare's. All that can be expected is, that the poet should catch in some degree the spirit of his original, and please by successful imitation. How far the present attempt has been fortunate, our readers will judge. For the defective rhythm which sometimes occurs, the precedent of even Milton will be pleaded in vain. It requires a fine ear and much science to introduce discords with effect.

Pompeii, the second poem in the volume, appears to have been written as a college exercise. It is very creditable to

the Author's talents. The minor poems are unequal, but the volume is the promise of better things. The morbid feelings which are betrayed in the stanzas to Despair, and occasionally in some other poems, will, we trust, give way before returning health or the invigorating influence of the illumined book' which healed the shepherd. The Writer expresses his hope of one day tuning his lyre

To loftier theme and in a mood more pure.'

What should hinder his now attempting such themes and cultivating those loftier moods of feeling? Let him converse less with the gloomy images of death, and fix his mind more on the hope which he expresses in the epilogue to his volume:

But when the Archangel trump's melodious cry
Rebuilds my fainting frame, I trust to raise
New songs with voice and lyre to Jesu's praise.'

Art. VI. Songs of a Stranger. By Louisa Stuart Costello. 8vo. pp. 158. London, 1825.

FROM the title of this volume, as well as from the Italian surname, one would infer that these are the songs of a foreign minstrel in a strange land. The poetry, however, is pure English, and there is nothing exotic about it. Is not the Writer afraid, however, of being set down as a strange lady?

Many of these songs are certainly very elegant,-an epithet which we use with the full persuasion that the Author will consider it as the highest praise we could bestow. The following, which has been set to music by Linley, has the spirit of a classic epigram.

I will not ask one glance from thee,
Lest, fondly, I should linger yet,
And all thy scorn and cruelty

In that entrancing glance forget.

'I may not, dare not hear thee speak
In music's most persuasive tone,
Lest the sweet sound to joy awake,
And I forget 'tis sound alone.'

The Spirit's Song has a sylphic sportiveness about it.

'Tis thy Spirit calls thee-come away!
I have sought thee through the weary day,
I have dived in the glassy stream for thee-
I have gone wherever a spirit might be:

In the earth, where di’monds hide,
In the deep, where pearls abide,
In the air, where rainbows, glancing gay,
Smile the tears of the sun away,

I have wandered; 'mid the starry zone,
Through a world by spirits only known,
Where 'tis bliss to sail in that balmy air;
But to me 'twas joyless till thou wert there.
I traced the footsteps of the fawn
As it bounded over the dewy lawn ;
For the print it left was so light and fair,
I deem'd thy step had linger'd there.

I heard a sound of melody

Sad and sweet as thy tender sigh;

'Twas the night-bird's tone, but it smote my ear,
For I thought thy own soft voice to hear.

I see a form-it is gliding on,

Like a cloud that sails in the sky alone,

And the stars gleam through its veil of white-
Oh! can it be aught of earth, so bright:

It beckons me on to my airy home

My own lov'd spirit!-I come! I come!' pp. 21, 2.

The next poem, however, is worth all the spirit's songs and love songs in the volume.

'TO MY MOTHER.

Yes, I have sung of others' woes,
Until they almost seem'd mine own,
And Fancy oft will scenes disclose
Whose being was in thought alone:
Her magic power I've cherished long,
And yielded to her soothing sway;
Enchanting is her syren song,

And wild and wond'rous is her way.
'But thou-whene'er I think on thee,
Those glittering visions fade away;
My soul awakes, how tenderly!

To pleasures that can ne'er decay.
There's not an hour of life goes by
But makes thee still more firmly dear;

My sighs attend upon thy sigh,
My sorrows wait upon thy tear :

• For earth has nought so good, so pure,
That may compare with love like thine-

Long as existence shall endure,

Thy star of guiding love shall shine!

VOL. XXIV. N.S.

R