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When from my sabre shrunk the foe,
Thou know'st not, and thou canst not know,
What nerved my stern unsparing hand,
What thought gave keenness to my brand:
It was not hate that fired mine eye,
Nor even the pride of victory;
No, Azor, no; I feared to die !
Doubt darkens o'er thy clouded brow,

And half exclaims, It cannot be !
Thou deem'st it strange my soul should bow

To lay its weakness bare to thee;
But-mark me, youth!—nor hostile sword,
Nor sabre in my life-blood gored,
No insult of a vanquished foe,
No abject craven's heartless blow-
Not the keen throb of life's last sigh,
Not all of shame and agony,
That wrath can wreak, or guilt can bear-

It is not these — 'tis Heaven I fear.'” (pp. 33, 34.] For the remainder of the self-accusing Leo's confession, we refer to the volume. His bitter anguish, when the idea of “ the reverend guardian of his youth" flashes upon his mind, and the horror which he expresses, when looking to judgment and eternity, are very powerfully depicted ; his long address thus poetically concludes:

" O! could I wander like a Cain,

With branded brow, and burning brain,
Or lingering live as others die,
Each breath like nature's parting sigh,
'Twere welcome if I could but fly

From judgment and eternity,” (p. 38.] The victorious but miserable chief retires to his cavern, with such feelings as these, of which Azor in vain strives to diminish the acuteness, when word is suddenly brought that an old man had fallen into the hands of his marauders; one of whom, when introducing him to Leo, exclaims :" 'Twas strange

no terror blanched his cheek-
He breathed for life no frantic prayer-
He stood with mien resolved though meek,

Undaunted and unshrinking there.'” (p. 45.] The interview between the young apostate and the venerable pilgrim is thus described :

“ The pale lamp threw
Its lone beam through encircling shade,


Nor-glimmering - yet revealed to view

His features, or his form betrayed;
One solemn moment all was still

And oh! what wild emotions wake!
How keenly throbs that struggling thrill,

As if his aged heart would break!

Gently, at length, the chieftain spake :
• Old man, whoe'er thou art, draw near;
If true thy tale, thou need'st not fear;
If false, no vengeance waits thee here.
What power through circling foes could guide?

By whom to me thine errand given ?
Firmly the aged saint replied,


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Oh! when the prophet saint he knew,
How burnt his cheek with shame's deep hue!
O'er his wan brow, with sorrow shaded,
What mixt emotions flashed and faded !
But words that burn are all too faint,
The struggle of the soul to paint;
As well might human art essay
In living colours to portray
The glories of departing day,
And trace the thousand tints of even:
Vain hope ! unless to man were given
To bathe his brush in hues of heaven.” (pp. 46–49.)

The following extract will, we think, please our readers; it is certainly very fine : but we are sorry that Mr. Dale has passed over this part of his subject in so hasty a manner. The occasion seems to be expressly suited to his talents; and we are of opinion, that he could have sketched in a masterly style that inward conflict, that tremendous war, which the hosts of hell would occasion, upon quitting the bosom where they had so long maintained their seat. The resolution “ to forsake all, and follow Christ,” opposed by the reflection, that the Christian's lot is not that of ease or honour; the still small voice, overpowered by the mighty struggle of expiring passion; and that, in its turn, subdued and slain;

the monitions of reason drowned in the excitements of malice, of revenge, of lust—and the final victory of religionthe conquest of Christ — the meek submission of the newborn convert these are themes upon which our author might have dwelt; few poets could treat such subjects with greater, or with equal advantage; this is evident from the masterly manner in which the outline is sketched :

" Now, fiends of hell,
Once more your dark delusions try;

For life and death are on the die;
To-night a soul is lost or won,

The stake is for eternity!
Rouse to


aid fell Passion's train,
Ambition - Wrath — Despair — Disdain
And man's arch tempter, Pride —- 'Tis vain!

The glorious deed is done!

rage in hell, and joy in heaven.
He turned-Away, away, he cried,
• Ye faithless dreams of desperate pride!
Too long I mourned your


sway; False ministers of hell, away!'” (pp. 56, 57.] Mr. Dale's productions are characterized by a sweetness and fervour of expression, which are truly beautiful; and we doubt not but that he will hereafter be known amongst the first class of poets. The “ spirit of poetry” is to be found in every page; and, what is of greater moment, the spirit of piety: and“ when poetry thus keeps its place as the handmaid of piety, it shall attain, not a poor perishable wreath, but a crown that fadeth not away." We rejoice that, at length, the poets of Britain are conscious of the spirit and beauty of holy writ; and we hope that hereafter they will tune their lyres to subjects which will not cause the discerning public to exclaim, “ their labour is but lost, or thrown away.” Every other subject appears to be fairly exhausted ; we have had battles, by sea and land, of all descriptions; from those of the Highland chieftain, who fights for plunder, to those on a larger scale, but with no better object. Murder, however disguised, is murder still; and he who, by gilding over its hideous form, strives to lessen our abhorrence of the monster, deserves the pity and neglect of mankind; but, unfortunately, meets with their countenance and applause. However enchanting poetry may be, and however it may seem to be invigorated with an almost supernatural energy; yet, if its object be not to exalt human nature - to raise and purify the soul — or, at least, to furnish innocent amusement, - however it may be adorned by the talents of the author, it ought not to meet with any favour or countenance : and when its object is decidedly in favour of licentiousness, the voice of the public, unanimously raised, should brand the writer as a monster, and his work as a vampire under a mask, which, when exposed in its natural colours, is only hideous and loathsome.

Remarks on the Foreknowledge of God, suggested by Passages

in Dr. Adam Clarke's Commentary on the New Testament. By Gill Timms. London, 1819. Hamilton. 8vo. pp. 99.

We forbear to enter upon a minute analysis of this sensible and well written pamphlet, or to indulge in any detailed discussion of our own, upon the momentous and deeply interesting subject to which it relates. The limits necessarily prescribed to us, in this article, prohibit both. But we can recommend it with much satisfaction to the perusal of our readers. They will there find one of the most difficult questions in the whole science of theology, and one which has of late attracted more than ordinary attention, treated with considerable ability; and, generally, with becoming and respectful candour towards the very eminent person whose sentiments the author has undertaken to controvert. The reasoning is, in most parts, close and accurate; the illustrations, especially such as are derived from the Scriptures, are appropriate and pleasing; whilst the whole air of the composition is indicative of its proceeding from a mind accustomed to serious thought, and animated by the principles of Christian piety. In a few instances the expression rises above the ordinary level of philosophical language, and besides a. degree of precision beyond what is usually to be met with in writings of this nature, presents us with occasional beauties of style, that add grace and interest to arguments, sufficient of themselves to secure attention, by their simple truth, and obvious importance. Yet we have felt inclined to censure the writer, now and then, for an undue severity in his interpretation of Dr. Clarke's statements; as well as to charge him with pushing much too far the practical consequences ascribed by him to the opinions which that learned and distinguished commentator has thought proper to avow. He attributes to these opinions a degree of influence over the moral feelings, and a weight in the scale of the religious affections, which they do not to us appear likely to possess; the general impressions which all believers in Christianity have, with reference to the character of the Almighty, being, as we think, too deep and sacred to permit them to be greatly modified by any notions of a merely speculative nature, in connexion with the particular aspect of the divine perfections. At the same time we are ready to admit, that whatever effect the sentiments in question might be expected to produce, would be injurious rather than beneficial; at least in the case of those whose susceptibilities of religious feeling are, on this point, accordant with our own: and on that account, as well as because we deem the sentiments themselves inaccurate in fact, and quite at variance with the testimony of revelation, we rejoice to see them brought to the test of a strict and careful scrutiny: and though we by no means conceive of the case as one which, in the present state of intellectual science, it is easy or perhaps even possible to treat with any thing like certainty; yet every fresh effort in the investigation of such subjects promises to be productive of higher advantages hereafter, by becoming another step in the approach towards a more successful prosecution of inquiries, that, however frequently they have already been pursued, and with whatever strength of intellect and patience of research, have, in every instance with which we are acquainted, terminated hitherto in results but very partially satisfactory.

Eliza Harding; a Tale, founded on Facts. By Mrs. Hewlett,

Author of the Legend of Stutchbury. 18mo. Oxford, 1821. pp. 197. Holdsworth, London.

This interesting and very useful tale does no discredit to the established reputation of the authoress of the Legend of Stutchbury. Its heroine is a spoiled, self-willed, deceitful, thoughtless girl - who, well trained to act her part in a fashionable boarding-school, where reading novels, and performing plays, were some of her principal occupations - and artfully led on to her ruin, by an unprincipled lady's maid, and as unprincipled a keeper of a circulating library, runs away with and marries a strolling player, under the persuasion that he was a baronet's son; though, in truth, he was a stagestruck apprentice, who had robbed his master; goes herself upon the stage; elopes from a husband whom she never really loved, and from children whom she knew not how to nurse, with a fashionable rake; and well nigh breaks the heart of her parents, whose foolish indulgence laid the foundation of all this dreadful catalogue of ills. So ends a story, which Mrs. Hewlett assures us is founded upon facts; and we believe the assurance, not only because it comes from her, but because the catastrophe, with which a fiction would have closed, is wanting, until the real history shall supply one melancholy enough.' As an antidote to the too prevalent taste for theatrical amusements-novel-reading-confidences from which parents are to be excluded — romantic attachments--manæuvring-mysteries, and clandestine adventures -we ardently recommend this little book to parents. It will be an useful present to their children, especially to their daughters; whilst they themselves may derive from its perusal some valuable hints for the important work of training up a child in the way from which they would not wish him to depart.

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