then, is the use of such tomb-stone notices, as those for instance of Marston and Dekkar? The Selections professed to be from the British Poets, commencing with Chaucer and ending with Mooreand yet several Poets have altogether been passed over, in order to afford space for foreign productions, or those of living authors. For instance we have a scrap of translation by J. H. Merevale, and not a line from Lord Roscommon, or allusion to his name even. Seeing that we have translated specimens of the poetry of Homer, who can scarcely be considered as a British poet, was there not a graceful opportunity, on the score of mere literary taste, to give specimens of Hebrew poetry-seeing that, that, is the oldest known well, of such ever living lore? We feel satisfied that this might have been done, without trenching upon native prejudice, in regard to proselyting. We have no specimens of Isaac Watts-Pollock-John Day, Vaughan, &c. &c. The Christian poets have therefore for the most part been left out. When our compiler does allude to one or two of these, (as Kirke White-and Watts-) it is in terms of derogatory comment. To judge by both the selections and the notices of lives, such writers, as Hannah More-Robert Blair-and James Grahame, never existed. Such omissions would seem like an assumption of infallibility, in deciding who are, or are not to be considered poets. Have the writers alluded to lost all claim to be considered as poets because their strains breathe a spirit of Christian piety? Would not Lord Glenelg's prize poem on the restoration of learning in the East'-be a more suitable subject for a Native student's contemplation, than the selections from Prior, or Eloisa and Alelard,' or 'All for love or the world well lost.'*

But the missing links, in a chain assumed to be complete, do not end there. We miss the names of James I. of Scotland -of Blind Harry, of Henry King--of Cartwright-of Garthof Michael Bruce-of Hammond-of Fergusson-of Ross ('Fortunate shepherdes')-of Dermoddy-Langhorne-Mac Diarmid, &c. The germ of our early poetry may be considered as romantic, mingling oriental imagery with northern superstition. Though in England, poetry owed nothing to court encouragement, yet the name of Chaucer shed a glory on the reign of Edward III. From that time till the Elizabethan period, with the exception of Gower-the scroll of English poets may be considered a blank. Gower was the contemporary of Chaucer-but greatly his inferior-wanting his fire.

* Would not the " Aurungzebe," by the same hand, be more in keeping with the genius loci,

Though our compiler has given a short notice of Lydgate, he has not furnished his readers with any specimen of his manner, which is tender and elegant. A guilty mother thus describes her infant.

A mouth he has, but wordes hath he none
Cannot complain alas! for none outrage
Nor grutcheth not; but lies here all alone
Still as a lambe, most meke of his visage,
What heart of stele could do him damage
Or suffer him dye, beholding the manere
And look benigne of his twein eyen clere―

6

The life of James I. of Scotland was full of romantic adventure. The story of his falling in love, at first sight, with the lady Jane Beaufort-whom he sees disporting herself in a garden from his prison at Windsor; is very poetically and naturally told, by the Royal captive, in lines which we cannot spare room for. The poem of The nut brown maid'—is a legend of woman's staunch fidelity, under most inauspicious circumstances; -and of man's severe test of it. The lady is a Baron's daughter, and the lover, high born but in disguise. Prior, in his attempt to paraphrase the beautiful original, outrages all delicacy of sentiment. In the original, at every trial of her constancy-the lady replies in terms of devoted affection, of which these few lines may afford some idea.

The

Is it not a pity that the compiler did not give more of our fine old ballads, as "Hardyknute,"-" Barbara Allan"-" Gil Morice ""The battle of Otterbune" -" Gilderoy."* Marquis Montrose demanded a corner were it only for his noble epitaph upon his royal master (Chas. I.) which breathes the soul of a warrior poet.

Great God! and just! could I but rate
My griefs, and thy too rigid fate,

* We could have wished that the Compiler had given a notice of "Silvester"-to whom he attributes the fine lyric of " the Soul's Errand." As it has also been ascribed to Raleigh, we should like to have the authority cited, on which the compiler relies for Sylvester being the writer of it.

I'd weed the world to such a strain,

As it should deluge once again,

But since thy loud tongu'd blood demands supply
More from BRIAREUS hands than Argus' eye,
I'll sing thy obsequies with trumpet sounds,
And write thy epitaph with blood and wounds.

This article is extending to such a length, that we feel compelled to leave altogether untouched, several points of omission, to which our attention has been drawn by our compiler's own boast, about the unbroken chain.' We cannot, however, reconcile it to ourselves, on the principle avowed by the accomplished compiler himself, of advantage to Hindu students, to omit the opportunity of shewing, that he has done those who may eminently be called Christian poets, great injustice. He has not merely overlooked some of them altogether, contemptuously as it would seem; but he has consigned them as far as it was in his power to produce such a result, altogether, to oblivion. It is not a few specimens, that may serve to neutralise this. So far as these can operate, by tempting readers to a perusal in extenso of the works of the neglected ones -we acquit ourselves of a duty. A tomb-stone notice is given of William Dunbar of Salton. That he was a true Christian philosopher, is amply proved by the two following verses-being the first and the last of a series.

Though all the work that ever had living wight,

Were only thine; no more thy part does fall

But meat, and drink, cloathes, and of the laif * a sight!

Yet, to the judge thou shalt give, compt of all,

A reckoning right comes of a fragment small.

Be just, and joyous, and do to none injure,
And Truth shall make thee strong as any wall:
Without gladness avails no tresure.

Since these pages, may chance to be looked over, by several Native readers, we may be permitted to observe, that the production, by which the author of "the Sabbath"-is best known, ought to have been quoted in selections from the British Poets-and how easy it was to do so, without trenching on for

bidden ground, quotations would easily show. We cite two short ones only.

Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail the poor man's day :
The pale mehanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on HIM, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joys each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one SABBATH without end.

The description of the suicide is very impressive, but we prefer a few lines that are sweetly poetical, and not the less so, that they are redolent of devout aspiration.

It is not only in the sacred fane

That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands,—
The vaulted firmament: far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city-chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is scen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
When not a flowret bends its little stalk,
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom ;-
Then rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon;
Silence his praise: his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the Empyrean

The omission again, of any mention even, of such a noble and suggestive poem as "the Grave" of Blair; by a man of such acknowledged good taste as our compiler-does greatly surprise There are lines in it, familiar to all, as for instance

us.

Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen

By glimpse of moonshine chequering thro' the trees,
The school-boy with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to keep his courage up

We had almost rather, that our biographer had not written about Giles Fletcher at all, than that he should slur him over so curtly, and without furnishing a single extract, from his magnificent poem of the Temptation and Victory of Christ;' and pronounce it as a whole, "so tedious that the world will willingly let it die." No doubt a worldly portion, of the reading world, may, but there are many, we hope, who estimate its merits very dif ferently indeed. We can spare room only for a very short specimen of his manner-taken from the description of Justice

'that virgin of austere regard'—'not as the world esteems her deaf and blind, but as the eagle.'

The winged lightning is her Mercury,

And round about her mighty thunders sound;
Impatient of himself lies pining by

Pale sickness, with his kercher'd head up-bound,

And thousand noisome plagues attend her round.

But if her cloudy brow but once grow foul,

The flints do melt, and rocks to water roll,

And every mountain shakes, and frighted shadows howl.

If the reader of the "Selections"-will turn to the Index-he will see the name of WATTS. Let him look Let him look up the page-and if he expected to find the name of the sweet songster of Sion-he will be grievously disappointed; and Alaric Watts, is thought worthy of a place, denied to him whose name is as familiar (and long may it be so !) to the children of Great Britain, as the note of the Thrush or the Lark. There is, we are aware, much in association. It is not then, without embarrassment, that we turn to the venerated name of Isaac Watts. It is scarcely with unmoistened eyes, that we revert to strains, that are, as it were, inwoven with the texture of the heart. We look back to days of innocence and childhood, when they were to us, as it were the laws of the two tables, brought sweetly home to the business and bosom of scenes of Infancy. There is surely something morally sublime, in contemplating a mind like his-the Classical Scholar, the Theologian, the Poet, and the Logician-(for such he was)sitting down prayerfully, to write Nursery-ballads. How few-in regard to children, feel the deep import of our Lord's words-' of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' The good and great man-of whom, we venture, in a spirit of profound respect, to make this mention; in an article that of necessity is more miscellaneous than we could desire; has entailed an eternal debt of gratitude upon English children, or in other words upon the English nation. He is gone to his rest-he has never been seen by any of us-but though dead, he yet speaketh; and to generations yet unborn, will his sacred songs be sweet melody, like the summer music of

Siloa's brook that flow'd

Fast by the oracle of God.

What forgetfulness came over our compiler, when he omitted. that venerable name? Not content with this, however, in the Chit-Chat (p. 67)—it is observed in a tooth-pick sort of manner, such as a man may enjoy with his wine and walnuts, "Isaac Watts' doggrel hymns have done as much good to mankind as Milton's Paradise Lost." If we may be permitted to

Q