"O, if this were seen,

The happiest youth,-viewing his progress thorough,—
What perils past, what crosses to ensue,

Would shut the book, and sit him down and die."

II. HEN. IV.

To exemplify this position is the object of Mr. Bounden's "Vision of Silvester," which, notwithstanding the acknowledged youth and inexperience of the writer, is, to the end of the second Book, highly interesting, and, though not always sufficiently elevated for blank verse, in which it is written, is frequently distinguished by much poetical excellence. Why the interest falls off after the second Book, and how this defect might in some measure have been avoided, we shall take the liberty of pointing out.

Silvester, enjoying all the blessings of fortune and family, sighs, in an unlucky hour, to penetrate "the mist of dark futurity." He sleeps, and his guardian spirit appearing to him, would dissuade him from his wish, but in vain. His wish is therefore granted, and the spirit proceeds to “shew his eyes, and grieve his heart." Thesecond Book then opens with the "Vision," and never was poor man doomed to see so black a prospect of future change. His loving wife, his four noble boys, his beauteous daughter, and his troop of faithful friends, all turn out base libertines, traitors, fratricides, suicides, and adultresses. After seeing some of this, he exclaims, with Macbeth, "I will behold no more!" p. 46, but he is compelled to witness the sum of his misery. To this period, the idea is well managed, and if, when Silvester complains of the injustice of Heaven, p. 66, he had been chid, as Parnell's Hermit is, by the Seraph, and like him had

"Here a prayer begun,

Lord! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done;
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And pass'd a life of piety and peace-"

it had been well; but instead of this he wakes, and notwithstanding all that he has seen is merely "such stuff as dreams are made of," he pretends to believe firmly in the whole of it, and consequently, in the third book, though broad awake, looks with horror and detestation on all his family, and in the end drowns himself. That this must injure the interest is very clear, and unless Mr. Bounden should think that the poem, with an appropriate reflection, would terminate better at the second book, to give the third that proba

bility which is necessary to interest, Sylvester must still continue asleep, and the "Vision" be prolonged.

There is a large portion of pleasing poetry in this little work, and the ingenuity and good sense that it frequently exhibits, have on us the effect of a Vision, which shews us that there is great hope in Mr. B. with diligent attention, of future excellence. As a specimen of our poet's powers, we cannot select a more favourable and commendatory passage than the speech of the Spirit in the first Book. Much of it well warrants our hopes.

"I am the Guardian Spirit, sent from Heaven
To watch thy actions here: thy thoughts I see;
The inmost wishes of thy heart I know:
I draw thee oft from danger, though unseen:
If sanguinary robbers in the path

Lurk, I to disappointment turn their plots,
And lead thee by another to thy home:

I flutter in the rays that round thee shine
At noon; sport in the air thy lips inhale;
Behold thee when involv'd in midnight shade;
Sit on the lightning's flash that o'er thee gleams;
Or seize it in my hand and change its course,
And make it pass thee harmless as the breeze
That blows not Autumn's faded leaves to earth.
Sometimes I hover o'er thee; by thy side
Sometimes I walk, and gaze upon thy face,
And touch the tear that slowly trickles down.
Be where thou wilt, be doing what thou mayst,
Thou never art alone, nor unobserv'd.
I on thy pillow sit, and hear thee sigh,
And tell thy wishes to the darkness; then
In pity for the sufferings of thy soul,
Them and thy powers in slumber I suspend:
There oft I give thee various dreams, whate'er
Thou see'st in nightly vision I pourtray--
On fairy scenes, untrodden wilds obscure;
Of prospects lovelier far than Nature owns,
Or sights of horror, dark and terrible;

Of spirits in airy dance, or murderers' tread;
Of solemn deeds, or mirthful revelry:
Of wond'rous circumstance, perform'd on top
Of hill cloud meeting, on the level shore,
In cavern vast where end the wand'ring foot
Finds not; or under high o'ercharging rocks,
That dart down horror on th' uplifted eye;

In valley wall'd, or on the edge extreme
Of hideous precipice, in palace, cot,

Or temple: or of mystic act unheard,

Half understood." P. 19-21.

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"Pre

The language is in general unaffected and correct. vailless," p. 10, contradictious wish," p. 28, and "with thee returns security and comfort,” p. 74, we do not consider, however, as entitled to that compliment. Our esteem for Mr. Bounden's merit alone induces us to take the trouble of noticing these trifles. London Cries; or, Pictures of Tumult and Distress: a Poem. To which is added, the Hall of Pedantry, with Notes. 12mo. pp. 75. 4s. Murray. 1805.

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THE title of this poem will deceive many of its readers, but it will prove an agreeable deception. Even after perusing the preface, for it teaches them that our nameless author" is ambitious of "following the footsteps" of the composer of Mr. Newbery's little book called London Cries, and contents himself by "producing those finely contrasted instances of ear-transpiercing treble and gutturally muttered bass in the cries of milk!! and of old cloaths!" p. vii. they will not be led to expect much excellence in the poetry or solidity in the matter, but in this they will be disappointed.

Our poet classes the London Cries under three heads-1st. The Crics of Business 2dly, The Cries of Folly and Brutality; and 3dly, The Cries of Vice and Misery. He then proceeds, in chaste and elevated numbers, to descant on the "primordial race" of Britain, descended from "the numerous progeny of Tiras, the youngest son of Japhet," and continues ab urbe condita, till he brings us to the frequently well-drawn pictures of the tumult and distress of the metropolis. This, it must be confessed, is something more than we looked for when we took up the "London Cries."

The pleasing philanthropy, poctical spirit, good sense, and polite learning exhibited every where in the conduct of his subject, entitle the poet to no small degree of commendation. From a little we shall take a little, but enough to confirm our judgment, and to recommend the poem to public notice. Coming to those hapless females in our streets "who buy this day's meal with last night's sin," he exclaims:

"Daughters of Wretchedness! miscall'd Vice,

For you no lures of tingling lust entice.
Rather ye loath, ye dread, poor outcast race!!
The loveless, joyless, unendear'd embrace.

Cold hopeless want, and hunger's dire demand,
With venal Houri fill the swarming Strand.

Flaunting with mimic pomp, and rolling eye,
A sparkling, titt'ring wretch comes tripping by.
A ribbon'd, painted, paper'd, gilt outside;
All paleness, leanness, want, and woe beside.
Each saunt'ring fool she courts, in accent bland,
With bosom half reveal'd, and forward hand.
Loud is her joyless laugh, and jest obscene;
Vain jest, and laugh a breaking heart to screen.
Of late how woo'd, how courted, how implor'd!
Her smile how worshipp'd, e'en her scorn ador'd!
Now doom'd to woo, press, supplicate!-forlorn!
To flatter insult, fawn on angry scorn!

Bekold that form, whose fault'ring step, and slow,
And heaving bosom marks unutter'd woe,
With clasp'd unlifted hands, and downcast head,
And flaxen locks in wild disorder spread;
Ill fenc'd from biting winds by vesture light,
Of beauteous texture, once all virgin white,
Once worn in happy days---for ever past!
Now soil'd and rent, the sport of ev'ry blast:
That face, how deadly pale with wasting care!
Like spring's anemone---how meek! how fair!
Blue lustre beams from either mournful eye,
As heav'n's own azure breaks a wat❜ry sky.
Thou lovely form, that seem'st a child of light,
Slipp'd from heav'n's concave, in the headlong flight

Of outcast spirits, unbranded yet with stain,

Now roaming wide in search of heav'n again;

Wast once Lavinia!" P. 48--50.

We must leave the remainder of this picture, and what the Bard has feelingly and often beautifully sung, lamenting the lot of these poor outcasts, more sinn'd against than sinning," to those who have taste enough to refer to the work itself. The note on this subject, p. 56, is full of that clement justice which the case requires, and will, we hope, when read by the pure over much, produce some effect on their charity towards the venial frailty of those who have been tempted beyond their strength.

The poet is very happy in his similes, we shall notice one at p. 13, where he describes a clown in London streets, in this expressive couplet :

"And rustic wonder, ever wand'ring wrong,

The jostled turnstile of the bustling throng."

The notes are few, but judicious, if we except that on Beggary, which, with all the soundness of its doctrine, is, on account of its

length, inconsistent with a short poem. It is too much out of seventy-five pages to allow twenty-one, saving “a rivulet of text," to a single note.

To the “London Cries,” is added "The Hall of Pedantry." It is a spirited allegory in the style and stanza of Spenser.

We here feel it by no means irrelevant to observe that the publications of Mr. Murray afford him a claim to great respect. It is no common praise, and yet it is true, to say, that the works published by him are for the most part creditable to his taste and judgment, beneficial to the public, and honourable to the English press.

Royalty Theatre. A solemn Protest against the Revival of Scenic

Exhibitions and Interludes at the Royalty Theatre, containing Remarks on Pizarro, the Stranger, and John Bull; with a Postscript. To which is prefixed, a Review of the Conduct of the Stage in general, and the Expediency and Lawfulness of Dramatic Entertainments. By the Rev. Thomas Thirlwall, M. A. 3d Edit. 1s. Rivingtons. 1805.

TERTIUS è cælo cecidit Cato! exclaimed Juvenal, and we may, in imitation, cry, Behold a twentieth Jeremy Collier has descended from his pulpit to correct, with the rod of fanaticism, the manners of the people. Hopeless, and, to the extent proposed, unnecessary task!

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In his way to the destruction of the Royalty Theatre, to prevent the revival of whose licence he had, it appears, strenuously but unavailingly exerted himself, Mr. Thirlwall would beat down every puppet shew or regular theatre within the reach of his merciless rod. Play writers are of course included, but three in particular are singled out for his vengeance. Mr. Sheridan, in Elvira, has given us a bold and sentimental strumpet;" Mr. Thompson, in Mrs. Haller, “an adultress who had forsaken her amiable husband, and lived in criminal commerce with her seducer;" and Mr. Colman, in Miss Bull," the seduced daughter of an humble tradesman united in marriage to the despoiler of her virtue;" and these, “instead of being held up instructive warnings to others, are contrived to be made the objects of our sympathy, esteem, and admiration,” p. 13. Now it must be confessed, that these things merit reprehension, but is this fair play? Would the Rev. Mr. Thirlwall think it fair were we (and perhaps we might be able) to point out two or three men who ten times more disgrace the pulpit than even these plays disgrace the stage, and consequently infer that picty, morality,