In its immoveable coldness told how firm, Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife Look! look upon the boy! A sob-a shiver-from the half-seal'd eye The prophet rais'd The renovated child, and on that breast Which gave the life-stream of its infancy If ye would know H. CRITICAL NOTICES. THE RIVALS OF ESTE AND OTHER We were about inditing some remarks upon this volume of Poems, when we received from a correspondent a long review, from which we extract a few passages below. The writer thinks highly, very highly, of the talents of both authors; and we are not disposed to differ from him materially. Mr. Brooks has a fixed reputation, and we know that by very many of those whose good opinion is worth having, he is considered a poet of the first water. We do not know that our objections, such as they are, interfere even with this degree of appreciation, being founded not on all, but a part only of what he has done. We have seen poetry of his which we could not forget, and we have seen verses signed "Florio " (we dare say somebody else's— there are people wicked enough to steal signatures) which made us wish the author a "kind friend" to burn his manuscripts for him. When we remember that he is an Editor, however, we can conceive that the worst of them may be his, and still forgive him. The wonder is that the muses did not "cut" him incontinently after his first "article." Of Mrs. Brooks's poetry we long ago wrote ourselves admirer. She writes carelessly, however most carelessly; and her meaning is sometimes dim, though that may be in the reader. There are both faults and beauties in Norna's poetry, which we suspect are the result of that same care lessness, and would be equally affected by its amendment. We fancy she writes as a friend of ours paints-in a passion. He advances and retreats and flourishes before his easel in the legitimate "fine frenzy," and we are positive that Norna paces her boudoir and pours out her passionate musings, like an improvisatrice in solitude, to the shadowy auditors of her own ideal world-(the most uncritical and undiscriminating set, by the way, that ever spoiled an author by indulgence.) We have no doubt that, in this same world, she is understood to the most impalpable shadow of meaning-but, ungracious though we seem, we must remind her that we have not the "fine ear" and the "subtle faculty" which can hear the inaudible, and supply the unexpressed. And now, begging our friend's pardon for cutting out the fine abstractions of his article, we will let him say on. "The "Rivals of Este" by Mrs. Brooks, and "Genius," by her husband,constitute the chief Poems of the work before us, though there are many minor ones by each, which had given them both a reputation, before these had appeared. The first-mentioned poem is indeed a spirited and imaginative production; not however, without some faults, and a similarity to some of vine ? Yet leave a trace to tell that they have been! got! * As all in vain had tried their art, "Genius," by Mr. Brooks was written as a Phi Beta Kappa Poem; and has received its deserved plaudits. Among the minor pieces of "Florio," are many of exquisite tenderness. His various poems to "Cora" are delicate and beautiful. Take the following specimen : "TO CORA. I sung to thee my matin hymn I would not then have sold the love and keep up the attention, and in here and there a passage, (the description of Mabel for instance,) the interest is extreme. But we cannot commend the material of the whole thing. It is a "tale of passion," literally-and the most guilty and gross passion. We must meet it with the critic's cold "cui bono." There can be no proper tendency-no good in such books. If the pictures of life must, as we allow, be shaded, let it be by the higher passions. They are dark enough, Heaven knows-deep enough-many enough. Shew us, if you will, likenesses of ourselves, revengeful, ambitious, selfish,-any thing but beastly. These first may be frailties of soul-sins of an immortal origin and a more dignified if not more pardonable nature -but our sensual passions-our lowest and most degrading propensities may surely be suffered to go by in silence without danger to the cause of morality. We cannot conceive how it is to benefit the young and pure-hearted to hold up to them such disgusting pictures. We would rather hide them, and commit to the parental whisper the knowledge necessary to escape The from temptation. It is not a subject to dwell upon. When youth's bright hope began to fail, Which bore thee o'er the main : Still fall thy tears, sweet mourner? no; 77.66 'We know not how to single out or particularize any of the minor poems of Mr. Brooks. All of them have been wisely admired, particularly the "Ode to Greece, Dying Soldier," "Time," "The Autumn Leaf," and many others. Mr. Brooks has some faults; he pays, sometimes, too little attention to rhythm; though he rarely misses the melody.' THE VILLAGE CHOIR. Boston, S. A fresh, original, vivid bookwritten with a pure, scholar-like taste, and, spite of its unpretendTALES OF PASSION, By the Authoring title, and its modest dimensions of Gilbert Earle. New York, J. & J. Harper. 1829. We have had time to read only "The Bohemian," which, we were told was the best of the three tales which compose this book. It is told with sufficient power to arrest deserving of a place and a reputation among the pleasantest and best books of the day. We wish the author had thought more of it. It should have been printed more worthily of its style and character. Although only the history of the by the whole with the speed of darting cavalTy, and then when we all mingled in that battle of harmony and melody, and mysteriously fought our way through each verse with a well ordered perplexity, that made the audience wonder how we ever came out exactly together, (which once in a while, indeed, owing to some strange surprise or lingering among the treble, we failed to do,) the sensa tions that agitated me at those moments, have rarely been equalled during the monotonous pilgrimage of my life. And yet when I remember how little we kept in view the main and real object of sacred music-when I think how much we sang to the praise and honor and glory of our majority of us absolutely did not intend that any other ear in the universe should listen to our performances, save those of the admiring human audience below and around us-I am inclined to feel more shame and regret than pleasure at these youthful recollections, and must now be permitted to indulge for a few pages in a more serious strain." inflated selves alone-when I reflect that the revolutions of a village choir for a few years, it embodies some of the nicest discriminations of character, and an observing and fine know ledge of men which we have rarely seen surpassed. The story is told simply and unpretendingly, but there is a directness and a comprehensive truth in its light,sketchy pencillings which delighted us. There is also, running through the whole, an exquisite vein of subdued and chastened humor, somewhat of the same character with the covert quaintness of Geoffrey Crayon, and, in our opinion, scarce inferior to it. More than all, it is a book of high and beautiful morality. We were touched by the delicate The following passage discoand winning grace in which the author has clothed the sentiments vers the quiet and thoughtful phiof piety, which flow naturally losophy which pervades the whole from his subject. It is something new in this age of licentious and inflated literature, and deserves all praise. It is difficult to give the spirit and tone of such a book as this in a detached passage, but we must venture on an extract; one which we take because it combines connectively, though perhaps faintly, the two qualities of which we have spoken. "It is impossible to look back without some of the animation of triumph upon those golden hours of my early manhood, when I stood among friends and acquaintances, and we all started off with the keenest alacrity in some favorite air, that made the roof of our native church resound, and caused the distant, though unfrequent traveller to pause upon his way, for the purpose of more distinctly catching the swelling and dying sounds that waved over the hills and reverberated from wood to wood. The grand and rolling bass of Charles Williams's viol, beneath which the very floor was felt to tremble, was surmounted by the strong, rich, and exquisite tenor of his own matchless voice. And oh! at the turning of a fugue, when the bass moved forward first, like the opening fire of artillery, and the tenor advanced next like a corps of grenadiers, and the treble followed on with the brilliant execution of infantry, and the trumpet counter shot book: "This is a rock of temptation which the Quakers have avoided; in dispensing with the inspiration of song, they at least shun its abuses; and if they really succeed in filling their hour with intense religious meditation retreat, the waves of this boisterous world and spiritual communion-if, from their still are excluded, and send thither no disturbing ripple,-if no calculations of interest, and no sanguine plans are there prosecuted, and no hopes, nor fears, nor regrets, nor triumphs, nor recollections, nor any other flowers that grow this side of the grave, are gathered and pressed to the bosom, on the margin of those quiet waters-if, in short, the very silence and vacancy of the scene are not too much for the feeble heart of man, which, if deprived of the stay of external things, will either fall back on itself, or else will rove to the world's end to expend its restless activity in a field of chaotic imaginations ;-if, I say, the Quakers are so happy as to escape these perils,together with the seductions to vanity and self-gratification which music and preaching present, then must their worship, I think, be the purest of all worship, and their absence of exterior forms the very perfection of all forms. But, let me ask of thee, my heart, whether thou couldst fulfil the above severe conditions? Wouldst thou no longer obtrusively beat and ache beneath the external serenity of a Quaker's composed demeanor and unmodish apparel, and voiceless celebration? Thou shrinkest from the trial, and art still convinced, that the road in which thou canst best be trained for Heaven, lies somewhere at an equal distance between the bewildering magnificence of the Romish ritual, and the barren simplicity of silent worship." SCOTT'S MISCELLANEOUS PROSE WORKS. Boston, Wells & Lilly. 1829. It is unnecessary for us to attempt a criticism on these volumes. We merely mention them to call the attention of our readers to the beautiful edition just issued from the press of Messrs. Wells & Lilly. We recommend to all who have a taste for good copies of good books to procure this edition. It does credit to the enterprise of the publishers. The same gentlemen republish the QUARTERLY and EDINBURGH REVIEWS-the last numbers of which lie on our table. We have not cut the leaves of the Quarterly, but we have read one article in the Edinburgh which ought to immortalize the number which contains it. We refer to that upon "Burns"-certainly one of the most splendid, just, and impassioned criticisms it has ever been our happiness to read. This Review has contained articles evidently from the same hand, upon Milton, and Dryden, and we believe one or two upon German Literature which have been equally celebrated. The republishment of them in this country deserves every encouragement. ter, is placed at the beginning of the book. It is by S. F. B. Morse, the scholar and artist. We scarce know how to speak of the Poems. The character of the author is one of the most interesting which has ever come to our knowledge, and this, with her untimely death, and the fact that her productions were the untrained expression of feelings singularly irrepressible and poured out from the pure heart of a child, place it beyond criticism. It is a delicate task at best and we willingly devolve it upon her biographer. Mr. Morse says: "Of the literary character of her writings, it does not, perhaps, become me largely to speak; yet I must hazard the remark, that her defects will be perceived to be those of youth and inexperience, while in invention and in that mysterious power of exciting deep ing it alive to the end of the story; in that interest, of enchaining the attention, and keepadaptation of the measure to the sentiment, and in the sudden change of measure to suit romantic description, and in the congruity of a sudden change of sentiment, in wild and the accompaniments to her characters, all will be allowed to have discovered uncom conceived with great purity and delicacy, she mon maturity of mind; and her friends to have been warranted in forming very high expec tations of her future distinction." DESCRIPTION OF THE DISTINCT, CONFLUENT AND INOCULATED SMALL POX, VARIOLOID DISEASE, Cow POX AND CHICKEN Pox. Illustrated by thirteen Plates. By John D. Fisher, M. D. Boston: Wells & Lilly. A detailed and elaborate review of Dr. Fisher's work would be proper only in a medical journal, and our sole object in this place is to say a few words in relation to its character, objects and execution, and to commend it to the notice and substantial patronage of an intelligent and enterprizing profession. Dr. Fisher's book was prepared and published expressly to supply an acknowledged want |