POETRY.

Art. 17. Eight Ballads on the Fictions of the Ancient Irish: and other Poems. By Richard Ryan. Crown 8vo. 5s. sewed. Warren. 1822.

"Blow all ye milder breezes, be hushed every ruder passion," as our greatest novelist intimated to be necessary when his heroine was introduced, while we mention a subject even remotely connected with Ireland, at the present moment. Grieved indeed, most sincerely, should we be, could it be possible that in one word we should now offend one individual of that much-suffering nation but, unfortunately, poetry has too little connection with the government of states that are advanced in civilization, or with their colonies; and, therefore, we feel at liberty to detach these Irish Ballads from their mother-country, and, considering them as fictions of the antient Irish, not to respect them as truths relating to their posterity. So far from having any feeling of an ungenial kind, we have such an esteem, such an affection we may say, for our Irish brethren, that we take this opportunity of earnestly recommending that the subscription for the relief of the suffering counties should be renewed, from time to time; and promoted in every religious as well as civil meeting in England, while the distress continues.

We might now perhaps venture to advance to a brief criticism on the present little book: but our account shall be formed solely of extracts, and thus our readers shall judge for themselves.

'I dreamt Love lay in a Rose-bud's Breast.

• I dreamt Love lay in a rose-bud's breast,

And Hope plac'd the plant in the sun's bright ray;
When awoke by the beam on his place of rest,
Love rose like a zephyr, and flew away.

Now Wisdom, it chanc'd, a garden had,
And Lové, all carelessly, wander'd there,
Crushing each flowret bright and glad,

That loaded with perfume the fragrant air.

• Wisdom, the boy caught up in her hand,
And said, as she open'd the rose-bud's breast,
"There lie, by Wisdom's stern command,
And sink for ever! Oh, Love! to rest."
Love look'd in pity in Wisdom's face,
She frown'd he saw his suit was in vain
And deep he lay in the bud's embrace,
Till Hope awaken'd the boy again.'

Another :

The Fairy-form'd Harp.

There was a harp of old that hung
In fairy woods, and youths of fire
Would touch the string, and, as they sung,
Breathe forth their inmost heart's desire.

been adopted to heighten their popularity, such as the publishing a first and second edition in the same day, &c. Be that as it may, these works certainly possess sufficient interest and animation to ensure an ephemeral success: but The Renegade,' which appeared last, exhibits even more exaggeration and false taste than its predecessor. M. d'Arlincourt's affected inversions of language must remind his readers of the "Bourgeois Gentilhomme's" loveletter; "d'amour me font, belle Marquise, mourir vos beaux yeux;" and some of the incidents are puerile; such as Ezilda's discovery of Nalrassan's plot, in vol. i. p. 93.: while the circumstances of Agobar's conversion and death appear to have been suggested by the closing scenes in the life of Malek Adhel, depicted in Madame Cottin's Mathilde." As usual in translations, we have an occasional exchange of tameness for turgidity: but, on the whole, the English is respectably written, if we except the poetry; for which the translator himself apologizes, and which he ought to have put

into other hands.

Art. 16. The Priest. 3 Vols. 12mo. Baldwin and Co. 1821. In this novel we have to deal with a production altogether different from the usual run of imitations of the Waverley school: but it is rather an offshoot of the worn out and decayed stock which flourished under the warm auspices and romantic hand of Mrs. Radcliffe; afterward fostered by the more daring and luxuriant culture of such naturalists as Mr. Monk Lewis. Though guiltless of some of the exceptionable descriptions of the latter, it contains enough of their luxurious spirit, exaggeration, and absurdities, to deserve critical reprobation. The story, however, is by no means ill imagined, or badly told; the language is attractive and eloquent, and the characters are rather distinctly and powerfully drawn. That of the bold, wary, and ambitious priest, Father Valerius, we can conceive to be a tolerably correct picture of Catholic discipline and superstition; with its influence over the highest orders in society, its political intrigues, its private animosities, and its anti-social if not demoralizing effects, some centuries since. It is, however, the only one that gives interest to the volumes; the others, when not mere common-place, being extravagant, and out of nature; and each maki with the most tragi-comic air imaginable. We h

the thread-bare disguise of a page, pleading 1

love to a handsome but hard-hearted you

be an earl's son, stolen away in hi

the earl himself, full of melanch

haunted by the terrific prese father-confessor. Under hi

and affections are all

cast away. On the re

not seen for fifteen y

to more natural f cold, haughty

to snatch t

POETRY.

Art. 17. Eight Ballads on the Fictions of the Arcer other Poems. By Richard Ryan.

Warren. 1822.

Crow: *7.

“Blow all ye milder breezes, be husher ever I in.. as our greatest novelist intimated to be necessar: TELA was introduced, while we mention a subiec ere :: nected with Ireland, at the present momer.. most sincerely, should we be, cold: DU word we should now offend one induc nation : — but, unfortunately. poetry La with the government of states that are acce with their colonies; and, therefore we et r these Irish Ballads from ther mother-com them as fictions of the amer is 15: relating to their posterity. Her ungenial kind, we have suct an esteen but say, for our Irish brethren, that w nestly recommending that the HUS suffering counties show be renew, BAI moted in every religious as we a

the distress continues.

We might now perhaps venture a

on the present little book: but our art of extracts, and thus our reader an

E

'Oh, were that harp existing now,
I would not seek its wild decree,
I'd trust unto my Mary's vow,
That she exists alone for me.
'I'd sooner trust her glancing eye,

Which hath for me a sun-shine wore,
Than hear the truth with heart-felt sigh,

Waking from love, to love no more!'

We heartily wish Mr. Ryan all that success which every Irishman ought to obtain from his brother-Englishman, particularly at this moment.

Art. 18. The Revenge of Taran; a Dramatic Poem. By Edward Ball, Author of "The Sybil's Warning." 2d Edition. 12mo. 3s. 6d. Boards. Whittakers. 1822.

If we be asked why we are occasionally severe on some ephemeral productions which are noticed in our Catalogue, our answer must be that, although we abhor all unnecessary rigor, still the imperative duty of faithfulness to the public must supersede all such reluctance to give pain to an author as would compromise that duty. Indeed, when we detect any mixture of vanity with insignificance, ought a morbid sensibility to prevent us from exposing it, and thus offering some check to a cacoëthes scribendi which involves every rank, both sexes, and all characters, in its vorago of nonsense?

Alas! can such a check be offered by any thing?

"Mussat tacito doctrina timore."

The disease, we fear, is incurable, and every species of regimen, tonic or antiphlogistic, is of equally little avail. If we praise with a mixture of censure, the gilding is all picked off the pill, and exclusively swallowed, as if it were gingerbread; while, if blame be generally predominant, it is set down to the gall of the critic, instead of the " ropy drivel" of the author.

Without applying these remarks peculiarly or severely on the present occasion, we must observe that, for any purpose of the diffusion of knowlege, or the variety of entertainment, or the amelioration of taste, The Revenge of Taran' might as well never have assumed a poetical dress; and might have slept, without detriment to the fame of any of the living, or the memory of any of the dead, in the prose-records of Dr. Johnson in his Journey to the Hebrides. This allusion Mr. Ball will thus explain :

• Advertisement.

The subject of this story may be traced to a Legend mentioned by Dr. Johnson, in his "Journey to the Western Islands," wherein it is recorded, that, in some remote time, the Macdonalds of Glengary having been injured or offended by the inhabitants of

Culloden,

Culloden, and resolving to have justice or vengeance, came to Culloden while their enemies were at worship, and shutting up the church, set it on fire. Their piper played a tune while the unfortunate victims were burning.

The design of this story is, to prove that a tale of real horror may be produced by natural means, without resorting to superhuman agents as in the " Vampire," and "Frankenstein," since we rest assured that such characters as are here represented, or worse, actually have existed.'

The style of this poem may be referred to that class which, for want of a better title, we may designate "The Blank-Verse Byronian." For example;

• Well-well 'tis pass'd- I am not what I was → 'P. 11.

Then

"Venus! take my votive glass!"

we should certainly advise :— - but not so Mr. Ball.

"My heart is flint now, I can tell it all.
He that I lov'd, another's prize became,
And e'en the image of himself, my child,
Was doom'd to leave his fond distracted mother.
O! I remember while my tearless eyes
Bent calmly on the corse of that poor babe,
How my heart swell'd, till it did seem too big
For the scant limits of its hiding-place.
Revenge! I cried, revenge!.

Yes, and I call'd on God to witness it.
Months roll'd away,

a stern and sullen maniac,

Where'er I pass'd the voice of pity follow'd,
Or fear, with timid step, forsook the path."

That fear should have a timid step is certainly one of those improvements in the hendyadis, vulgarly called tautology, which largely decorate the modern muse: but this is nothing. Mark what follows:

Wildly and franticly she gazed upon him,
Her words were strange and desp'rate "See!" she cried,
"That madd'ning form, O! hide me from her grasp !
The boy yet lives! what then has Rhoda done
To wake the thrilling presence of the dead?
See, see! it moves away; I may not follow
'Tis peaceful there-but yon pursuing deep, -
O! snatch me from its billows; they are all
Of boiling lead

The ships that sail thereon are red with fire.'

66

The poet incurred much responsibility when he launched his ships of amber" on seas of milk." No great classical authors, of the Greek or Roman school, have ever thus far ventured on the very ravings of insanity: they have always shewn a method in their madness,