Nor the rozy munke of the isle to see, pu And the nytt that hang fra the hesil tree; And lang, lang greite or Kilmeny come heme." Here is the favourite, we had almost said the solitary, image in this description of Old Ballad : Oh lang may our Lady look o'er the castle down, Ere she hear the Earl of Murray come sounding through the town!" &c. &c. We shall probably be told, this song is professedly Scotish, and intended as a specimen. Take some ENGLISH then ; Earl Walter's grey was borne aside, Again,—and this is in the very finest style: Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night, Away went Macgregor, but went not alone.' Would that he had taken all, characters, bards, clansmen, all, all, with him! Yes, even Malcolm - although "Macgregor! Macgregor !" he bitterly cried any Without farther remark, we shall quote a passage in which the opening lines have considerable vigour, but are debased at the conclusion by an admixture (as is the case throughout) of the poorest non sense: • December came; his aspect stern Not stern December's fierce controul Art. 12. Little recked they, our bards of old, The heath their couch, the sky their shroud. Unlike the bards, whose milky lays Such as the bard, so is his lay!' Spain Delivered, a Poem in Two Cantos; and other Poems: by Preston Fitzgerald, Esq., Author of "The Spaniard.” Crown 8vo. 6s. Boards. Stockdale. 1813. Was ever a brilliant horizon more suddenly inveloped in the deepest gloom? Alas! the Deliverance of Spain, which so recently excited all the enthusiasm of joy, is now become a subject which is overshadowed with the most melancholy reflections! For the restoration of a proper balance of power in Europe, we have done every thing; while for the people of Spain we have not been able to effect any thing. With reference to them, thousands of British lives have been immolated, and millions of British treasure expended, only to recall the most senseless and savage despotism, coupled with all the horrors of the Inquisition. Since Spain might almost have been considered as ours by conquest, or, (to take lower ground,) as we had so essentially contributed to rescue her from a base invader, — might we not have had some claim on the exiled monarch, and have made some terms with him on his re-occupation of his capital? Now, the Deliverance of Spain is only the transfer of her from one despotism to another. - Had our poets anticipated such a result, their pens, which have lately been so active, would have dropped from their hands, and they would have left the glorious deeds of Wellington and his gallant army to have been recorded only by the historian. Even Mr. Fitzgerald's Spain Delivered' (which we have too long overlooked) would not have been composed. He invokes, however, no common inspiration, since 'Tis WELLINGTON and fame, And fall of France, demand the lyre; The battle of Salamanca, (here called The Tormes,) and that of Vittoria and the Pyrenees, are each the subjects of a canto, and together occupy near eighty pages. A description of the striking features of the first action is attempted; and, though we do not approve all Mr. F.'s contractions and double epithets, (as Siber, for Ff 3 Siberia, Siberia, and woe-wide hour,) we shall not withhold all praise of his verse; which, though not of the most finished kind, indicates genius. The battle of the Tormes concludes with this apostrophe to the slain : And who, that feels the warrior's flame Shall weave their fresh, immortal wreath ; And sighs shall swell, that heroes breathe The canto on Vittoria commences with a stanza which very ill accords with the remarks with which we have introduced this article, and shews how little poetry is allied to prophecy, though she will claim a relationship: The Muse hath sung of Tormes' wave, Afterward, the liberty of Spain is introduced, and Lord Wellington complimented on his success in destroying the Inquisition. Hear Mr. F. again: Perish, Inquisitorial rage, False idol of a fiercer age! Fall, thou fiend-god, whose rites defile: Fair hope, fond charity, arise, For heaven's pure flame relumes the skies, And pours on Spain the bliss of mind.' How different from the fact is often a poet's vision! The bliss of mind is a bliss that Spain has not acquired, and is not likely to derive from Lord Wellington's victories. Though the battle of Vittoria is not detailed, our war in the Pyrenees is amply displayed in this poem, and the final expulsion of the French from the Spanish territory is duly recorded: Thus, blotted from the beauteous land, The г The Gaul his guilty triumphs closed, Yet tell of war and wasting rage The strain resigns: but ere it cease, And bind each far extreme in blissful band.' We need not say that the verses on Ferdinand are not descriptive of his actual conduct. The little poems thrown in at the conclusion require no particular notice. We see no necessity for these addenda; and surely Mr. Fitzgerald's fame as a poet will derive from them no augmentation. (See the ungrammatical title of the last poem.) Art. 13. The Works of Thomas Otway; with Notes, critical and explanatory, and a Life of the Author. By Thomas Thornton, Esq. Crown 8vo. 3 Vols. 11. 16s. Boards. Turner. 1813. This is a complete edition of the productions of Otway: but, it may be asked, will either the reputation of that author, or the benefit of his readers, be consulted by such a publication? His comedies were the spawn of an age fruitful in the twin-births of genius and obscenity: but they partake, unfortunately, much the most largely of the latter characteristic. They are dull and dirty; and, painful as it really is to pronounce such a sentence on any compositions that bear so consecrated a name as that of the powerful and the pathetic Otway, it is the sentence that truth has always extorted from criticism on this occasion. In an advertisement prefixed to the Life of Otway, which is an amusing and instructive compilation, we are informed that the only known work of this author, that is omitted in the present collection, is a translation from the French, published in 8vo. 1686, the year after his decease, with the following title: "The History of Triumvirates," &c. &c. This seems to be a very proper omission; and the republication of the anecdote of Otway's last illness and death, (falsifying the horrible story of his starvation,) from Warton's Pope, is calculated to do good by that simplest but most effectual method, the dissemination of truth. The principal novelty is an extract from a scarce novel, by Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery, according to a MS. note of Mr. Bindley of Somerset House, from whose collection the editor obtained this rarity, intitled " English Adventures, by a Person of Honour. Licensed May 12th, 1676." This novel was the foundation of the tragedy of the Orphan. The notes of the editor throughout are what they profess to be, both critical and explanatory. In turning over the pages of these volumes, we chanced to find a curious resemblance (at least it may be called) between a passage in one of the works of a popular poet of the day, and a speech in "The Soldier's Fortune," page 325. Vol. ii, "The rogue can't write his Ff4 name, name, nor read his neck-verse, if he had occasion." So Deloraine, in The Lay of the Last Minstrel, declares himself to be wholly unskilled in the noble art of reading: "Wer't my neck-verse at hairibee!" If this be not plagiarism, it is picking up things on Nature's common, which had better be left to die where they were born; but soon, we are informed, we shall have "more last words" from our Last Minstrel, and of a higher mood than ever. We rejoice at the report. If the tenderness of Otway be lost to us, (and so in a great measure it seems,) let us be thankful for the vigour and fancy of the author in question: not here to mention any other of his noble and worthy contemporaries, - TOURS TO PARIS. Art. 14. Letters from a Lady to her Sister, during a Tour to Paris, in the Months of April and May 1814. 12mo. 4s. Boards. Longman and Co. Paris has been a monstrous lion this year, and has swallowed vast sums of money from the hands of innumerable British visitors. Several among these devotees of curiosity have endeavoured to describe, with the pen, the objects which they have so eagerly contemplated: some with the laudable view, perhaps, of imparting to those who have remained at home a portion of the knowlege and the pleasure which they themselves have derived from going abroad; and others with the hope of repaying, by these means, a part of the disbursement which their excursion has occasioned. We shall at present notice two or three of these tourists, and reserve some of the more considerable for future attention. The fair writer of the Letters to her Sister' gives indications of an intelligent and cultivated mind, and writes with that ease and liveliness which usually distinguish female correspondence under such circumstances. She was one of the earliest of the English visitants, and consequently not only saw every thing with the vividness of first impressions, but was herself received with all the warmth of feeling which was manifested towards the British who were seen in France immediately after the cessation of hostilities. These were in many respects advantages; but they have since been partially counterbalanced, we fear, by an alteration of circumstances which renders some of these glowing colours no longer natural and veritable. The ruins of the magnificent palace at Chantilly deservedly excite the fair writer's lamentation; after which, at Ecouen, her mind is relieved by contemplating an institution which undoubtedly does honour to Bonaparte,' the Maison d'Education of les jeunes Élèves, appointed for the reception of 300 female children of the officers of the Legion of Honour; who are educated in a superior style' under the superintendence of a very interesting, charming, elderly woman, elegant in her manners, affable and sensible, formerly one of the ladies of honour of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, and a woman of rank.' At Paris, this lady and her companions viewed every object of attraction; and with the peculiar facilities which not only then were, |