there in these two volumes feveral POEMS on different readings in Horace. For the indulgence of curiofity we fhall felect

one:

NONUMQUE prematur in Annnm.
Hor. Art Poet. L. 388.

I.

Ye poets, and critics, and men of the schools,
Who talk about Horace, and Horace's rules;
Ye learned admirers, how comes it, I wonder,
That none of you touch a moft tangible blunder?
I fpeak not to fervile, and sturdy logicians,
Who will, right or wrong, follow printed editions;
But you, that are judges, come rub up your eyes,
And unfhackle your wits, and I'll show where it lies.
II.

Amongst other rules, which your Horace has writ,
To make his young Pifo for poetry fit,

He tells him, that verfes fhould not be purfu'd,
When the Mufe (or Minerva) was not in the mood;
That, whate'er he should write, "he fhould let it defcend
To the cars of his father, his master, his friend;"
And let it lie by him- now prick up your ears
Nonumque prematur in annum· nine years.

HI.

Nine years! I repeat-for the found is enough,
With the help of plain fenfe, to discover the stuff.
If the rule had been new, what a figure would nine
Have made with your Pifo's, ye matters of mine?
Must a youth of quick parts, for his verfe's perfection,
Let it lie for nine years- in the House of Correction ?

Nine years if his verfes must lie in the leaven,
Take the young rogue himfelf, and tranfport him for feven.
IV.

To make this a maxim, that Horace infufes,

Muft provoke all the laughter of all the nine Mufes
bow the wits of old Rome, in a cafe fo facetious,
Would have jok'd upon Horace, and Pifo, and Metius,

If they all could not make a poetical line

Ripe enough to be read, till the year had struck nine!
Had the boy been possest of nine lives, like a cat,
Yet furely he'd ne'er have fubmitted to that.

V.

Vah! fays, an old Critic, indefinite number-
To denote many years- -(which is just the fame lumber)
Quotes a length of Quintilian for time to retouch-
But wifely stops short at his blaming-foo much.
Some took many years, he can inftance-in fine,
Ifocrates ten- -Poor Cinna just nine;

Rare inftance of taking, which, had he been cool,
Th' old Critic had feen, never could be a rule.

VI. Indeed,

ل.

VI.:

Indeed, fays a young one, nine years, I confefs,
Is a defperate while for a youth to fupprefs;
I can hardly think Horace would make it a point;
The word, to be fure, must be out of its joint;
Lie by with a nonum ! had I been his Pifo,

I'd have told little Fatty, mine never fhould lie fo.
Had he faid for nine months, I fhould think them enoo;-
This reading is falfe, Sir-pray tell us the true.
VII..

Why, you are not far off it, if prefent conjecture
May furnish the place with a probable lecture;
For by copies, I doubt, either printed, or written,
The hundreds of editors all have been bitten.

Nine months you allow Yes--well, let us, for fear
Of affronting Quintilian, e'en make it a year:

Give the critics their numque, but as to their no-
You have one in plain English more fit to bestow.

VIII.

I take the corre&tion —unumque, premature
Let it lie for one twelvemonth-ay, that may hold water;
And time enough too for confulting about

Mafter Pifo's performance, before it came out.

What! would Horace infift, that a sketch of a boy
Should take as much time, as the taking of Troy?

They, that bind out the young one, fay, when the old fellow
Took any time like it, to make a thing mellow;

IX.

-

Tho' correct in his trifles- -Young man you say right,
And to them that will fee, it is plain at first fight;
But critics that will not, they hunt all around
For fomething of famenefs, in fenfe, or in found;
It is all one to them; fo attach'd to the letter,
That to make better fense makes it never the better:
Nay, the more fenfe in readings, the lefs they will own 'em ;
You must leave to thefe fages their mumpfimus nonum.

X.

Do you think, they cry out, that with fo little wit
Such a world of great Critics on Horace have writ ?
That the poets themselves, were the blunder fo plain,
In a point of their art too, would let it remain ?
For you are to confider, these critical chaps
Do not like to be fnubb'd; you may venture, perhaps,
An amendment, where they can fee fomewhat amits;
But may raise their ill blood, if you circulate this.

XI.

It will circulate, this, Sir, as fure as their blood,
Or, if not, it will stand as in Horace it flood.
They may wrangle and jangle, unwilling to fee;
But the thing is as clear as a whiftle to me,
This nonum of theirs no defence will admit,
Except that a blot is no blot, till it's hit;

R 3

And

And now you have hit it, if nonum content 'um,
So would, if the verfe had fo had it, nongentum.
XII.

- true;

You'll fay this is painting of characters-
But, really, good Sirs, I have met with these two:
The firft, in all comments quite down to the Delphin,
A man, if he likes it, may look at himself in:
The laft, if you like, and along with the youth,
Prefer to Nonumque poetical truth,

1

Then blot out the blunder, how here it is hinted,
And by all future printers Unumque be printed.

There are feveral other really valuable criticifms, on Horace conveyed in the fame fingular manner.

L.

ART. II. The Siege of Tamor; a Tragedy. By Gorges Edmond Howard, Efq. 8vo. 1 s. 6d. Dublin printed, London reprinted, for G. Robinson. Edit. the Third.

THE

1773.

HERE is fo much difference between dramatical and poetical abilities, that a writer who poffeffes no inferior portion of the latter may, nevertheless, be deftitute of the former. We remember to have heard a gentleman, who has diftinguished himself by his dramatic productions, observe, modeftly with regard to himfelf indeed, but juftly enough, perhaps, at the fame time, that writing for the ftage is rather a knack, than an effect of genius. Certain it is that there are many unexhibited plays, infinitely superior, in point of compo fition, to numbers that have been played even with fuccefs. Among thefe ranks the Siege of Tamor, to which we cannot farther proceed without taking notice of a very elegant and interefting Prologue prefixed to it, by Mr. Peter Seguin, Complaining that his country [Ireland] had been little diftinguished by the Mufes; he says,

To us alone, the niggard Fates refufe
The honours of the far-recording Mufe;
Although, Hibernia's patriots might prefume
To rival thofe of Sparta or of Rome;
Although her heroes were as bold in fight,
Her fwains as faithful, and her nymphs as bright.
Here too, of yore, ftupendous deeds were done,
High conquefts enterpriz'd, high honours won.
To the fam'd facts ten thousand harps were firunga
And what our fires atchiev'd, their poets fung:
Yet here, alas! we boast no Homer born,
No Shakespeare rose, an intellectual morn!
To lift our fame perennial and fublime,
Above the dart of Death, and tooth of Time;
While Gothic fires attack'd us as their prey,
And, with our records, fwept our name away,

But

But lo! a bard, a native bard, at last
Treads back the travels of ten ages paft;
Plunging the gulph of long-involving night,
Plucks forth the tale of virtue to the light,
And gives the living glory to your fight.

O thame! not now to feel, not now to melt
At woes, that whilom your fam'd country felt;
Let your fwol'n breafts, with kindred ardours glow!
Let your fwol'n eyes, with kindred paffions flow!
So fhall the treafure, that alone endures;

And all the worth of ancient times-be yours!

Every one in the least acquainted with the hiftory of Ireland, knows the high heroic fpirit which infpired the ancient natives of that country, their boundless thirft of glory, their obftinacy of honour, the enthusiasm of their military virtue, which in their contests, either among their own little kingdoms, or with ftrangers, frequently led them to the most fanguinary extremes. With fuch characteristics Mr. Howard has properly represented them in his tragedy; and if his. heroes, according to the modern, or even to the rational idea of heroifm, appear to go beyond the utmost verge of nature, the fpirit of their country and their times will, if remembered, reconcile us to their conduct.

Turgefius, King of Denmark, having made a defcent upon Ireland, and conquered fome of its inferior ftates, lays ficge to Tamor, now called Tara, in the county of Eaft-Meath. This place was the refidence of the monarchs of Ireland, and here they held their provincial affemblies and parliaments. It was now the capital of Malfechlin, King of Leinfter, and the bufinefs of the play commencés not till the befieged were reduced, by toil and famine, to the utmost extremity. The terms which the ferocious enemy infifted on were fhocking to humanity, viz. that the brave and Chriftian prince Malfechlin fhould prostitute his daughter Eerneftha, his only child, to the pleafute of the Pagan Dane. This circumftance throws fo ftrong an intereft into the drama, that the latter part of it is filled with the most heartrending scenes.

The third Scene of the third Act prefents the father and the daughter; the former, by his horror at the idea of the Dane's polluting her, worked up to the dreadful refolution of killing her with his own hand; the latter ignorant both of her father's intention and of the enemy's demand:

MALSECHLIN.

'Tis horrible-but ere it is accomplish'd,

Beyond recall, let me once more review

The dreadful motive-He demands my daughter,

See more of this tyrant, and of the story on which this play is founded, in the laft volume of our Review, p. 472.

R 4

And

And for purpofe the most foul-and Oh! Oh!
Do I confent?-Yet fhould I not-ay there-
There-horrid dilemma! It must not be-

[bofom, No-this, (pulling out a dagger) this rather should transfix her Elfe, fo deface with fcars that beauteous form

Ev'n luft should start at it. (Eerneftha appears) Ha! she is here. How nature at the fight revolts and trembles !

I, for a moment, must conceal this weapon.

Eerneft. O Sir! how happy am I in this fummons! (Afide.) Malfech. Protecting angels fpread their wings around her! Shield! fhield her!-Oh!

Eerneft. A groan fo deep! Ah Sir! My heart dies in me at the found- -whence? wherefore Woe's me! he cannot fpeak, turn, turn this way, What is the facrifice that heav'n demands? You look not on me it must be my trespassSpeak, fpeak to me, or my poor heart will burft. None had your favour more than your Eerneftha, How have I lost it?

Malfech.

Thou haft not loft it,

No, my Eerneftha, no, this very moment,
Thou art far dearer to my foul than ever;
And yet this interview, 'tis like, will be

The laft delight thy prefence e'er can yield me,

Eerneft. Defend me heav'n! Oh! Sir, am I the caufe? Am I to blame?

Maljecb.

No, no, it is my fondness :

My country loft; a tyrant's cruelty;

Thy honour, virtue, and thy matchless beauty,
Thefe, thefe the fatal caufe.

Eerneft.

And wilt thou then abandon me for ever?

O fearful founds!

Malfech. Now, now, my heart be steady!

Se'eft thou this?

Eerneft. No, Sir.

Malfech. It is defign'd for thee-my child! for thee.
Eernet. If 'tis your will, I'm ready to receive it.

Maljech. Ha! fear'st thou not to die?

Eerneft. My mother's virtue and my father's fpirit

Have arm'd my heart against death's blackeft frowns,
Early you taught me that it had no terrors

But to the guilty mind.
Malfech.

Thou difarm'ft me.

(He puts up the dagger)

Thy filial piety, thy wond'rous fortitude
Have truck thy father with remorse and shame,
And fav'd him from a fearful defperatione; 1
Yet art thou fav'd for that for that far worfe→→→

Berne,