return to the paternal halls of the muses, and banquet on his legitimate aliment. If he be a stranger to such sensations and longings, or derides them as fantastical, he may as well continue Don Juan. We ask only, as Jeremy Diddler says, for information; and should the author's answer be the production of genuine poetry, none would feel more unfeigned delight than ourselves, in the all-hail of an approving public. We have made, from the present attempt, the least exceptionable selections. Some of the stanzas, in which Byron is supposed to apostrophize his epic, are melancholy enough, and in cha racter: "And though with thee, my song and life should cease, My heart may hide beneath this soil of Greece,) Though now the Miner, Death, delves 'neath the dike "If so it chance that I should perish, ere Thy tale be told, thy fame and fate be sung, Be thou my legacy, some bard my heir, Around whose threshold, poisons thick have clung; One who, like me, has felt that foul is fair, And fair is foul,'-upon whose couch have hung They blend with thought, and breathe throughout his song." pp. 8, 9. The whole system of philosophy, and a droll system it is, to be gleaned from the pages of Don Juan, is, we believe, contained in the first of the following stanzas : ""Tis a cold, calculating, selfish world; Struck out from Chaos-by th' Almighty hurl'd, "Yet, in my boyhood, Woman! I loved thee! With the dark, bitter waters of that sea, Whose sluggish surge scarce motion bears, to lave Did home-but now the infidel and slave: ❝ "Tis vain, and worse than vain, to think on joys, Billows that swell, to burst upon the shore- -p. 23-25. A long apostrophe to Napoleon is so unequal, that we are perplexed in quoting from it. The author gets upon too high a key to escape occasional rhodomontade and bathos. "Farewell, Napoleon! if thou had'st died The coward scorpion's death--afraid, asham'd, To meet Adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wise had blam'd; “Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry! And smiling Seraphs open wide Heav'n's door! "Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell! A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dare wake his Harp to tell, Or sound in song, the spot that gave thee birth."—pp. 28-30. We make but one more extract; in which the imitation of the original is well sustained. "Meanwhile, my own dear Daughter! long, too long, A Father's Pity, and a Father's Prayer, Have breathed their Blessings, albeit but in Song, Doth to thy infant Mind, no Instinct strong Suggest his Form-whose Image thou dost wear? "Hast thou been taught to syllable my Name? Ada! my Child!-too well I know thou'st not: Will nature's intuition ne'er reveal "No matter-deeply graven on my Heart, "I stand upon Life's Desert:-I'm alone,— Thou Flower that grew beneath me--thou art gone! Sighs are unfrequent, and Smiles still more rare : But were I Adamant, yet could one Shock, "The Loss of Thee, my Child!—Hope, hopeless grows, That drop in Streams-to sink without increase. As Greece once was-and once again shall be.”—pp. 38, 39. "Leisure Hours at Sea" is the production of a young gentleman in the navy, and contains very fair poetry. He is not an ambitious writer; and, also, does not seem to claim the merit of much originality. But his style is unaffected, simple, and easy; and some of the pieces contained in the volume possess much pathos and beauty. There is, too, a vein of the purest moral feeling running through them all, which is as creditable to his heart, as the amusements of his leisure hours are to his taste. We select, as a favourable specimen of his general manner, part of the "Lines written in the Island of Elba." "The heart that feels as I have felt, When forced from kindred hearts to sever, "A father's burning hand I wrung; VOL. II. That parting hour, that sad adieu, "My foot is on a foreign strand- But let me wander where I will, "I think of her whose heart of truth Is crumbling now to kindred clay; From me, and from the world away : "I've left my land-I've left thy grave; What seek I here?—Fame's fleeting breath? Oh! what is glory but a name! This Isle might teach how poor is Fame "The prison-isle of him whose glance Sent awe throughout the world around; "Come hither, peasant! tell me, where Signor, I neither know nor care; He came-he's gone; though short the tale, "Tis all I have to tell.'- -He came- He's gone! oh yes! this, this is Fame!"-pp. 117–120. In Mr. Pinkney's poetry we catch a strain of another and a higher mood. His genius demands more especial notice than in these hasty remarks we are able to bestow. There is very little tameness in his compositions, and no lack of imagination. On the contrary, his luxuriance amounts sometimes, perhaps, to a fault; he is too much on the stretch for metaphor, and wings his flight to too remote regions in his quest. So, also, in the selection of poetical language, he is sometimes led to employ expressions that are quaint, in order to be not prosaic. He has an obvious partiality for the manner of Byron, and the tone of thought and cadence of his verses often remind us of the occasional impassioned pieces of that poet. The perusal of this small volume has been refreshing; and, wonderful indeed for a reviewer! we wished, at turning the last leaf, that there had been more of it. We do not, however, like the largest poem best. It is a story (or rather a fragment of one) of guilty, intense, and unhappy passion; and although redundant with imagery and ornament, is sometimes obscure and extravagant, as such legends generally are. Besides, the age has been overstocked with them; and we believe people are well tired of straining their sensibilities into a consonance and sympathy with the supposed feelings, soliloquies, and confessions of murderers and robbers, who have linked "one virtue with a thousand crimes;" which virtue, after all, probably, consists only in their constancy to an unlawful and immoral attachment. We doubt whether all history, general or domestic, can furnish half the number of refined bravoes celebrated in modern verse. Intense passion soon burns itself out; and it is a vain attempt to paint as sublime, love enduring among the horrors of remorse, and the terrors of penal justice. The subject is a legitimate one for tragedy, where the moral is obvious, and where even the virtues of the culprit cannot extenuate crime or prevent punishment. But in the school of which we speak, we are called upon to admire the nobler qualities, only as under the dominion of a tyrannizing lust, and to sorrow, not for the commission of guilt, but for its unfortunate consequences. Is it not the province of poetry, to gather up the bright relics that have survived the fall-to describe heroism, and love, and friendship, and natural affection, strong in adversity, and triumphing in death? The relish for such excitement, surely, is not extinct; and now, certainly, there is no originality in taking a desperado for a hero. Why then should a man of genius employ the rich resources of his fine and mysterious perception of associations and resemblances, in scattering flowers and perfumes over the couch of a dying ruffian? This has been often and better said; but good poets are too scarce among us, to render well-meant suggestions idle to one whose promise is as great as that of our author. Most of our readers, we presume, have seen and admired all or some of the fugitive pieces in this volume. Although our selections from others have already transcended our usual measure, we feel bound not to pass by Mr. Pinkney without any extracts. We have taken, almost at random, two; the one of a sad, the other of a more cheerful, character: "By woods and groves the oracles Of the old age were nursed; To Brutus came in solitude |