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"We now know what is really Norman; and a little attention to the buildings in the north of Germany, may terminate the long-debated questions, relative to Saxon architecture and the origin of the stoneroofed chapels in the sister isle.'

The subject is seductive; but we can pursue the Author in his tour no further. The volumes, which are well got up in every respect, have their value much enhanced by what is now too rare in modern publications, a good index.

Art. XI. Orient Harping: a Desultory Poem, in two Parts. By John Lawson, Missionary at Calcutta, 12mo. pp. 228. London. 1820.

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THE

HE affected and unmeaning title prefixed to this volume, will, we fear, operate rather to the prejudice of its sale. A slight inspection of its contents, however, will not fail to disarm the reader at once of every unkindly feeling towards its estimable Author. The series of poems of which, properly speaking, the work consists, are stated to have been written at different periods, during much affliction, and in the intervals snatched from severer occupations. It was the original intention of the Writer, merely to furnish his relations in the country he has left, with a few descriptions of Eastern scenery; but the subject increased under his hand, till the idea suggested itself of connecting together the detached sketches by a general argument. It is sufficiently obvious that this was an after-thought; and the titles of the poems, though in some cases rather vague, will give a better idea of the general contents of the volume, than the argument' prefixed to each of the two parts into which it is divided. These are as follow: the prelude; the vision; night; Jagannatha; Ganga promised; descent of Ganga; longing for heaven; immortality; hell; sabbath morn; sin; sabbath reflections; the contrast; the Brahmun; the poor Bengalee; death; hope in death; soliloquy. From this enumeration it will be seen that the Poem is characteristically Oriental; not less so than the Odes of Sir William Jones to the deities of the Hindoo pantheon, or the Curse of Kehama, but with this specific difference, that actual observation and genuine, earnest feeling, under a view of the real moral features of the landscape, have, in the case of Mr. Lawson, supplied the place of elegant speculation and powerful invention. To hint a comparison between him and the author of the singular poem above referred to, on the score of poetical genius, would be as unfair as invidious; but it may be worth while for the reader to compare the effect of the following description on his own feelings, with that which is produced by a similar scene as gorgeously painted by Mr. Southey.

• Fruition in the heavens,

The immolated widow when she dies,

Hopes for, and clasps the clay-cold corse of him
Whom she would follow to some unknown regions,
And, to secure the bliss, she dares the Aames.
Those flames I saw; I saw the dying woman!
Oh! I was wearied of this wicked world,
And longed that I might never see again
Such fruit of sin, but rather close my eyes
In peaceful death, and calmly pass away
From this abode of cruelty. That day
Lives in my memory; its barbarous scenes
Too deeply graven there to be expunged.
The dead man lay hard by the sullen waves,
Which scarcely moved beneath the stagnate air
And sultry sky; the white pall o'er him thrown.
One brother loitered near the place, nor wept,
Nor altered one calm feature, nor expressed
Honest regret that his untrembling hands
Should guide the torch, and fire the pile. Vacant
He grinned around. Cold blooded apathy!
There's nought in death to stir one lazy pulse,
Or wake the callous heart. His laws, his faith,
Have moulded the hard wretch; from them he argues,
If they enjoin, why should he disobey?

They sanction the black deed, and crime no more
Is criminal, and guilt is more than guiltless.

Deliberate murder is but meek obedience;

The merit great, and rich the benediction.' pp. 91, 92.

• She comes! she comes !

Midst the loud rabble, hastening with zealous step
To this drear Tophet. O, I pity thee,

Poor woman, hurried on to dismal death!

I pity thee amongst thy cruel friends,

Heartened by them to leave those innocent babes
Behind thee. Ah! could I but look within,
And see the workings of thy wilder'd mind!
What dark presentiments! what doubts! what fear!
Must rack thy tender bosom; for thy form,
Thy modest mien, and noble countenance,
Bespeak intelligence. Thou art not void
Of human sensibilities, nor tired

Of human life; thy years have been but few;
Age nor infirmity e'er wearied thee.

Thou hast a mother's heart. That steady eye,
Though tearless now, was never stern.

'O stay one moment !

One moment longer, O delay to die!

Why hurry over the short incantation,

As though thou longedst to be with him thou lovedst,

The partner of thy joys and sorrows here,
As thou art partner of his death? Do stay
A little while ere thou biddest long farewell,
Farewell for ever to this blessed light,

And plungest into darkness. O, my blood

Is cold! Come back! She is gone! She mounts the pile;
One moment stands there, as in agony,

Lifting her eyes the last time to the sun;

The next, she drops! The demon priests are up!
Savage at work, with might and main they pull,
And bind the victims; dead and living locked
In firm embrace. 'Tis done! the blasting flame
Burns rapidly, while the undulating smoke,
Like damned clouds cast from the mouth of hell,
Black hovers round. The hideous death-song wails
From howling friends. The roar of multitudes,
The voice of filthy drum, and every shriek,

Shout, yell, and moan, proclaim the horrid triumph;
And she is gone for ever.' pp. 97, 98.

There are some faults of rhythm in this passage, which shew an ear not sufficiently practised; otherwise, as poetry, this specimen will shew that Mr. Lawson's talents are far above mediocrity; and if the power to interest the feelings and awaken the sympathy of the reader, be any criterion of genius, there are many parts of the volume which cannot fail to justify his claim to that high endowment. The descriptive sketches are often, indeed, horribly graphical. The following would have done no discredit to any poetical artist.

• Of curious arch and turret
There stands the temple with its grinning queen
Kalee, of bottomless darkness born, obscene.
There bends the neck of the poor quaking lad
A human sacrifice. The hatchet falls!

That crash alone is heard-the guggling blood
Is on the ground, the priests have done their work,
And coldly walk away; they find their home,
Nor feel one sting of guilt.

Blear moon! throw off
Thy clouds! I hail thy rising, broad and pale,
From thy dark resting couch! lift up in haste
Thy light oblique o'er the waste jungles, o'er
Yon proud palm trees! oh, look, if thou canst look,
Nor wanlier change, look from thy calm blue sphere
On the deed done in thy delaying absence!
Reveal with thy fair beams the foulest scene
Thou e'er didst shine upon. The lifeless trunk
Grovels hard by the temple; hated dome!

The lodge of lust and murder. Flowers and fruits,
Abominable drinks, and ornaments

Lie strewn before the idol. Dolorous,
There lies the head, stiff in its own red streams,
And on the head dull burns a smoky lamp
Flickering upon the unconscious image, there
Staring perpetually from her deep niche.
The shuddering villager at morning break,
Eyeing the horrid queen, one moment stops,

With hand on forehead bows, then hastens on.' pp. 33, 34. The Hindoo demons are apostrophized in a style of ironical raillery for which the language of Elijah to the worshippers of Baal, might seem to have furnished the model and precedent. Some of the Author's descriptions are richly picturesque, and he occasionally attains a lofty elevation both of sentiment and of style. The volume will be interesting chiefly to religious readers, who will be able to sympathize in the feelings, and toils, and pious aspirations of the Christian missionary; but its poetical merit challenges from the public at large a very respectful estimate.Night' is altogether a beautiful sketch, and discovers great nicety of observation. Death,' also, contains some very powerful painting. But we feel it to be quite unnecessary to give any further extracts, in order to recommend the volume to the notice of our readers. It is saying every that needs be said in praise of the Author, that the theme is worthy of a Christian missionary, and his poetry is worthy of the theme.

Art. XII. Poems, by Bernard Barton. Second Edition, with Additions. 12mo. pp. 236. London. 1821.

THIS

HIS is not the first poet of the day which the Society of Friends has furnished. If there are any good reasons why a poet should not be a Quaker, we know of none that forbid a Quaker's being a poet. Mr. Barton does not shrink from the avowal of his sectarian creed, but he contends that that creed,

By fair interpretation,

Has nothing in it to impede

Poetic aspiration.'

"No!-hearts there be, the world deems cold,

As warm, as true, as tender,

As those which gayer robes enfold,

However proud their splendour.'

We readily admit this; we are disposed to take Mr. Barton's assurance, that the causes which have hitherto precluded the union of poetry and Quakerism, have been of an extrinsic and accidental nature, for we know that in that religious society the readers of poetry have long been sufficiently numerous. How matters stood in this respect before Cowper appeared to redeem

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the character of English poetry, we know not; but among no class, we believe, has that poet warmer admirers. And the influence of his poetry has probably not a little contributed to modify the opinions and form the taste of his Quaker readers. The progress of education, too, inevitably tends to undermine the prejudices which originate in partial cultivation or implicit opinion. The estimable body we are speaking of, have not stood still in the general march of society. Yet it is possible, that they may still, as a society, retain some notions on the subject of poetry less liberal than those of the great mass of readers. Moore, Bysshe Shelley, Leigh Hunt, and even Lord Byron, may not generally be received into the Quaker library, along with Montgomery and Wordsworth. We do not blame them if their concessions have stopped short of inconsistency. There is a great deal of modern poetry that is ill adapted to make its readers either the wiser, the better, or the happier: it will not lessen their respectability as a sect, if such works should, by general consent, be put into their Index Expurga

torius.

Mr. Barton, in referring to the success which the first edition of these poems obtained, expresses his satisfaction at the proof afforded by the indulgence of the public,

that the most poignant temptations and brilliant seductions, addressed to the public taste and moral sentiment, have not yet extinguished in the public breast a genuine attachment to the sober and simple exercise of the gentler faculties of the muse; and that, even under the disadvantage of inferior power, readers willingly welcome those lays that appeal only to the pure, and quiet, and conscientious feelings of the heart.'

As a specimen of the success with which sometimes this appeal is made by the Author of this volume, we cannot do better than select the lines addressed to Wordsworth on the publication of "Peter Bell," although some share of the ridicule bestowed on that poem may fall on its avowed admirer. But the writer of the following stanzas is certainly one who both knows and feels what poetry is, and by such, Wordsworth, with all his puerilities and perversities, will always be held in honour. • Beautiful Poet! as thou art,

In spite of all that critics tell,

I thank thee, even from my heart,
For this, thy tale of "PETER Bell."

It is a story worthy one

Who thinks, feels, loves, as thou hast done.

It is a story worthy too

Of a more simple, primal age,
When feelings natural, tender, true,
Hallow'd the poet's humblest page,

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