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contain: prettily executed views of an Arabian banditti în sight of a caravan; the Ruins of Palmyra; a Karmanian waiwode, (or market); a Turkish burying-ground; Smyrna; and a portrait of Hassan Pasha, in his full costume.

William Barlow, A Sketch from Life. By Esther Hewlett, Author of Eliza Harding, Legend of Stutchbury, &c. 18mo. London, 1823. pp. 226. Holdsworth.

THIS little tale for youth, is, as will be perceived from the title page, another production of the useful and judicious pen of Mrs. Hewlett, of whose Eliza Harding we spoke, with merited commendation, in a former number of our journal. Its object is to state and to refute the popular objections to the truth of revelation in such a form, as to render them attractive to the young and unexperienced, who in these days, in which such extraordinary efforts have becn made for the spread of infidelity, are the most exposed to its open or more subtle attacks upon the sublime truths of our pure and holy faith. This she has accordingly done, in a very simple story, of a pious family in humble life, whose happiness is attacked by the son being tempted by wicked companions, to quit the path of his fathers for their new ways of the despondence and despair which followed a conviction of the gloom and uncertainty of his sceptical notions, from the reasonings of his faithful pastor with his infidel companions, (taken chiefly by the way from Leslie, Paley, Gregory, and other popular writers on the evidences of Christianity, though clothed for the most part in the language of the authoress,) his horrible apprehensions, that as an apostate, he could never be received again into the fold of Christ, and the removal of his fears on witnessing the peaceful departure of his father, in the faith once delivered to the saints. On the whole, we can confidently recommend the tale, of which we have thus given the outline, (though we should add, by the way, that the infidel perverters of the hero meet with their deserts,) not only to our young readers, but to those who have the superintendence of their education, as a very useful antidote to the mischiefs it is intended to prevent.

We could not, however, avoid smiling at the incongruity into which most writers of fiction seem destined more or less to fall, in making the minister engaged in refuting the advocates of infidelity, who had seduced from his fold one

of the younglings of his flock, appeal to two journeymen watchmakers, as having fagged over Virgil and Horace, as conversant with the precepts of Plato, Lycurgus, Solon, Socrates, Seneca, and as being so well acquainted with classical authors, that they were familiar with the indirect confirmation afforded by Juvenal, Longinus, Diodorus Siculus, and others, to the truths of some parts of scripture history; though these learned men maintain the infidel side of the argument with infinitely less ability than many of their less gifted associates in impiety have done.

POETRY.

THE DEATH OF MUNGO PARK, BY J. H. WIFFEN, Esq. (Concluded from Vol. III. page 406.)

XXXV.

'Tis day-what sounds at so serene an hour
Startled the echoing solitudes of Yaour?

The' adventurer looked, and saw with careless eye
Two Negro horsemen on fleet barbs sweep by,
Along the vale's clear waters, which to view
Rich with the ravishment of morn-the hue

Drawn from the golden-tissued clouds, might charm
From Wrath's wild eye the meditated harm,
If, eager for destruction, aught of wrath
Could tread at such a time so bright a path;
But charmed not them: they paused, till on the tide
The far Bambarran vessel they descried,
Winning its way in gladness from the shores,
The broad wave whitening with the flash of oars.
To them that sight seemed bitterness: a frown,
Gloomy as thunder on their brows came down:
Then turned they to the North impatiently,
Guilt on their cheek, defiance in their eye:
And fast, like Heaven's destroying angels, sped,
Nor check'd the scourging heel-nor turn'd the head,
Till reached the subject plain where Haoussa stands,
Lone centinel amid the silent sands!

The portals are unbarred; they haste-and now
Before the high-pavilioned monarch bow.

* We remember to have stated, that part of the MS. of this poem was lost by accident: it is only of late that it has been recovered, and the lost passages supplied.-ED.

XXXVI.

Superior was his mien, his brow austere,
Ploughed by the furrowing thoughts of many a year;
And the high spirit of ascendancy

Spake in the shining of his lion-eye;
A soul all passion, haughtiness, and fire,
And but once kindled, sleepless in its ire.
Barbaric was his state; a leopard's hide
Hung round his throne, ministrant to his pride;
His hand the sceptre held; a plate of gold
His forehead starr'd, his vest and turban-fold
Were purple-at his side a sabre shone
Unsheathed, and braced in a Morocco zone.
He waved his arm, the busy clash of spears
Which ushered in the hasty messengers

Was hush'd, as swift the crowd's raised murmurs fall,
And all is silence in his armed hall.

Then to the strangers: "Who and whence ye are, "And at whose bidding, if for peace or war

"Your visit is-resolve me hastily;"

The monarch thus: the envoys make reply:
"Instant from Yaour we come: by us, O King,
"He greets thee: and this message bids us bring.
"A White Man from the islands of the West
"Is sailing on the Niger-with the rest,

"Ourselves his bark have seen; on wings that bind
"The palm's hewn trunk it flies, and mocks the wind,
"Nor want there sturdy rowers, with the might
"Of numerous paddles to assist its flight.

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Furrowing the river into gold, it bore,

"At twilight near our village;-the throng'd shore "Meanwhile we filled with spearmen, but the morn "Hath spread its wondrous wings and it is gone"In most admired presumption! with what aim "The audacious stranger to these deserts came, "In sooth we know not; but of this be sure, "He courts not thine, in his own strength secure: "Nor tribute-gift he sends;—the coral-tree "Blends with his spoils, but blushes not for thee; "Nor think the golden product of the mine "Shall gem thy brows or on thy turban shine. "Thus unpermissioned through these realms to go, "A trustless friend or an insidious foe, "Ill with a monarch's greatness can accord, "Whilst waves around him one revenging sword. "Already distant, and-but why delay? "Thy glory he defrauds, and scorns thy sway."

"Quick! seize your oars-your fleetest camels rein, "And be his doom the prison and the chain."

XXXVII.

Slant shines the Sun; beneath his fiery wing,
Rock, wood, and wave are deeply slumbering;
So deeply slumbering, they with awe inspire
The heart which lingers only to admire.
Viewed by so calm a heaven, whose beams diffuse
O'er them-the magic of their evening hues,
They are like things so lovely in their birth,
One moment gives, the next recals from earth,
Ne'er to return: nor long on earth must dwell,
The sweet-sad glory of that sun's farewell!
And, sharing in its glory, there is one
Would bless it parting, and bewail it gone;
And watch through restless vigils of the night,
Till the red morrow rolls again in light.
It may not be to him, alas! is given
Night, but in death,-a morrow, but in heaven.
Mark'st thou yon giant rock whose summit proud
Gathers the rich tints of the passing cloud?
Bridg'd by its rude romantic battlement,
There all the fury of the stream is bent:

Swift, furious, in tumultuous foam it flies

Through its dark arch-impatient for the skies.

Strong are the oars which breast that eddying tide,
And firm the hearts which strain them to their pride-
Yet seems yon bark reluctant to obey

The force that wings it on its idle way.
Round its slow stern the baffled billows fret,
In wrath besetting, as with wrath beset,
And ever as they dash, a fearful sound
Starts sadly from prophetic caves around,
As though the viewless destinies would weave
A web of death, and for the tissue grieve.
XXXVIII,

Now full in view the yawning pass appears;
O Heaven! the bristling of a hundred spears
Is seen upon the rock, like mountain-pines,
That blaze and tremble when the lightning shines..
And ostrich plumes on plumes confusedly
Dance to and fro athwart the silent sky,
Now seen, now lost,-till-hastily arrayed,
Leaps the dark phalanx from its ambuscade.
Raised is each Negro arm, in act to throw
The barbed lance, and bended every bow.
Hark to the war-shell's signal! at the sound,
The rough rock shakes, the waters heave around;

Nears but that victim-bark the fatal flood,
And all is conflict, agony, and blood.

XXXIX.

It came! O never yet its chieftain knew
Fear's blank amaze where startling danger grew;
It came ! a few contending thoughts might roll
O'er the proud grandeur of his daring soul,
But settled soon; well can it bear the weight,
Of angry malice and of thankless hate.

One prayer to Heaven he speeds, one secret sigh
Breathed to his country, and his heart beats high.
Before-around-all eyes are turned to him,
A graceful vigour shines in every limb,
Deliberate valour in each glance;—his hand
Points to the foe, and this his last command:
"Here ply your stoutest oars: is victory sweet?
"The storm lowers round us-'tis the last we meet.
""Twere madness to retire; what hope, what chance,
"Could save you from the swift Massylian lance!
"Here then, Ó lineage of the free! be shown
"Your country's ancient prowess and your own.
"A lordly lion dogs your path to-day,

"And since you cannot shun him, you must slay; "Bethink you of each dear domestic tie,

"Homes-altars--wives beyond that rock they lie; “The refluent billows should you cease to stem,

"What agony to you-what grief to them!

"That shrill barbarie signal do

ye

know?

"Glory to Haoussa! to the White Man wo.
"In me no grim barbarian sees his slave,
"I win the pass, or perish on the wave.”

XL.

These dauntless words his flagging crew provoke,
They lash the whirling current into smoke.
Repulse but adds a keener nerve to toil ;
The vault remurmurs as the billows boil.
Some strain the slackened cordage; some the sails
Obliquely wheel to meet the veering gales.
Hope aids them in their labour, each to each
Passes loud greetings; now almost they reach
The yawning precipice: on! on! the foe
Bends o'er, to deal the meditated blow.

But the warped floods flow back: tis vain! unwon-
Hark to the shout, and thunder of the gun!
Peals its loud knell: its clouded path unseen,
Boots it not now to mark where it hath been:
That bursting sound, o'er the still desert rolled,
A fearful tale of agony hath told;

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