In battle's desperate strife,

Ah! deadly is the scene, oh! sore misery,

Ah! hell's ferocity the spectacle.

Through heaven and earth, deadly echoes rend the air,

Fierce strife, hell's thunders and satanic sounds, volcano's awe,

Fire and blood-bred shrieks,

With foggy smoke as deadly as 't is dark,

And flames tangible.

Fierce fire more durable than Etna's roar,

A thousand groans ascend the skies, but the four winds return
And breathe heaven's defiance

To the departure of war's most awful sound,

Which echoes ever and anon return,

Discordant as the breathings of hell's fiery flames.

Blood, death, and groaning agonies excite the element.

The fierce howling winds,

And groans bespeak the angry grave of strife,

For proud hosts unslain.

Thunders roll, fire's the reigning element

In deepest darkness clad."

"Discord," it has been asserted, "is harmony not understood;" and possibly this "prose run mad" might bear some interpretation if one could only find a clue to it! Imagine the despair of a foreigner, who boasted his knowledge of English, having the task assigned him to render the foregoing into his own tongue! The translation would, no doubt, "astonish the natives," and be a literary curiosity, in its way. We have ourselves, like bully Bottom, "a reasonable good ear for the tongs and the bones," but, surely, no mortal man could extract any music out of that. The advantage of this style of writing is, that you may read from the bottom of a page to the top, or from top to bottom, or begin in the middle and read towards either end, without injury to the sense: like those cards for conversation, where any answer suits for any question, shuffle them how you will.

"The Titans of to-day," by a poet who is bold enough to give his name, we must admit to be equally incomprehensible to us; and it is written in the blankest of blank verse. But when the author chooses to come down from his stilts, he rises very considerably in our estimation. In the same volume there is a little poem called the Syren's Isle," which is more adapted to our capacity. We who, like Byron, delight to roam

"O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,

Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free," can feel that the following stanza is, at least, poetical :—

"Row gently, friends, there's sunshine on our course,—

Life's morning mists are fading fast away;

Our hearts begin to feel the vital force

Of genial pleasure brightening into day;
Row gently, friends;

How sweet the gale from yonder palmy Isle
Comes murmuring down, the dimpled waters smile
Beneath its touch, and heave to be carest,
Like a young maid when mutual love's confest.
Row gently, friends, thither our course we steer;
Why are we cautioned? what is there to fear?
Blue seas around us, golden skies above,

Joy at our hearts, and all things breathing love.""

You, gentle reader, may not think those the best lines in the poem— nor are they: it is sufficient for us that, like a simple melody, they touched a responsive chord in our heart; which, to say the truth, "although the grey doth somewhat mingle with our brown," still vibrates easily to the memory of pleasant days gone by.

The pleasing effect of the first three lines is, to us, impaired by the feebleness of the fourth, "pleasure brightening into day" is not easily conceived; we venture to suggest "like the day," as more forcible and consistent with the pretty description of its dawn. The word “vital” also disturbs our vitals: a more poetical and expressive term might have been found, pleasure is not a "vital" force. If we were disposed to be hypercritical we might also observe, that as there seems to have been a tolerably fresh breeze blowing from the island, rowing gently was not the way to get there. The author quotes Greek, and we hope he will not take it amiss if we commend to his consideration a single line of Latin:

"Scribendi recté, sapere est principium et fons.”

We might have cited more harshly from the same authority.

The " Tragedy of Sesostris" is written, as the author tells us, to endeavour to revive the, now languishing, British Drama. We fear it will produce little effect in that direction: not so much from want of ability in its author, as from the nature of its subject. Why will the writers of tragedy always persist in choosing the heaviest and dullest themes for their plots? Why can they not select from the histories of their own countries some of the innumerable stirring and truly dramatic events therein recorded?

It may be doubted whether any genius could awaken in the hearts of men and women, in the nineteenth century, any deep sympathy with the heroes and heroines of Egypt and Assyria. At all events, the gifted author of " Sardanapalus" failed to do so, and Mr. Williams has not succeeded in "Sesostris." The former only retains its place on the stage as a spectacle-the latter, we believe, has never been acted; and, for the author's sake, we trust the experiment of producing it will not be made.

It is not destitute of poetry, but the speeches have nearly all the great defect of being too long. Thothmes, a priest, who is the evil genius of the piece, is terribly verbose. If a good thing is to be said, why need it be drawn out tediously into a dozen yards of impalpable gold wire, when the reader would prefer it clear and obvious to the sense, though a little rough-like the original nugget itself? and for theatrical effect, simplicity and compression are still more important. It is remarkable that our modern tragedies are written in inflated language, which is neither generally spoken nor universally understood. We do not know a single one of them, the performance of which we should not consider it a dreary misappropriation of our time to sit and witness throughout.

Mr. Williams has some poetry in his soul, as we have shewn; and if he will only eschew tragedy and blank verse, we will promise to read whatever he writes hereafter, and not to condemn him without a very fair hearing.

When Coleridge was hard pressed by his critics-for his Pegasus sometimes carried him roughly-he said, "until you understand a writer's ignorance, presume yourself ignorant of his understanding," and this comfortable apothegm he adopted, thenceforward, as a maxim-as O'Connell did his vow against duelling-to serve as a shield for future occasions. And in this way every poet may, and no doubt will, to a certain extent, take comfort to himself against all attacks, by pleading the reviewers' ignorance. They do not understand him! That which is to them a stumbling-block of obscurity, he is quite sure that a little explanation would render clear to the meanest capacity. But even so, and admitting that your critic may be only a reader of good ordinary intelligence, is it not for such that books are written? and if you have not made your meaning obvious, or if, when you thought yourself sublime, he found you only perplexing, has he not a right to complain? Homer and Virgil condescended to write intelligibly, we need no expositor for Milton, and the words of Shakspeare inspire us as we read. Pope and Swift never leave the sense in doubt, and even the cumbrous Johnson is always explicit. If then we readily comprehend these great masters, are we to be deterred from pronouncing judgment, because we may not be able to fathom the deep profound of a modern writer's ignorance, and therefore remain "ignorant of his understanding?" If a writer has a distinct idea, our language is sufficiently copious to admit of his expressing it intelligibly; and in poetry the sense which is not manifest at the first reading will seldom, we imagine, be sought for in a second. But, someone exclaims :—

“Here end thy brave and turn thy face in peace!"

Y

and gladly do we seize the occasion to lay aside our pen. The poems under notice may not in themselves have deserved so much space as we have given to our commentary, though comprising more verses than the imperishable odes of Gray and Collins together; but, in some sort, reviewing may be said to resemble hunting, and the reader, like the rider, depends more on the incidents of the chase, for his amusement, than on the quality of the game afoot. The antlered monarch of the glades sometimes affords little more than a dull canter over a level country—and what fun could we get out of Whewell or Faraday, Hallam or Macaulay? -while a little dingy wretch of a bag-fox will often keep the whole field in a state of excitement for hours

And so on, scampering "Hither and thither," or sneaking "There and back again," to the end of the chapter. And with this apology, which if you are the least in the world of a sporting character-lady or gentleman-we are sure you will kindly accept, we take our leave of you till

next month.

THE FORTUNES OF A COLONIST. By Philip Ruysdale. London: T. C. Newby.

Is this a romance, or a truthful record of adventures that have actually befallen the author? The book has no preface, nor does the writer assure us that he is simply relating facts. If we could believe in its statements, we should pronounce it a most interesting, exciting, and instructive narrative; but, unfortunately, there is such a strong tinge of improbability about many parts of it, that we know not what to believe, and what to reject. This is a serious defect. Had Mr. Ruysdale (is the name even a genuine one?) called his work a "story,” or a “romance," we should have given it our hearty approbation, as one of the most interesting we had read; had he assured us that he was writing truth, we should have been bound to believe him, and should have followed his adventures with the warmest interest; but as he has done neither, we cannot yield ourselves up to the enjoyment of a romantic tale, nor follow with delight the actual "Fortunes of a Colonist." We are left in doubt and perplexity.

On his way to America, Mr Ruysdale leaves his ship to pursue a polar bear, on an iceberg. A storm coming on, the sailors, who have accompanied him to the iceberg, make their way, hurriedly, back in the boat, to join the ship, leaving him alone on the floating island of ice with the bear he has slain. He remains here for three or four days, feeding on the carcass of the bear and that of a seal which he also kills: at length, when nearly despairing of aid, he is rescued by a passing ship. When we had read thus far, we were puzzled to know whether the author were in earnest or not, especially as he describes conversations so minutely that if they took place as he relates them his memory must be a very remarkable one.

His descriptions of American scenery, of life in the far-west of Canada, of backwoodsmen, of all the hardships and enjoyments, the miseries and delights of existence beyond the pale of civilization-all these are admirable, and will rivet the attention of the most careless, who may take up the book for the mere purpose of "dipping into it." There is also a romantic tale, interwoven in his narrative, of the life of a friend whom he makes in Canada, and whose death and legacy cause him to return to England. For originality, descriptive and narrative powers, and conciseness of style, Mr. Ruysdale deserves every credit.

THE ENGLISH ENVOY AT THE COURT OF NICHOLAS I.
London: Thomas Hodgson.

By Miss Julia Corner.

The title of this work is a safe one to make it sell at the present moment. Nevertheless, those who are led by it to expect much insight into the Court of St. Petersburgh will be greviously disappointed. It is true that the hero of the story is despatched on an embassy to the Russian capital, and we have a few scenes laid at its Court, in which Nicholas I. figures, but he is simply the immensely tall and rather illtempered gentleman that we have all heard about and can all, to a certain extent, describe, without seeing him or knowing anything about him beyond our fellow mortals. He also magnanimously pardons a man who is proved to be innocent of the crime for which he had been condemned, which is, of course, very praiseworthy, and tends to raise "Old Nic" greatly in our estimation. The imaginary culprit is one of those heroes that ladies are so fond of pourtraying-very tall, a most exquisite figure, beautifully expressive eyes, and masses of curly hair. Just the man for angels of seventeen, in boarding-schools, to fall in love with! But Miss Corner takes a liberty with our Constitution that we cannot allow to pass unnoticed. In order to render this gentleman unusually interesting, he is in perpetual disguise while in England, lest he should be delivered up to the Russian authorities for his political offences at St. Petersburgh. Really this is too bad. We do not expect a lady to know much about law of any kind; but surely no one who wishes to instruct others should be ignorant of the fact that political refugees are never given up by England, though they may have offended all the potentates in Europe, from the Czar Nicholas in Petersburgh to King Bomba in Naples. Therefore it was quite unnecessary for the graceful Litofsky to hide his own sandy locks even under the very beautiful wig invented for him by Miss Corner; or to play the quill-driver in a merchant's office, instead of occupying apartments in Leicester Square, as refugees always do.

The book, as a novel, is not a bad one. There is nothing new in it, either in character or plot; nor are any of the men and women who play their part in its pages very powerfully drawn. Still there is sufficient interest in the story to make it readable --and what more can novel-readers expect, especially when eighteen-pence is all that the publisher demands for the book?

SIR GERVASE GREY: a Novel. By Mrs. Gordon, Authoress of "Kingsconnell," &c., &c. London: T. C. Newby.

Although this is a work of talent, it is a most painful one to read. Nine deaths are really too many for the feelings of soft-hearted novel readers. It is too heavy a draught on the fountains of their tears; for Mrs. Gordon writes so well that we become seriously interested in all her amiable characters, and then we are rewarded, for our