with great fatisfaction. As our Bard, in the beginning, difclaims all merit of verfification, a criticism on his numbers might feem invidi- . ous but to make amends for the mediocrity of his poetry, his Epiftle abounds with ftrong manly fenfe, moral reflections, and keen fatire: and though we cannot fay that his matter is altogether new, yet we frequently meet with original and spirited turns of expreffion.

R-d Art. 15. Odes on the four Seafons. By W. Seymour. 4to. Printed at Bury St. Edmonds; and fold by Millar, &c. in London.

I S.

*

As Mr. Seymour modeftly (in his Preface) pleads his youth, in excufe for the imperfections of thefe Odes, and feems really conscious that they have their defects, they fhall be exempted from fuch ftrictures as, otherwife, we might have paffed upon them. He fays,

they are the effays of an infant Mufe;'-it evidently appears, that they are fuch: but the Author may produce better things when his

Muse comes to age. ❖ said tobe Cuthbert Sherr
Art. 16. One Thousand, Seven Hundred, and Fifty-nine: A
Poem, inferibed to every Briton who bore a part in the Service
of that diftinguished Year. Folio. 6d. Baldwin.

The Author has certainly been happy in the choice of his fubject. As to his verfes, but we forbear: perhaps, as the Northern Hero said, after a loft battle, he may do better another time.

Art. 17. Freedom, a Poem, in two Books: The first, respecting Man in general, as a focial Creature; the fecond, respecting Man as a rational Creature. Addreffed to the Right Hon. William Pitt, Efq; 4to. 2s. 6d. DodЛley..

After a painful perufal of this poem, we are forry to fay, that its execution is very unworthy of the fubject, or the patronage of that eminent Statesman to whom it is addreffed: the whole being little better than a jargon of words, thrown together without spirit, harmony, or fenfe. K-n-k

Art. 18. The Actor, a poetical Epifle to Bonnell Thornton, Efq; 4to. Is. Dodsley.

It has been frequently remarked of the Player, as well as the Poet, nafcitur non fit. But, however impoffible it is that mere rules fhould make a Player of a man who is not in a great degree qualified by nature for fo difficult a profeffion; certain it is there are precepts and cautions, which, duly obferved, will not only greatly affift thofe whofe natural talents would otherwife never raife them to any perfection; but will prevent thofe of the beft talents, from falling into abfurdities, which the audience are frequently better judges of than themselves.

The very ingenious Author of this little Epiftle, does not here take upon him to treat regularly of the whole art of acting; but only fuch

8

517.

fuch particular parts of it, as he probably thinks are the best adapted to the prefent improvement of the stage.

He begins by exploding the prevailing vice, of imitation, which has in fact spoiled most of our rifing Players.

Acting, dear Bonnell, its perfection draws
From no obfervance of mechanic laws.
No fettled maxims of a fav'rite ftage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let Players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.

If 'mongst the humble Hearers of the pit,
At fome lov'd play the old man chance to fit,
Am I pleas'd more because 'twas acted fo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recalls an object held more dear,
And hates the copy that it comes fo near.
Why lov'd we Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius muft our wonder raise,
But gives his Mimic no reflected praife.

The Poet then breaks out into a juft and spirited eulogium on Mr. Garrick, the great object of imitation among the inferior fons of the bufkin. He then goes on to cenfure the most striking errors in the theatrical action of our prefent Players.

Unskilful Actors, like

your mimic apes,

Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes;

However foreign from the Poet's art,

No tragic Hero but admires a start.

What though unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his attitude is fine ?

While a whole minute equipoiz'd he stands,
Till praife difmifs him with her ecchoing hands.
Refolv'd, though Nature hate the tedious paufe,
By perfeverance to extort applaufe.

When Romeo forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness burfts the canvass tomb,
The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff,
Which please the vulgar, make the Critic laugh.

There is doubtlefs nothing more ridiculous in a Player, than this studied affectation of attitude.

Again, the Poet very juftly cenfures the difagreeable practice, not uncommon even with Players of great merit, of over-acting their parts; a vice which fome Critics conceive the British Rofcius himfelf is too apt to fall into.

Of all the evils which the flage molest
I hate your fool who overacts his jeft.
Who murders what the Poet finely writ,
And like a Bungler haggles all his wit,

With fhrug, and grin, and gefture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face.
Old Johnson once, tho' Cibber's perter vein,
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train,
With steady face, and fober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ftrong outlines of the comic scene.
What was writ down, with decent utterance spoke,
Betray'd no fymptom of the confcious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,

And though upon the ftage, he feem'd no Play'r.
The word and action fhould conjointly fuit,

But acting words is labour too minute.

He goes on to condemn, with equal justice and propriety, the monotony of fome Actors, the rant of others, and the inattention of mot; as alfo the feveral ftage tricks of drefs and ghosts, and the abfurd entertainments of Pantomime; concluding with the following apology for, and addrefs to, the Actor; which we infert as a farther fpecimen of the Author's ftile and easy verfification.

Shall they who trace the paffions from their rife
Shew Scorn her features, her own image Vice;
Who teach the mind its proper force to scan,
And hold the faithful mirrour up to man,
Shall their profeffion e'er provoke Disdain,
Who ftand the foremost in the moral train
Who lend Reflection all the grace of Art,
And ftrike the precept home upon the heart!

Yet, hapless Artist, tho' thy fkill can raise
The bursting peal of univerfal praise,
Tho' at thy beck, Applaufe delighted stands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands.
Know Fame awards thee but a partial breath,
Not all thy talents brave the ftroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,

And latest times th' eternal Nature feel.
Tho' blended here the praife of Bard and Play'r,
While more than half becomes the Actor's hare,
Relentless Death untwists the mingled fame,
And finks the Player in the Poet's name.

The pliant muscles of the various face,

The mein that gave each fentence ftrength and grace,
The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind,

Are

gone, nor leave a single trace behind.

K-n-k

Art. 19. ELEGIES. By Mr. Delap. 4to. 6d. Dodfley. Too many are induced to write, by the want of money; but this Gentleman feems to have been yet more unfortunately influenced (as we conclude from the tenor of thefe Elegies) by the want of health: a fituation which he here pathetically laments, in ftrains that appear

to

A

flow from a mind full fenfibly affected, tho' not impaired, by the fubject.

In the first Elegy, SL. EFP is invoked to favour the Poet with her benign influence; but in vain. This induces a plaintive display of the fuperior happinet's enjoyed even by the poor Labourers in the mines whofe toils and rewards he thus, with feeming envy, defcribes.

Many a fathom from the funny breeze,
Their painful way in central night they wear;
Heave the pik'd axes on their bended knees,
Or fidelong the rough quarry flowly tear.
Yet while damp vapours chill each reeking brow,
How loudly laughs the jovial voice of mirth;
Pleas'd that the wages of the day allow

A focial blaze to cheer their ev'ning hearth.
There the chafte housewife, with maternal care,
Her thrifty diftaf plies, in grave attire ;
Bleft to behold her ruddy offspring wear
The full refemblance of their sturdy fire,

To fpread with fuch coarfé fare their homely board,
As fits the genius of their little fate,

Free from those ills that haunt their pamper'd Lord;
To be unhappy we must first be great.

The fecond Elegy, addreffed to SICKNESS, moft feelingly expreffes her unwelcome influence over an infirm conftitution: altho', at the fame time, the Author fhews a becoming refignation; and only defires the balm of friendship to alleviate his futterings. The opening of the poem is extremely natural, as fuppofed to be the effufion of a mind harraffed by bodily pain; especially in that enlivening season of the year, when all Nature feems rejoicing around us, and, (as one of our Poets beautifully expreffes it)" Triumphing in existence."We shall give the first ten verfes of this Elegy; and then take leave of our Author, heartily wishing him better health, and more pleafing fubjects for his poetical amufement.

How blith the flowery graces of the Spring

From Nature's wardrobe come: and hark how gay

Each glittering infect, hovering on the wing,

Sing their glad welcome to the fields of May.

They gaze, with greedy eye, each beauty o'er;
They fuck the tweet breath of the blushing rose;
Sport in the gale, or fip the rainbow shower;

Their life's fhort day no pause of pleasure knows.

Like their's, dread Power, my chearful morn difplay'd
The flattering promife of a golden noon,
Till each gay cloud, that fportive nature spread,
Died in the gloom of thy diftemper'd frown.

Yes,

Yes, ere I told my two and twentieth year,
Swift from thy quiver flew the deadly dart;
Harmless it palt 'mid many a blith compeer,
And found its fated entrance near my heart.
Pale as I lay beneath thy ebon wand,

I faw them rove through pleafure's flowery field;
I faw Health paint them with her rofy hand,

Eager to burit my bonds, but forc'd to yield.
Yet while this mortal clot of mould'ring clay'
Shakes at the ftroke of thy tremendous power,
Ah muft the tranfient tenant of a day

Bear the rough blast of each tempestuous hour!
Say, fhall the terrors thy pale flag unfolds,

Too rigid Queen! unnerve the foul's bright powers,
Till with a joylefs fmile the eye beholds

Art's magic charms, and Nature's fairy bowers.

No, let me follow fill, thofe bowers among,
Her flowery footsteps, as the Goddess goes;
Let me, juft lifted 'bove th' unletter'd throng,
Read the few books the learned few compofe.
And fuffer, when thy awful pleasure calls

The foul to fhare her frail companion's fmart,
Yet fuffer me to tafte the balm that falls,

From friendship's tongue, fo fweet upon the heart.
Then, tho' each trembling nerve confefs thy frown,
Ev'n till this anxious being fhall become

But a brief name upon a little flone,

Without one murmur I embrace my doom.

MISCELLANEOUS.

Art. 20. Memoirs of the Marechal Duke de Belleifle, Secretary at War to the French King, and Prince of the Empire. Tranflated from the French. 8vo. 1 s. Pridden.

It is no great matter whether this pamphlet be really a translation from the French, or not; fince we dare venture to fay, there is not a Grub-street Writer in town, but might have informed himself (and that without ftirring out of his garret, or being able to read one word of French) of all that is recorded in thefe Memoirs; the Writer not being able even to fill a loosely-printed pamphlet, of fix and thirty pages, without having recourfe to the Hiftory of the Marthal's grandfather, as well as that of the Marshal himfelf.

As our Hiftorian fets out with a remarkable anecdote concerning this perfonage, we need go no farther for an inftance of his fagacity, and profound knowlege in biography.

Many of our Readers must remember to have heard of the following compliment, which, among the many grofs flatteries of that time,

was