and as the author wrote, so we read. In for a penny, said we, (as undoubtedly determined he,) in for a pound. Poets have often a great deal of fun, mingled with the proper quantity of pathos; and it is on the presumption that Mr. Pennie is not destitute of the former of these qualities, which we hold to be quite as requisite as the latter, that we have ventured to have a joke with him, without having the pleasure of his acquaintance. But seriously, we are very much pleased with many parts of these same tragedies; and we think when their author's muse shall have gained a little more experience, so as to render her course more steady, while she retains all her loftiness of flight, the dramatic world will have to thank Mr. Pennie as one of those very few, who, in these degenerate days, may be the means of rescuing this school of literature from the ban of censure, which has been for some time so deservedly set upon it. These tragedies are not the first production of Mr. Pennie, who we beg to say is known to us as the author of "the Royal Minstrel, or the Witcheries of Endor," besides "Rogould," both epic poems, and "Scenes in Palestine," which latter is an attempt, at all times hazardous, to illustrate sacred history, in a dramatic form.* In naming his work "Britain's Historical Drama," the author has, very properly, not limited his stories to those of a purely Cambrian description; and has not disdained, although we suspect him to be a Cornish man, (and, as such, descended from a tribe of Britons,) to introduce characters and stories of the Saxons. The names of the plays are "Arixina," "Edwin and Elgiva," "The Imperial Pirate," "The Dragon King." We have not space to give more than one or two extracts from their pages, which we regret, because there are passages in them that we are sure need only be read to be admired. Defects in style and composition there certainly are, and as it is a much more ungracious thing to blame than to praise, and, withall, considerably more disagreeable to ourselves, we will get rid, very shortly, of the first of these duties. Mr. Pennie has, like many poets, (and good ones too,) an inveterate habit of using the exclamation O! In proof of this we refer him to page 43, wherein this loud monosyllable occurs no less than five times. Wolves, too, are favorite animals of our author, and whenever he would convey the idea of savage barbarism or relentless cruelty, these wild beasts are rendered of unlimited service. These defects will, we are sure, on a reconsideration, present themselves so as to prevent their repetition. But we are compelled to prefer a heavier charge against Mr. Peunie, viz. that of occasionally giving to the world, what he conceives to be poetry, when, in fact, he is perpetrating downright prose. We All these are works of considerable merit. will give but one example in point; and for the sake of proving how prosaic it really is, we will take the liberty of stripping it of its mantle of verse. The words, too, are put into the mouth of no less a personage than Julius Cæsar. "I will meet them in my tent. They for their king shall have young Cymbeline, their own liege sovereign lord: he shall be reinstated in his rights without delay: his influence will extend, and that attachment which he feels to Rome, her manners and her glory, have great weight among these savage nations." ́ P. 75. We proceed to the more pleasurable task of noticing one or two instances of poetic power, wherein we perceive the capability of producing much greater things. We forbear to enter into the plot or story of any of the plays; but shall merely adduce specimens of style. Cymbaline. "Not see her? when with fierce impatience burns, On Tiber's flowery banks, when the soft winds Their perfumed music though its green reeds sighed, And flung the moon, her veil of silvery light, O'er myrtle groves and orange bowers, whose fruit In thy wrapt arms, and Heaven was all around thee!" Pp. 53-4. Again, the same character, "May the gods Rain plagues and maledictions on thy country; I now abhor the very name of Rome; Lightnings consume her armies, earthquakes heave Her towers from their foundations! may she sink, With all her palaces, to the dark centre! And let her last dread shriek, when down she plunges Amid sun-darkening clouds of dust, be heard The second tragedy contains the affecting story of Edwin and Elgiva, which is too well known to the historian to need more than bare mention. The following passage from it brings before us the banquet, the din and the splendid, though barbarous, revelry of old, as exhi bited in the poem of "The Hirlas Horn," of Prince Owain Cyveiliog, so splendidly rendered into Saxon by our own ever delightful songstress, Felicia Hemans. Edwin. "At length I have escaped the crowded hall, Of chiming harps, the shout of warrior chiefs; To fly to the sweet quiet of thy arms, My Queen, my life, my love!" (Embracing Elgiva.) P. 178. While our next extract is replete with sweetest beauty, evincing, at once, the devotion of the faithful Consort, and the allegiance of the loving subject: Elgiva. "Joy to my lord As Heaven's high regent be thou feared for justice, For victory honoured, and for mercy loved; And may all pray with me,-God bless the king!" P. 178. Where is the heart of man, too, that will not freshen with delight at the following brief epitome of that dear, and heavendescended jewel of our souls, woman's love? Ambrosius. "O! what in strength can equal woman's love! In the bright hour of joy, our brightest bliss, And still the constant beam that sweetly sheds Its trembling radiance o'er our dark despair." P. 329. "The Dragon King" contains most spirit-stirring passages, from the life of the renowned Arthur Pen-Dragon, the Penteyrn, or chief king of Britain; and it is but justice to Mr. Pennie to say he has clothed it with great romantic interest, and for the most part with historic accuracy. The fame of Arthur is thus prognosticated by one of his generals. Victorious prince, the pillar of our tribes, Thou, through the storms and darkness of the times, Unfading shines the constant polar star; To which shall future bards with rapture point, Shouting for freedom, through the battle surge." P. 445. In closing our remarks on these Tragedies, we cannot omit to notice a popular and vulgar error into which Mr. Pennie has fallen; and which is stated with all the weight of grave authority, in a note, page 122; viz. that of its having been the custom of the Druids to sacrifice human beings on their altars. We had thought that those best read in Celtic lore, (and in this class we readily rank Mr. Pennie,) had long ago been convinced that the British Druids had far too exalted an idea of the Deity, and were too deeply imbued with loving-kindness and mercy, to give way to such horrid paganism. Indeed, their creed and manners appear to have been nearly approaching to that simplicity and perfection so sublimely inculcated and enforced in the revelation of Jesus Christ; and it is not by any means fair that so foul an imputation should be disseminated in the present day, when it is well known there are still those who profess themselves Druids, acting upon the principles of their long-gone predecessors, and whose horror of the destruction of human life may be inferred from the fact of their absolute refusal, not only to slay, but even to witness the slaughter of any animal whatever. For a further account of these misrepresented sages, we refer our author to the lyric poems of Edward Williams, where, in his "Principles of Bardisin," he completely, to our minds, refutes the monstrous accusation. True it is that Mr. Pennie has very aptly said, from Horace Walpole, that "Belief in every kind of prodigy was so established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them. He is not bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as believing them." But with deference to Mr. Pennie, and his extremely able authority, if it be shewn, as we think it is, that the actors of the events in those times did not believe in such prodigies of evil, inasmuch as they did not take place, the saying of Ilorace Walpole, although doubtless meant to be an axiom, falls to the ground. The poetry of history should be founded on truth, which it is at liberty to embellish, but by no means to alter; for truth is above all other things that which should not be tampered with. It embodies all that we worship as divine: all that we admire and esteem as human; and to it, more than any other thing on earth, should be applied the heartfelt aspiration, esto perpetua. On the whole, we are convinced that there is in Mr. Pennie's mind, deep thought, aided by profound study. His versification is generally smooth and harmonious; rising, not unfrequently, to the grand and noble; and exhibiting throughout an amiability and charity, alike creditable to the man and the Christian. We shall hail his future productions with real pleasure. The Celtic Annals. A Poem. By the Rev. John Parker, A.M. 1 vol. 8vo. Rivingtons; London, 1831. (Concluded from p. 106.) We cannot resume the subject of "The Celtic Annals" without allowing our imagination to stray amongst the wild legends of our beauteous land, amid those stories of stirring and romantic interest wherein the names of the most renowned of our British ancestors are set forth. Our mind's eye turns to the lonely barrow on the hoary mountain's top, where sleep the ashes of the honoured brave; to the dark thick foliage of Mona's consecrated groves; to the venerable Druid priest, whose robes, (white as the sun-lit snow on Berwyn's broad and dusky shadowing brow,) stream in the breeze, as if in blessing on the assembled gorsedd. We dwell on the memory of Arthur, the great and good, "the darling of romance;" on Owain Glyndwr, the proud and free, whose course was brilliant, yet evanescent, as the blazing meteor, which, ere we have time to wonder at, has passed away, and is seen no more. We behold, in all its horrors, the dread massacre of the bards; we see, high on the desolate and topmost rock, the figure of the last of all that ancient tribe, seeming as a spirit to linger between earth and sky; while we hear the wild tones of his harp and voice descending like Heaven's thunder on the head of their destroyer, the "ruthless king." We could, indeed, cite example after example of the proud and glorious deeds of our ancestors, did not our space warn us to recall our glowing mind, and attend to the subject-matter more immediately before us, by briefly adding to the observations made in our last, Number, on Mr. Parker's clever work, which has so strongly recalled those fond recollections we have just now obtruded upon our readers. We have before, complained, and we think with reason, on the strangeness of the garb in which our author has conveyed his poetry to the world; and during the three months that have elapsed since our last writing, we have not seen any reason to change our opinion. Once more, we would entreat Mr. Parker to abandon his restive hexameters, and convince us, as we feel assured he can, that he is able to effect a |