poem that may live after he and ourselves shall have ceased to do so; one which his sons and grandsons shall be proud to speak of as having been written by him; and which ours may congratulate us as having been the fortunate reviewers to have had placed before us.

Mr. Parker has given us a specimen in the "Passengers" (which our readers will recollect is bound up with the poem of the "Annals,") of the Greek Anapast, or dance song, which, as an adaptation in English, is as interesting as scarce. Of the manner and capabilities of this verse, we think much more highly than of the Hexameters; and it is quite a relief to us to find ourselves bounding along with the author in the Anapest; instead of dragging dull lengths along with the hexameters. Confound the very name of them! for we verily believe Mr. Parker has, all unconsciously, put us out of love with them for ever. Not so the Anapast, of which we give the author's able specimen.

TRE'R CEIRI*.

In a moment, all yon distant world,
That lay so brightly beneath my feet,
Has appear'd as if it were to ruin hurl'd,
And that I and earth no more shall meet!

But again, but again, see it all once more,
Thro' the hollow cloud's encircling cave;
And along each foam-girt winding shore,
Tumultuous ocean's wrathful wave!

On the ruin'd walls I take my stand;
On the desert mountain's clouded brow:
Here armies watch'd their native land;
Here chieftains made their warlike vow.

Hence would they rush like an arrow forth
To the host of assailants underneath:
And the gallant sons of the savage North
Would accompany them to the field of death!

Shall a warrior hide his valiant arm

In the coward's hope, in a cloak of steel?
And shelter'd thus from peril and harm,
Can bravery fight, or can honour feel?

Such thoughts as these fill'd the Briton's heart,
As among those vales he scornfully view'd
The appointed method, and practis'd art
Of Roman soldiers unsubdued.

Pronounced Keiri.

Banded ranks, and sun-bright armour,
Grace their march with festal grandeur:
Glittering trophies o'er them waving,
Speak of conquest and enslaving!

There are those, whose native regions
Gleam with portico, and with painting:
Now they lead their mail-clad legions:
Dream not ye, their strength is fainting!

From afar they come to the Celtic field!
They conquer a land which they disdain!
And the British Chief at length shall yield:

And royal hands wear the foreign chain!" P. 189.

In this poem the author has justly remarked that the strict rules of anapæstic song are not observed, viz. those which regulate the cœsural pause. There is, however, (notwithstanding the absence of the additional fire and spirit with which the cœsural pause is adapted to imbue any thing like patriotic song,) still great beauty in this little ode; and we particularly call attention to the second, fifth, sixth, and seventh stanzas; the first mentioned being replete with the truest poetical imagery and beauty. It is when such passages are written, that the looker on might see "the poet's eye in fine frenzy rolling:" then, indeed, it is that the true inspiration from Parnassus descends on the head of the devoted Bard in blessing and in majesty, crowning the works of mortal with immortality, and himself with the fame of ages, yet afar off in the bosom of futurity.

We here take leave of Mr. Parker, being sure he will understand that the spirit in which our observations have been made, has been that of candour and fairness. Of our high estimate of his poetical powers, we trust we have here and previously, said enough to convince him. We admire his wild and free-born muse. She is a mountain maiden, bare-legged, it is true, and her hair dishevelled, but possessing a spirit like Diana, in the ardour of the chace, together with all the roseate softness of Jove's own Hebe. We have found fault with her because she has strayed among our hills in the would-be-guise of a Grecian lady, from the plains of Troy. Let her put on mountain garments, and, once more, take her stand, when the sun is rising, on Moel Siabed's glorious height; then let her revel amid the history and the legends of "wild Wales"; and let her song be loud and joyous. Then, indeed, shall we, though, albeit of the humblest, be among the most admiring of her auditors.

Evan Bane; a Highland Legend, and other Poems. By D. M. Ferguson. London: Longman and Co. 1832.

"A Highland Legend!" said we to ourselves, on opening this little volume. How did the idea recall our days of early delight, when, residing in one of the most secluded situations in the country, we were wont to have our young imagination charmed by the sweet and silvery songs of the great Celtic enchanter Scott! when "Marmion," "the Lady of the Lake," and "the Lay of the Last Minstrel," followed in quick succession,-where we were constrained to admire gallant though bloody chieftains; to weep over fallen innocence, and truth betrayed; and where we needed no constraint to fall deeply in love alike with highborn jewelled dames, and unadorned, bare-footed, peasant maidens. How did our young mind rejoice in the dread strife of battle, where met, in proud defiance, Britain's boasted chivalry! How did we revel in the hearty feast, where resounded the minstrel's harp, and the stout yeoman's jovial song! And ah!, how much more did our heart bound with delight within the gay and lighted hall, where brave knights and ladies fair moved graceful 'mid the mazes of the dance, where

-"bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
And when music rose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love, to eyes that spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell."

The world, at least that portion of it which comes under the description of the phlegmatic and cold, may perhaps laugh at us for thus throwing back our eyes, through the darkening veil of time, to the period of life's outset, when all was bright, fresh, and beauteous as the blush of early morn. Let them laugh; we are not ashamed to avow that we have possessed a joy in the regions of romance, far greater than we can express; and although we have since experienced the sad realities of sorrow and trial, we are not now, and far be it from us ever to be, the less prone to cherish the happiness that has once been ours.

The author of "Evan Bane" has evidently profited by the field of romance, into which his studies appear to have been directed, and has woven out of an old, and sufficiently terrible story, a sweet and flowing poem, which, to say the least of it, merits praise, and is well adapted to repay the attention of perusal. We suspect him, however, to be a very young poet, inasmuch as he has so closely imitated Scott, that whole passages of "Evan Bane," had they been printed anonymously, might have been mistaken for the productions of Sir Walter. This, it may be thought, is no mean praise: but we beg to assure Mr. Ferguson that we mean it not as such; but merely as a hint to himself,

before expressed by us to other youthful bards who imitate Scott or Byron, that imitation may be all very well, but it is not, and cannot be, a desideratum in true poetry. If imitation be professed, good; but if originality be the object, that and that only ought to be developed. We say this not the less strenuously, whether Mr. Ferguson may have intended a close copy of a popular and great author, or not. It is meet that we warn him, and others, that the ground they have taken is dangerous, and we will add untenable; and therefore must be changed, wherever hope of lasting fame is entertained. Look at the following passage, for the correctness of what we have said.

"Brief space it needs, to reckon o'er
What garb and arms the stranger wore:
A scarf of silk his shoulder graced;
A crimson baldric bound his waist,

Where swung, both stout and strong,
A falchion of terrific length,

Which might have tasked a giant's strength
To wield it well-or long;

Yet who should deem that fearful brand
Weighed heavier in its owner's hand
Than palmer's staff or sallow wand,
Had done him mighty wrong;
All else, from vizor-clasp to heel,
Was cased in links of shining steel;
A purple plume waved on his crest-
Proceed-my rhyme may tell the rest.
Hark! hark! Clanvora's vales prolong
Far other notes than blackbird's song;
And other light on Lorven plays
Than the broad sun's declining rays—
"Tis the fierce bloodhound's opening yell
That rings through covert-cave-and dell;
'Tis light from lance and helm that gleams,
And o'er the peak of Lorven streams,
Gilding its granite gray;

Now burst upon the startled sight
A troop of horsemen, all bedight
In steely armour shimmering bright,
With plume and pennon gay;
Come they to scent the evening gale?
Or timid roebuck to assail?

Or try the temper of their mail,
In bloody battle fray?"

P. 34.

With this drawback, and, it will be confessed, it is a great one, there are evidences in Mr. Ferguson's style of a sweetness and even richness, that at a future period, he may make available to greatly please his readers, and probably benefit himself; although to speak sooth, in these degenerate days, when matter of fact alone seems to have any weight, when the whole efforts of "the schoolmaster" seem directed to the utilitarian system,

it is highly apochryphal if any poems, however well written, and plenteously produced, would be found to repay the time, labour, thought, and study, necessary to be bestowed upon them; to say nothing of the vexation and trouble ever attendant on transactions with those absolute monarchs of tradesfolk called publishers. We merely drop these remarks to Mr. Ferguson en passant, as a word to the wise, which, although it may not cause him, (and we are far from wishing it should,) to forbear writing altogether, may yet make him cautious as to the time and manner of again venturing his bark down a stream of poetry, the banks of which, we are free to confess, are sufficiently green and fertile to draw from us a wish to accompany him, when some little more experience shall have ripened his knowledge, on another voyage.

There are some very pretty minor poems published with "Evan Bane," among which, we think the following a fair specimen:

FAREWELL.

Moments there are when sorrows sleep,
When misery's tear forgets to flow,.
And o'er the captive's care-worn cheek,
The breath of Heaven deigns to blow.

On this world's ever-varying stage,
Of all that's felt, or done, or spoken,
There is a slumbering season, when
Association's links are broken ;-

When flower-nor summer's eve, nor spring,
Nor ocean, music, winter's blast,
Nor all the mystic powers of mind,

Can join the chain that binds the past;

Save one short word-of solemn sound-
Which lives upon the ear-for ever!

It comes like echo from the tomb;

'Tis heard, when friends or lovers sever.

This asks for-needs no other voice
Its dreary sleeplessness to wake;
The chord on which it hangs-alone-
Dependless--will not, cannot break!

In vain oblivion's blackening winds
O'er the bright fields of memory sweep;
They pass, like white clouds o'er the moon,
Or evening breeze along the deep;

And, oh! so chilling is its tone,

It binds the heart as with a spell,

It rings through life-'tis heard in death-
And death itself is but-FAREWELL!

P. 115.