MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE AND ART. 339 



" Mourn in thy widowhood, Morisma ! mourn 

 Thy sceptre wrested, and thy banner torn ; 

 Queen of the west ! the unbeliever now 

 Hath rent the crown of beauty from thy brew : 

 The stranger lords it o'er thy prostrate line, 

 The Christian worships at thy conquer'd shrine : 

 Thy warrior sons are slain in nameless strife, 

 Or live to curse the bitterness of life. 

 Scorn'd, like the Jew of old, they cross the wave, 

 To seek the stranger's heritage a grave ; 

 And oft, perchance, on Afric's desert wide, 

 Whose pillar'd sands upon the whirlwind ride ; 

 Where no glad fountain greets ^ae frenzied eye, 

 And nought is left the wand'ref*-but to die ; 

 Shall Memory, strong in death, Awake to tell 

 Of that far region which he lov cl so well." 



Let us now turn to the ode addressed to the Duke of Wellington, 

 which the author tells us on the cover of his book, was recited in the 

 theatre at Oxford during the late memorable installation. If not al- 

 together worthy of its subject, this ode is, perhaps, worthy of the 

 university. The conclusion of this poem is singular. The author 

 evidently means Oxford learning in the following passage ; and the 

 last line of our quotation stumbles upon the truth with respect to it 

 rather unfortunately. The fiction of the former is well neutralized 

 by this conclusion. 



" The helm may rust, the laurel bough may fade, 

 Oblivion's grasp may blunt the Victor's blade, 

 But that bright, holy wreath which Learning gives, 

 Untorn by hate, unharm'd by envy, lives 

 Lives through the march of Tempest and of Time, 

 Dwells on each shore, and blooms in every clime ; 

 Wide as the space that fills yon airless blue, 

 Pure as the breeze, and as eternal too, 

 Fair as the night-star's eve-awaken'd ray, 

 But with no morn to chase its fires away." 



Nothing can be more true or more candid than this. " No morn" 

 indeed Minerva has no inclination to reside at Oxford, but has 

 kindly sent her owl, who lives there constantly. 



Mr. Graham is probably a young man of very respectable attain- 

 ments, and so far as we can judge from his verses an amiable person 

 enough; but, until he shew us something of his mind, or produce a 

 poem, as children say, " all out of his own head," we must beg to 

 withhold our applause from him on the poetical score. 



SOLITUDE, A POEM. By THE AUTHOR OP " GUIDINE." LONDON, 



1834. 



WE never chanced to meet with the dramatic poem of " Guidine ;" 

 but we perceive by certain recommendations of it, extracted from va- 

 rious criticisms, and appended to the present pamphlet, that it met 

 with a favourable reception. 



There is one merit in the poem of " Solitude" it is very short ; 

 but it has other merits, and yet we could have wished, for the author's 



