340 MONTHLY REVIEW OF LITERATURE AND ART. 



sake, that it had never been published. We do not think we shall 

 be far wrong when we surmise that Dr. Young is a great favourite 

 with our poet, and that from that much over-praised poem, the 

 " Night Thoughts," the author has acquired a morbid and unsatisfac- 

 tory tone, displeasing, nay, repulsive, to the general reader, and fatal 

 to the cultivation of a higher order of poetry. 



Let us, however, give a specimen of our young poet, which may 

 assuredly justify a high opinion of his powers; and which, at the 

 same time, induces us to exhort him to a stricter discipline of his 

 mind. 



" I stand 



Upon a gentle eminence. The herd. 

 The ancient kine, the patriarchal flocks, 

 Here walk the Verdant pasture, seen distinct 

 In the slant ray of the declining noon; 

 Upon the sky is the old pageant still 

 Of endless clouds, and still the zephyrs gay, 

 Viewless, push on their cumbrous levity ; 

 Between the hills, as in a picture laid, 

 Appears the blue and navigable sea, 

 Traversed by ship, that bears with stately sail, 

 Silent, its unseen mariners along 1 ; 

 Whilst near at hand a globe of insects plays 

 In the shower'd beam, a stationary globe, 

 Though each pursues therein, with restless speed, 

 And giddy will, its intricate, quick flight. 

 As here I ponder on a world unchanged, 

 Fixed in its ceaseless mutability, 

 And on the fateful links, that each to each 

 Bind all things, high and low, in heav'n and earth, 

 In one revolving series, I myself 

 Feel drawn within the circle, am a part 

 Of nature too, one in the mazy dance 

 Of forms that vanish but to re-appear, 

 f Years hence,' 'tis thus my meditation runs, 

 ' A youth again shall stand upon this hill, 

 Another self, and he shall see these fields 

 Trod by their leisure herd, shall watch this globe 

 Of insects still at play, note the same clouds 

 Borne the same path, and muse, as now I do, 

 On death of all, eternity of all ! ' " 



This is beautiful poetry; and we are sorry that the present aspect 

 of our poetical horizon does not encourage us to recommend, or the 

 author himself to hazard, a more important venture. 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF TAXATION, No. V. THE SCHOLARS OF ARNK- 

 SIDE. A TALE. BY HARRIET MARTINEAU. LONDON, 1834. 

 Miss Martineau was never a great favourite of ours. Accordingly, 

 when she says in her preface to the present number, " I am now about 

 to compensate for my much speaking by a long silence ;" and when 

 we see in the newspapers that she is gone to America, we feel 

 tempted to cry aloud, " We are glad of it, and are not sorry that you 

 are gone." 



