526 



Monthly Review of' Literature, 



[MAY, 



and the Christian very seldom clash. Their 

 numbers are said to be diminishing ; but 

 Captain Lyon finds nothing to support the 

 opinion. They are unmolested are the 

 gardeners of the country supply the towns 

 with vegetables and fruits, which require no 

 severity of labour live quietly and frugally 

 and, of course, unless some specific cause 

 be stated, depopulation seems improbable. 



Notwithstanding all that we have heard 

 of emancipation in these states and of the 

 laws that have certainly been sanctioned by 

 the legislature there are still, it seems, 

 slaves at Vera Cruz. 



Dunwich, a Tale of the Splendid City, 

 by James Bird; 1828 To the readers of 

 the current poetry of the day, Mr. Bird's is 

 a familiar name, and whatever laurels his 

 former efforts may have won him, he will 

 lose none by the present. Amidst much 

 that is common, and much of the sea and 

 the sky, and the morn and the eve, and 

 more that is laboured and strained, and 

 even extravagant, there is also much to ad- 

 mire some that will seize and absorb. 

 The incidents are few and striking, and 

 the language full of animation and warmth 

 flowing, eloquent, and sometimes even 

 splendid. 



The tale is of the reign of Henry III., 

 and the scene the once splendid city of 

 Dunwich, which, according to Stowe, " had 

 in ancient time, brazen gates, 52 churches, 

 chapels, religious houses, and hospitals a 

 king's palace, a bishop's seat, a mayor's 

 mansion, and a mint" all which magni- 

 ficence has sunk before the encroachments 

 of the sea, and nothing but a few moulder- 

 ing relics are left, which still, however, 

 "plead haughtily for glories gone." 



Mowbray is leagued with the Earl of 

 Leicester, and enamoured of Bertha, the 

 daughter of a baron distinguished for his 

 loyalty. In an interview with the lady, he 

 is surprised by the father, and, out of con- 

 sideration for the daughter, offers no resist- 

 ance, but suffers himself to be thrown into 

 a dungeon from the dungeon he escapes, 

 and Bertha, unconscious of the escape, steals 

 herself to the dungeon, and while searching 

 for the hero, finds the key, by an unlucky 

 mistake, turned upon her, and herself thus left 

 to perish by the most unromantic of deaths, 

 starvation. The rebel forces soon beleaguer 

 the town, and Mowbray, impatient to get a 

 glimpse of his mistress, scales the city walls 

 in the night, passes by the side of the dun- 

 geon tower, and overhears the dying groans 

 and invocations of the imprisoned Bertha. 

 She is of course quickly rescued, and de- 

 livered up to the wondering father, who 

 had supposed her fled with the lover. To 

 oblige the lady, Mowbray withdraws from 

 the war, and is heard of no more, till one 

 tremendous stormy night, when the sea 

 rose, and rushed upon the town, and level- 

 led the towers, in one of which was the 

 hapless Bertha while struggling with the 



whelming tide, Mowbray is seen advancing 

 near, and he of course seizes her, buffets 

 bravely the waves, and reaches the shore, 

 and again delivers her up, apparently life- 

 less, to her despairing father all ends 

 happily. 



The poet must himself justify our favour- 

 able opinon by a part of a song . 



The Sun is at rest in his sapphire bower, 



The star of the eve sets her watch in the sky, 

 Sweet odour steals forth from the jessamine 



flower, 

 And the nightingale sings from her harbour on 



high ; 



The zephyr sighs over the tremulous willow, 

 The breeze gaily sports with the crest of the 



billow ; 



Oh! I love the wide sea, and the dash of its foam, 

 'Tis the gem of the world 'tis the charm of my 



home. 

 From valley and hill the dark shadows are steal 



ing, 



As bright o'erthe wave rolls the beautiful moon, 

 Her splendour, her power, and her glory re- 

 vealing, 

 With millions of stars, studded bright, for her 



zone! 



Soft, soft on the ear falls the flow of the river, 

 That stays in its long-winding pilgrimage never, 

 Till, kissed by the ocean, embraced in its foam, 

 The waves are its kindred the sea is its home! 



A line or two upon the ocean 

 Beats there a heart which hath not felt its core 

 Ache with a wild delight, when first the roar 

 Of ocean's spirit met the startled ear? 

 Beats there a heart so torpid, and so drear, 

 That hath not felt the lightning of its blood 

 Flash vivid joy, when first the rolling flood 

 Met the charmed eye in all its restless strife, 

 At once the wonder, and the type of life! 



Thou trackless, dark, and fathomless, and wide 

 Eternal world of waters ! ceaseless tide 

 Of power magnificent! unmeasured space, 

 Where storm and tempest claim their dwelling 



place ! 



Thy depths are limitless thy billow's sound 

 Is nature's giant voice thy gulph profound 

 Her shrine of mystery, wherein she keeps 

 Her hidden treasures in thy caverned deeps 

 Is stored the wealth of nations, and thy waves 

 Have been are now and will be, dreary graves 

 For countless millions &c. 



Again when the dungeon door is closed 

 upon Bertha- 

 Oh! that dreadful moment, fraught with terror, 



gave 



Fears, that fore-doom'd her to a timeless grave ! 

 In dumb despair she trembling stood the hue 

 Of death was on her cheek cold clammy dew 

 Came o'er her brow and every limb with fear 

 Shook, like the asp-leaf, frailest of the year ; 

 Then rose the thought of dreary night and day- 

 Long, lingering horror anguish lone decay 

 Heart-burning thirst the tongue of fire the 



Of wasting hunger still the same the sanje 



