20 
At least to me, Dr. Lawrence does 
not appear to have succeeded in dis- 
covering marks of date in the Book of 
Enoch, which refer to times posterior 
to Ezra; and surely the concluding 
chapter of Malachi alludes to doctrines 
in that book. It has prepared the 
mythology of the Koran; and Mahomet 
did little more than teach to the Arabs 
the prevailing opinions of the Persian 
people, who from the time of Ezra to 
his own remained the great deposita- 
ries of Unitarianism. 
— 
For the Monthly Magazine. 
NEWS FROM PARNASSUS. 
NO. XXV. 
Poetical Sketches, with Stanzas for 
Music, and other Poems; by Alarie 
A. Waits. ; 
HE name of the gentleman who 
is the author of this little volume 
will probably be familiar to our poeti- 
‘cal readers; the majority of whom 
must, we apprehend, have met with 
his very beautiful lines addressed to 
the daughter of one of his friends, on 
the completion of her sixth year, be- 
ginning, ‘‘ Full many a gloomy month 
hath past.” They appeared in most 
of the periodical publications about 
five years since, and were at the time 
generally attributed to Lord Byron, a 
circumstance of itself furnishing pre- 
sumptive proof of no common degree 
of talent in the writer. 
The present collection contains 
many descriptive sketches highly cre- 
ditable to the powers of Mr. Watts. 
The “‘ Profession” is a vivid and most 
interesting picture of the feelings and 
conduct of one of the unfortunate 
victims of a gloomy and unnatural 
superstition, during the performance 
of the awful ceremony which consigns 
the remainder of her days to the 
‘monotonous and misdirected devotion 
of a convent, severed from all the 
beguiling cheerfulness of social inter- 
course, and all the joyous impulses of 
love. Such a subject is calculated to 
afford ample scope for the exercise of 
poetic talent, and Mr. Watts has not 
neglected to avail himscif of the oppor- 
tunity. His sketch is given with a 
touching fidelity ; but it is too long for 
transcription here, and to select any 
detached passages would be to do it 
great injustice. The “ Broken Heart,” 
which follows it, is uncommonly beau- 
tiful; the conclusion is so exquisite, 
that we cannot resist laying it before 
_Our readers. Had we not known it to 
“ News from Parnassus, No. XXV. 
[Aug. 1, 
be the production of Mr. Watts, we 
know but one other poet of the day to 
whom we could possibly have attri- 
buted it. 
Master of mortal bosoms, Love!—O, Love! 
Thou art the essence of the universe ! 
Soul of the visible world! and can’st create 
Hope, joy, pain, passiun, madness, or despair, 
As suiteth thy high will! To some thou bringest 
A balm, a lenitixe for every wound 
The unkind world inflicts on them! To others 
Thy breath but breathes destruction, and thy smile 
Scathes like the lightning !—Now a star of peace, 
Heralding sweet evening to our stormy day; 
And now a meteor, with far-scattering fire, 
Shedding red ruin on our flowers of life! 
Whether array’d in hues of deep repose, 
Or arm’d with burning vengeance to consume 
Our yielding hearts,—alike omnipotent! 
The “‘ Aolian Harp” is so full of 
beautiful touches, that it has power to 
please even with our fayourite Thomson 
in our recollection; and the con- 
cluding passage need scarcely shrink 
from a comparison with the cclebrated 
Lxasove dt Aéywy of Euripides, of which 
it forcibly reminds us. The sketch 
entitled ‘‘Chamouni,” describing the 
stupendous phenomenon of a falling 
avalanche, is unequalled by any thing 
of the kind in the compass of our 
reading, for faithfulness, splendor, and 
sublimity. It ought not to have been 
followed by Etna, which is altogether 
unworthy of appearing in the same 
pages with the admirable painting of 
Chamouni. Indeed we consider the 
description of the Sicilian volcano as 
the only decided failure in the yolume. 
It exhibits one of the numerous exam- 
ples of a poet, who has shown himself 
on one occasion capable of the true 
sublime, failing, on another, to attain 
beyond turgidity. 
But it is not on the descriptive me- 
rits of Mr. Watts, even in his most 
successful attempts, beautiful as these 
undoubtedly are, that we feel disposed 
to bestow our chief praise. This we 
would reserve for his pathetic pieces, 
which breathe the very soul of feeling 
and tenderness, in language which no 
contemporary poet, with the exception 
perhaps of Barry Cornwall, could 
equal. They are marked by an ex- 
pression of pleasing melancholy pecu- 
liar to the author, evidently resulting 
from such a feeling being, in a great 
measure, habitual to him, and not, as 
is too frequently the case, the dream- 
ing abortion of a sickly imagination, 
occupied in enumerating passions ne- 
ver cherished, woes never suffered, 
and feelings never felt. And although, 
in the indulgence of poetic feeling on 
subjects calculated to awaken painful 
associations, 
