1823.] 
associations, Mr. Watts has occasion- 
ally introduced passages which have 
evident reference to his own expe- 
rience of the sorrows of life, we meet 
with none of that obtrusive and ridicu- 
lous egotism too often perceptible in 
the rhyming votaries of sober sadness, 
and which involuntarily elicits from 
our lips the Sezlicet id populus curat, 
as we glance, with a half-closed eye 
and a frequent yawn, over the details 
of griefs, which affect the reader so 
very differently from the narrator of 
them. 
The lines toa young daughter of his 
friend, which we have mentioned in 
the opening of this notice of Mr. 
Watts’s volume, and which no one 
who has read them is likely to forget, 
afford an admirable specimen of the 
peculiar power of describing the ten- 
derer feelings of our nature, which, 
indeed, we consider to be this gentle- 
man’s forte. We beg leave to subjoin 
two extracts from the present collec- 
tion, quite worthy of the author of the 
Address to Octavia. The first of these 
is from some stanzas written for 
music. 
While [ upon thy bosom lean, 
And gaze into thine eyes, 
I turn trom sorrows that hive been, 
To those that yet may rise. 
I think on thy untiring truth, 
And faster flow my tears; 
I mark thy waning rose of youth, 
And cannot hide my fears. 
Oh! light have been the pangs we’ve prov’d, 
To what may yet remain; 
We've suffer’d much,—but fondly lov’d ; 
Parted, but met again! 
Still something speaks a wilder doom, 
From which we may not flee; 
Hell, dearest, let the thunder come, 
So that it spares me thee! 
The other is from a piece entitled, 
«1 think of thee,” and is such as, in 
our opinion, would do honour to any 
poet. 
In youth’s gay hours, ’mid pleasure’s bowers, 
When all was sunshine, mirth, and flowers, 
We met.——I bent th’ adoring knee, 
And told a tender tale to thee. 
*Twas Summer's eve,—the heavens above, 
Earth, ocean, air, were full of love; 
Nature around kept jubilee, 
When first [ breati’d that tale to thee. 
The erystal clouds that hung on high 
Were blue as thy delicious eye; 
The stirless shore, and sleeping sea, 
Seem’d embleins of repose and thee. 
I spoke of hope,—I spoke of fear,— 
‘Thy answer was a blush and tear; 
But this was eloquence to me, 
Aud more than I had ask’d of thee. 
1 Jook’d into thy dewy eye, 
And echoed thy half-stifled sigh ; 
1 clasp’d thy hand, and yow'd to be 
The soul of love and truth to thee. 
The scene und hour are past; yet still 
Remains adeep impassion’d thrill; 
A sun-set glow on memory, 
Whiich kindles at a thought of thee. 
News from Parnassus, No. XXV. 
21 
We loy’d !—how wikdly and how wel, 
’T were worse than idle now to tell; 
From love and life alike thow’rt free, 
And | am left—io think of thee. 
Though we do not entertain a 
Johnsonian antipathy to the sonnet, we 
confess that we do not hold that spe- 
cies of composition in any very great 
reverence. Bot here is one which we 
cannot forbear transcribing, because 
it proves Mr. Watts to be admirably 
adapted to excel in a style of writing, 
of which we regret that the present 
volume affords no other specimen. 
Go! join the mincing measures of the crowd, 
And be that abject thing which men call wise, 
In the wortd’s school of wisdom !—lI despise 
Thy bet aid!—Go! thou may’st court the 
proud, 
With ready smile, and eyer bended knee; 
But I do scorn to owe a debt to thee 
My soul could not repay. There zwasa tie 
(Would it existed now') which might have kept 
Peace pelea between us ;—I have wept 
With tears of wild and breathless agony, 
That it shonld pass away; and sought to quell 
The angry thoughts that in my breast would swell, 
With dwelling on my injuries,—but yet, 
Tho’ | forgive, 1 never can forget! 
With this sonnet we must unwil- 
lingly terminate our extracts from this 
interesting little volume; those we 
have made will, we think, sufficiently 
enable our readers to perceive that 
the author well merits the commenda- 
tions we have bestowed upon him. 
We here take our leave of Mr. 
Watts, much gratified with the perusal 
of his volume, and sincerely hoping 
_ that we shail again have the pleasing 
task of noticing his poetical labours. 
The few faults are redeemed tenfold 
by the general beauty of his produc- 
tions. 
—aa 
To the Editor of the Monthly Magazine. 
STR, ; 
HE Hermetic or Ansated Cross has 
for many ages supplied food 
for the contemplation of the mystic, 
and employment for the research of 
the antiquary; but certainly, without 
excepting the ‘learned . visionary” 
Kircher, very little novelty has been 
elicited from the subject since the age 
of Alexandrian philosophy. Dr. Clarke 
is the last person of note who has 
attempted its illustration. He has 
pronounced it to he a key; an opinion 
which, whatever other merit it may 
possess, has certainly no claim to 
originality, since it is shared with 
Denon, Norden, Pocock, &c, | 
A varicty of reasons induce me to 
object to this hypothesis, though with 
proper deference for the opinion of a 
gentleman, who has united the time 
labor of graceful composition to the 
acumen 
