On a rich enchanted bed And brave the tournaments of yore.' Advanc'd a bard, of aspect sage; His eyes diffus'd a soften'd fire, come. If thine ear may still be won With songs of Uther's glorious son, Never yet in rhyme enroll'd, No princess, veiled in azure vest, In the fair vale of Avalon : Each trace that Time's slow touch had worn; And long, o'er the neglected stone, brows, Haste thee, to pay thy pilgrim vows. The pavement's hallowed depth explore; Dive into the vaults of Death. E'en now, with arching sculpture crown'd, These two Odes work on our imagination more powerfully than " The Bard" of Gray. To us they appear to be more poetical, and you may laugh at us for saying so, as sardonically as your face will permit. "Was ne'er prophetic sound so full of woe," cannot with any truth be said of the rhetorical style of that Ode-and we should not have suspected from the stately composure of his speech, occasionally corrugated with affected vehemence, that with haggard eyes the Prophet stood on a rock. Yet it was on some occasion during the current year that we heard some simple soul like ourself called over the coals for the heresy we now have been guilty of, by some truculent critic who seemed to think his own character involved, heaven knows how, in the lyrical genius of Gray. By the way, Thomas Warton has, in our opinion, described Abbeys and Cathedrals, within and without, much better than Walter Scott. "If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go but go alone the while— The second couplet has no business there and forcibly brings before us an image which should have been totally excluded from the picture. Omit these two lines and you will at once feel how the effect is deepened of the night vision. Besides, they are in themselves bad for daylight did never yet "gild ruins grey"—much less "flout" them-and these are, moreover, ugly words. The next four lines are excellent; though to our ear and eye, in so short a passage, so many monosyllabic epithets sound and look oddly" fair," " pale," "gay," 66 grey," ," "black," "cold." The but tresses are alternately in light and in shadow-and the Last Minstrel says "alternately they seem of ebon and ivory." That is pure nonsense. They seemed to be of stone. The change of substance is the reverse of a process of imagination-for it destroys the shadowy beauty given to the edifice by moonlight, substituting in its place something to the last degree fantastic say at once ridiculous. We doubt the truth of "silver edges the imagery and the scrolls," but you may like be cause you understand it. The silver as well as the ebon and the ivory had been far better away. But the fatal fault-and it is to us an astounding one is, "And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave." That line not only disturbs but destroys the spirit pervading-or intended to pervade the des cription that of stillness-sadnessbeauty-peace-" Was never scene so sad and fair!". "Then view St David's ruined pile" is a needless repetition and comes in very awkwardly after "ruined central tower," -nor is that an inconsiderable blemish in such a picture. "Soothly swear" seems to us rather silly-but if you admire it we shall try to do so too-and 'tis but a trifle. Some of our other objections to this far-famed description are radical and vitaland it will be easier for you to rebuild Melrose Abbey than set them aside. We are told that "Short halt did Deloraine make there; Little reck'd he of the scene so fair;" from which the reader might well have supposed that the Abbey was then in ruins. The moss-trooper and monk proceed together to the Wizard's Tomb; and the Minstrel describes the interior of the Abbey. "By a steel-clenched postern door, They enter'd now the chancel tall; The darken'd roof rose high aloof On pillars lofty and light and small: The key-stone that lock'd each ribbed aisle Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; The corbells were carved grotesque and introduced here between the lines about the monk gazing on the streamers in the north, and those about the dying lamps burning before the tomb of the Douglass. In themselves they are unpoetical-and they are illwritten. The roof of the "tall" chancel rises "high" on "lofty" pillars!! Then mark how the Minstrel returns to the pillars to re-describe them and how he spoils the effect-such as it is-of his own picture. "The pillars were lofty and light and small," is well-but who can bear to be told after that, that they "Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands had bound!" Sir Walter says in a note, that it is impossible to conceive a more beautiful specimen of the lightness and elegance of Gothic architecture, when in its purity, than the eastern window of Melrose Abbey, and alludes to Sir James Hall's ingenious idea, that the Gothic order, through its various forms and cunningly eccentric ornaments, may be traced to an architectural imitation of wicker-work, of which, as we learn from some of the legends, the earliest Christian churches were constructed. Possibly. But that affords no justification of such a description as this, natural or not in itself-poetical or prosaic; for it is utterly destructive of the solemn the awful feelings which it was the aim of the Minstrel to awaken and to sustain. He had just said, 66 And this fanciful or rather fantastic affair of the Fairies must, at such a juncture, be offensive to every reader who accompanies Doleraine and his guide in a state of any emotion. 'Tis a prettiness worthy but of a lady's Album. With the exception of Cibber, the Poets Laureate of England have all been respectable-some have beenone is now-illustrious. Warton wore the laurel gracefully; and some of his odes-classical in conception and execution are delightful reading to this day. Dr Mant says well, "Sure I am that he has executed the office with variety to a hackneyed argument by surprising ability; that he has given the happiest selection and adaptation of collateral topics; and has shown how a poet may celebrate his sovereign, not with the fulsome adulation of an Augustan courtier, or the base prostration of an Oriental slave, but with the genuine spirit and erect front of an Englishman." "The Probationary odes," witty as they were, are now forgotten; and Warton's are not remembered. We believe the rogues printed the Laureate's first ode, which was rather a rum concern, among the Probationary; and sent him a copy with an editorial letter expressing their gratitude to him, for having set "the example of a Joke""an inimitable effort of luxuriant humour." Dr Joseph says, that his brother" of all men felt the least, and least deserved to feel, the force of the Probationary odes, written on his appointment to the office; and that he always heartily joined in the laugh, and applauded the exquisite wit and humour that appeared in many of those original satires." Laureates do not like to be laughed at, more than other office-bearing men-but Warton had more humour and as much wit as the Set-and, on this occasion, rub bing his elbow, merely chuckled, "black-letter dogs, Sir.' Not a wit of them all could have written these Two odes. FOR THE NEW year, 1787. "In rough magnificence array'd, In some proud castle's high-arch'd hall, To grace romantic Glory's genial rites: The minstrel struck his kindred string, Or bore the radiant red-cross shield In rude affrays untaught to fear With fairy trappings fraught, and shook their plumes sublime. "Such were the themes of regal praise Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage, The castle shuts its thundering gate! Adventurous Valour idly bleeds: "And now he tunes his plausive lay Who seek coy Science in her cloister'd Where Thames, yet rural, rolls an artless Who love to view the vale divine, To kings, who rule a filial land, Should Treason arm the weakest To these his heart-felt praise he bears, And with new rapture hastes to greet This festal morn, that longs to meet, With luckiest auspices, the laughing Spring: And opes her glad career, with blessings on her wing! ON HIS MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, JUNE 4TH, 1788. "The noblest bards of Albion's choir E'er Science, struggling oft in vain, Of Britain's bay to bloom on Chaucer's brow: In tones majestic hence he told And Gallia's captive king, and Cressy's wreath renown'd "Won from the shepherd's simple meed, The whispers wild of Mulla's reed, Sage Spenser wak'd his lofty lay To grace Eliza's golden sway: O'er the proud theme new lustre to diffuse, He chose the gorgeous allegoric Muse, From fabling Fancy's inmost store A rich romantic robe he bore ; And o'er his virgin queen the fairy texture flung. "At length the matchless Dryden came, His partial homage, tuned to kings! Be mine, to catch his manlier chord, Rous'd to revenge, by love subdued; And still, with transport new, the strains to trace, "Had these blest bards been call'd, to pay The vows of this auspicious day, Each had confess'd a fairer throne, A mightier sovereign than his own! His colourings, warm from Fiction's loom, And deck'd with truth alone the lay; All real here, the bard had seen The glories of his pictur'd queen! The tuneful Dryden had not flatter'd here, His lyre had blameless been, his tribute all sincere !" Warton had a fine eye and a feeling heart for nature-as indeed he had for every thing good-and perhaps some of his unambitious descriptive verses may please you more than his statelier Odes. It has been said that they are rather deficient in sentiment-too purely descriptive; some of them are so -others not-and we think that objection will by none be felt to lie against his delightful lines entitled "The Hamlet." Headley calls it "a most exquisite little piece," and says "it contains such a selection of beautiful rural images as perhaps no other poem of equal length in our language presents us with." Headley, we think, was a Trinity man, and as such must have loved Warton, and his praise may need pruning; but he was a good judge because a fine genius. "The Hamlet" is "written on Whichwood Forest" which lies towards the western side of Oxfordshire, and near the Poet's parish of Cuddington. INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. "Beneath this stony roof reclin'd "Within my limits lone and still "At morn I take my custom'd round, |