with their strenuous breath the populace-neglected embers of historic art. Westmacott's Psyche is affectingly simple-a pure bashful relying creature, who could live but in the breath of the Heavenly Love. The War Angel of the elegant-minded Flaxman is extremely noble-no man understands the action and powers of the skeleton better than Mr. F.; which knowledge is the primum mobile of grace and motion. I wonder he does not favour the public with some more of his harmonious outlines. The romantic Apollonius would furnish an interesting series, which might be lithographized by some of his pupils. J. W. P. S. Give my respects to your Mr. Fine Arts, and request him to write a panegyric on Wilkie's chefd'œuvre (for so it certainly is, both in conception, composition, colour, drawing, grace, and expression; this is, indeed, fetching up lee-way with a wet sail,) with one of his most superb quills. Tell him also I shall look sharp after his critique on Mulready's "Convalescent," it is a touchstone of sympathy and feeling. Mackenzie should write it, or Allan Cunningham! I desire that Mynheer Van Stinking Brooms will keep his herring-defiled paws from it-I hate that fellow most particularly. Fumigate him out of the concern! Our friend Mr. Weathercock has omitted to notice Mr. Leslie's "Rivals." With some defects of execution, nothing can be more expressive than this admirable little picture; if his former productions were more attractive from their connexion with our national habits and associations, this is equally meritorious in genuine unforced humour. Nothing can excel the spirited and graceful way in which the story is told.—ED. SONG. The morning hours the sun beguiles, But suns must set with dewy eve, And leave the scene deserted; And flowers must with the summer leave,- 2. O Mary, I did meet thy smile, When passion was discreetest; And thou didst win my heart the while, When woman seem'd the sweetest; When joys were felt that cannot speak, And memory cannot smother, When love's first beauty flush'd thy cheek, 3. Those eyes that then my passion blest, That bosom where I then could rest, Sad ceaseless thoughts about thee, POLYHYMNIA.. BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. Ir can no longer be a complaint of this age that English songs, without their music, are senseless and inanimate things; for within a very short. period of time the most celebrated of our poets have contributed to this delightful species of poetry; and a young lady at her piano may with the turning over but few leaves chuse for her voice a song of Moore's, or Byron's, or W. Scott's, or Campbell's. To be sure, Moore's morality and Byron's piety are two for a pair-but in the light Scotch words of the two latter, there is all that is unexceptionable; and even in the two former, a want of meaning is certainly their last sin. It is with very sin cere pleasure that we can now add the name of Montgomery to those of the illustrious lyrists we have just mentioned; and who that has read the Wanderer of Switzerland and the minor pieces of this poet, can for a moment doubt his power to be great in song? The present little work is composed of seven very beautiful songs written to foreign airs, and as we have the author's permission to publish them in the LONDON MAGAZINE, we shall take them at his word, and let them assert their own beauty:-certainly, to our taste, they have that exquisite union of tenderness, melancholy, and truth, which makes a good song perfect. The first piece is entitled Reminiscence; it is exceedingly plaintive and unaffectedly pathetic. REMINISCENCE. Where are ye with whom in life I started, Where art thou, in youth my friend and Yea in soul my friend and brother still? Heav'n receiv'd thee, and on earth none other Can the void in my lorn bosom fill. * Where is she, whose looks were love and Love and gladness I no longer see; Where am I? life's current faintly flowing, Brings the welcome warning of release. Struck with death; ah! whither am I going? All is well, my spirit parts in peace. The air is remarkable for sweetment presents only chords repeated ness and pathos. The accompaniin regular succession, supporting, but not disturbing the voice, while the short symphonies are full of expres◄ siveness. Youth, Manhood, and Age, the next piece, is of another character; and though one in which the author is eminently successful, perhaps it is not the most fitted for song. YOUTH, MANHOOD, AND AGE. Youth, ah! youth, to thee in life's gay New and wonderful are heav'n and earth; Time, swift Time, from years their motion Unperceiv'd hath sober Manhood brought; Truth her pure and humble forms revealing, Tinges fancy's fairy dreams with thought; Till the heart no longer prone to roam, Loves, loves best, the quiet bliss of home. Age, Old Age, in sickness, pain, and sorrow, Creeps with length'ning shadow o'er the scene; Life was yesterday, 'tis death to-morrow, The music is a fine motivo, exalted a little from its tone of deep feeling by an accompaniment of more motion and variety than the last. These things almost rise to the level of some of Haydn's Canzonets (the most exqui site things of the kind ever written), Polyhymnia, or Select Airs of Celebrated Foreign Composers, adapted to English Words, written expressly for this Work, by James Montgomery. The Music arranged by C. F. Hasse. This is set for three voices, with a solo, and a return to the trio. There is an admirable spirit and beauty in the following. VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS. Night turns to day, when sullen darkness lowers, And heav'n and earth are hid from sight; Cheer up, cheer up; ere long the op'ning. flowers With dewy eyes shall shine in light. Winter wakes spring, when icy blasts are blowing, Q'er frozen lakes, through naked trees; Cheer up, cheer up; all beautiful and glowing, May floats in fragrance on the breeze. Storms die in calms, when over land and Toil brings repose, with noontide fervors beating, When droop thy temples o'er thy breast; Cheer up, cheer up; grey twilight, cool and fleeting, Wafts on its wing the hour of rest. Death springs to life, though sad and brief thy story; Thy years all spent in grief and gloom; Look up, look up; eternity and glory Dawn through the terrors of the tomb. The music is of an intense but darker character in its opening; the reverse of the movement of which Meet Again consists. This air has a similar, but more marked division. Here also the composer, or the adapter, has shown his knowledge of effect in the accompaniment. The home truth of The Pilgrimage, which follows, is delightful. We could wish that English songs should be distinguished by, and valued for, this character. THE PILGRIMAGE OF LIFE. How blest the pilgrim who in trouble And binds their beauties in a wreath. More dear to him the fields and mountains, When with his friend abroad he roves, Rests in the shade near sunny fountains, Or talks by moonlight through the groves; For him the vine expands its clusters, Spring wakes for him her woodland quire; Yea, though the storm of winter blusters, 'Tis summer by his ev'ning fire. In good old age serenely dying, When all he lov'd forsakes his view, Sweet is Affection's voice replying, "I follow soon," to his "adieu :" Nay then, though earthly ties are riven, The spirit's union will not end, Happy the man, whom Heav'n hath given In life and death a faithful friend. It is a bass sostenuto song, expressive and elegant. The passages are cast into the best parts of the voice. It reminds us of the Qui sdegno of Mozart, though the resemblance is in the style, not in the melody. There is a second part for two tenors, which adds a variety to its intrinsic beauty. The last piece, Aspirations of Youth, is the call of Genius to Glory, Nearer, dearer bands of love, which can only be truly heard through the air of poetry. With infinite spirit and truth is combined a feeling which carries the invocation to the heart. We should think that this little piece beautifully sung would. waken a slumbering mind to its fullest energies. ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH. Higher, higher will we climb, Up the mount of glory, That our names may live through time, In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls. Deeper, deeper, let us toil In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and Learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Onward, onward, may we press, Excellence true beauty; Closer, closer let us knit Hearts and hands together, Draw our souls in union, To the saints' communion: Thither ev'ry hope ascend, The music consists of an animating strain, like the War song. The succeeding verses are in the nature of variations, which are introduced either upon the melody itself, or into the accompaniment, and each is concluded with a chorus-a repetition of the last bars of the air with a different accompaniment. Having thus given every word of this interesting publication, our readers may suppose that they need not seek the work elsewhere; but if they suppose that, admiring it, they can do without the music, they are mistaken. The words are so married to the music, that in reading they seem to pine for that voice which gives them feeling, force, and spirit. The Airs are beautifully selected, and most skilfully arranged; and we only wish that Mr. Hasse, who by this work so forcibly proves his power, would not stay here, but, seeking other melodies, and inspiring his present companion, would lay other delightful songs at the feet of Polyhymnia. CONTINUATION OF DR. JOHNSON'S Lives of the Poets. No. VIII. THE LIFE OF WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE was born on the 29th of September, 1734, at Longholm, in the County of Dumfries, of which place his, father, Alexander Meikle, or Mickle, a minister of the church of Scotland, was pastor. His mother was Julia, daughter of Thomas Henderson, of Ploughlands, near Edinburgh. In his thirteenth year, his love of poetry was kindled by reading Spenser's Faëry Queen. Two years after, his father, who was grown old and infirm, and had a large family to edu cate, by an unusual indulgence obtained permission to reside in Edinburgh, where Mickle was admitted a pupil at the high school. Here he remained long enough to acquire a relish for the Greek and Latin classics. When he was seventeen years old, his father unluckily embarking his capital in a brewery, which the death of his wife's brother had left without a manager, William was taken from school, and employed as clerk under the eldest son, in whose name the business was carried on. At first he must have been attentive enough to his employment; for on his coming of age, the property was made over to him, on the condition of paying his family a certain share of the profits arising from it. Afterwards, he suffered himself to be seduced from business by the attractions of literature. His father died in 1758; and, in about three years, he published, without his name, Knowledge, an Ode, and a Night Piece, the former of which had been written in his eighteenth year. In both there is more of seriousness and reflection, than of that fancy which marks his subsequent productions. Beside these, he had finished a Drama, called the Death of Socrates, of which, if we may judge from his other tragedy, the loss is not to be lamented, and he had begun a poem on Providence. The difficulties consequent on his trusting to servants the work of his brewery, which he was too indolent to superintend himself, and on his joining in security for a large sum with a printer who failed, were now gathering fast upon him. His creditors became clamourous; and at Candlemas (one of the quarter days in Scotland) 1762, being equally unwilling to compound with them, as his brother advised him to do, and unable to satisfy their demands, he prevailed on them to accept his notes of hand, payable in four months. When the time was expired, he found himself, as might have been expected, involved in embarrassments from which he could devise no mears of escaping. His mind was harassed by bitter reflections on the distress which threatened those whom his parent had left to his protection; and he was scared by the terrors of a jail. But they, with whom he had to reckon, were again lenient. He consoled himself with recollecting that his delinquency had proceeded from inadvertence, not from design, and resolved to be -more sedulous in future; but had still the weakness to trust for relief to his poem on Providence. This was soon after published by Dodsley, and, that it might win for itself such advantages as patronage could give, was sent to Lord Lyttelton, under the assumed name of William More, with a representation that the author was a youth, friendless and unknown, and with the offer of a dedication if the poem should be again edited. This proceeding did not evince much knowledge of mankind. A poet has as seldom gained a patron as a mistress, by solicitation to which no previous encouragement has been given. It was more than half a year before he received an answer from Lyttelton, with just kindness enough to keep alive his expectations. In the meantime, the friendly offices of a carpenter in Edinburgh, whose name was Good, had been exerted to save his property from being seized for rent; but the fear of arrest impelled him to quit that city in haste; and embarking on board a coal vessel at Newcastle, he reached London, pennyless, in May, 1763. His immediate necessities were supplied by remittances from his brothers, and by such profits as he could derive from writing for periodical publications. There is no reason to suppose that he was indebted to Lyttelton for more than the commendation of his genius, and for some criticism on his poems; and even this favour was denied to the most beautiful among them, his Elegy on Mary, Queen of Scots. The cause assigned for the exclusion was, that poetry should not consecrate what history must condemn, a sacred principle if it be applied to the characters of those yet living, but of more doubtful obligation as it regards past times. When Euripides, in one of his dramas, chose to avail himself of a wild and unauthorized tradition, and to represent Helen as spotless, he surely violated no sanction of moral truth; and in the instance of Mary, Mickle might have pleaded some uncertainty which a poet was at liberty to interpret to the better part. During his courtship of Lyttelton, he was fed at one time by hopes of being recommended in the West Indies; and, at another, of being served in the East; till by degrees the great man waxed so cold, that he wisely relinquished his suit. His next project was to go out as a merchant's clerk to Carolina; but some unexpected occurrences defeating this plan also, he engaged himself as corrector of the Clarendon press, at Oxford. Here he published (in |