liar description; or who is capable of forming any sort of conjecture of the particular disposition and turn of thinking which such a combination of attributes would be apt to produce. To us, we will confess, the annonce appears as ludicrous and absurd, as it would be in the author of an ode or an epic to say, ' Of this piece the reader will necessarily form a very erroneous judgement, unless he is apprised, that it was written by a pale man in a green coat,sitting cross-legged on an oaken stool,-with a scratch on his nose, and a spelling dictionary on the table. ' *

From these childish and absurd affectations, we turn with pleasure to the manly sense and correct picturing of Mr Crabbe; and, after being dazzled and made giddy with the elaborate raptures and obscure originalities of these new artists, it is refreshing to

meet

* Some of our readers may have a curiofity to know in what manner this old annuitant captain expreffes himself in the village of his adoption. For their gratification, we annex the two firft ftanzas of his ftory, in which, with all the attention we have been able to bestow, we have been utterly unable to detect any characteristic traits, either of a feaman, an annuitant, or a ftranger in a country town. It is a ftyle, on the contrary, which we fhould afcribe, without hesitation, to a certain poetical fraternity in the Weft of England, and which, we verily believe, never was, and never will be, used by any one out of that fraternity.

There is a thorn-it looks fo old,

In truth you'd find it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks fo old and gray.

Not higher than a two-years child,

;

It stands erect, this aged thorn
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mafs of knotted joints,

A wretched thing forlorn.
It ftands erect, and like a ftone,
With lichens it is overgrown.

Like rock or ftone, it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of mofs,
A melancholy crop.

Up from the earth these moffes creep,
And this poor thorn they clafp it round
So clofe, you'd say that they were bent,
With plain and manifeft iutent,

To drag it to the ground;
And all had join'd in one endeavour,
To bury this poor thorn for ever,'

meet again with the nature and spirit of our old masters, in the nervous pages of the author now before us.

The poem that stands first in the volume, is that to which we have already alluded as having been first given to the public upwards of twenty years ago. It is so old, and has of late been so scarce, that it is probably new to many of our readers. We shall venture, therefore, to give a few extracts from it, as a specimen of Mr Crabbe's original style of composition. We have already hinted at the description of the Parish Workhouse; and insert it as an example of no common poetry.

Their's is yon house that holds the parish poor,
Whose walls of mud fcarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapours flagging, play,
And the dull wheel hums doleful through the day;
There children dwell who know no parents' care,
Parents, who know no children's love, dwell there ;
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed,
Forfaken wives, and mothers never wed;
Dejected widows with unheeded tears,

And crippled age with more than childhood-fears
The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they!
The moping idiot and the madman gay.

Here, too, the fick their final doom receive,
Here brought amid the fcenes of grief, to grieve;
Where the loud groans from fome fad chamber flow,
Mixt with the clamours of the crowd below.

Say ye, oppreft by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose;
Who prefs the downy couch, while slaves advance
With timid eye, to read the diftant glance;
Who with fad prayers the weary doctor tease,
To name the nameless ever-new disease ;
Who with mock patience dire complaints endure,
Which real pain, and that alone can cure ;
How would ye bear in real pain to lye,
Defpis'd, neglected, left alone to die?

How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Where all that's wretched pave the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,

And naked rafters form the floping fides;

Where the vile bands that bind the thatch are feen,

And lath and mud are all that lye between ;

Save one dull pane, that, coarfely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempeft, yet excludes the day :

Here, on a matted flock, with duft o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;

For him no hand the cordial cup applies,' &c. p. 2—14.

The

The consequential apothecary, who gives an impatient attendance in these abodes of misery, is admirably described; but we pass to the last scene.

Now to the church behold the mourners come,
Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb;

The village children now their games fufpend,
To see the bier that bears their antient friend;
For he was one in all their idle sport,

And like a monarch rul'd their little court;
The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all;
Him now they follow to his grave, and stand
Silent and fad, and gazing, hand in hand;
While bending low, their eager eyes explore
The mingled relics of the parish poor:
The bell tolls late, the moping owl flies round,
Fear marks the flight and magnifies the found;
The bufy priest, detain'd by weightier care,
Defers his duty till the day of prayer;

And waiting long, the crowd retire diftreft,

To think a poor man's bones fhould lye unbleft, ' p. 16, 17. The scope of the poem is to show, that the villagers of real life have no resemblance to the villagers of poetry; that poverty, in sober truth, is very uncomfortable; and vice by no means confined to the opulent. The following passage is powerful, and finely written.

Or will you deem them amply paid in health,
Labour's fair child, that languishes with wealth?
Go then! and fee them rifing with the fun,
Through a long courfe of daily toil to run;
See them beneath the dog-ftar's raging heat,
When the knees tremble and the temples beat;
Behold them, leaning on their scythes, look o'er
The labour past, and toils to come explore;
See them alternate funs and fhowers engage,
And hoard up aches and anguish for their age;
Through fens and marshy moors their fteps purfue,
When their warm pores imbibe the evening dew.

There may you see the youth of slender frame
Contend with weakness, wearinefs, and fhame;
Yet urg'd along, and proudly loath to yield,
He ftrives to join his fellows of the field;
Till long-contending nature droops at laft,
Declining health rejects his poor repaft,
His cheerless spouse the coming danger fees,
And mutual murmurs urge the flow disease.
Yet grant them health, 'tis not for us to tell,
Though the head droops not, that the heart is well;

Or

Or will you praise that homely, healthy fare,
Plenteous and plain, that happy peasants share?
Oh! trifle not with wants you cannot feel,
Nor mock the mifery of a ftinted meal;

Homely not wholesome, plain not plenteous, such
As you who praise would never deigu to touch.
Ye gentle fouls, who dream of rural ease,

Whom the smooth ftream and smoother fonnet please ;
Go! if the peaceful cot your praises share,
Go look within, and afk if peace be there :

If peace be his-that drooping weary fire,

Or their's, that offspring round their feeble fire;

Or her's, that matron pale, whofe trembling hand

Turns on the wretched hearth th' expiring brand.' p. 8-10. The following exhibits a fair specimen of the strokes of sarcasm, which the author, perhaps not very judiciously, intermingles with his description. He is speaking of the stern Justice who keeps the parish in awe.

To him with anger or with shame repair

The injur'd peafant and deluded fair.

Lo! at his throne the filent nymph appears,
Frail by her fhape, but modeft in her tears;
And while the ftands abafh'd, with conscious eye,
Some favourite female of her judge glides by;
Who views with fcornful glance the ftrumpet's fate,
And thanks the stars that made her keeper great:
Near her the fwain, about to bear for life
One certain evil, doubts 'twixt war and wife;
But, while the faltering damfel takes her oath,

Confents to wed, and fo fecures them both. ' p. 24.

We shall only give one other extract from this poem; and we select the following fine description of that peculiar sort of barrenness which prevails along the sandy and thinly inhabited shores of the channel.

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er,
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor;
From thence a length of burning fand appears,

Where the thin harveft waves its wither'd ears;
There thiftles ftretch their prickly arms afar,

And to the ragged infant threaten war;

There, poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil,
There the blue buglofs paints the fterile foil;
Hardy and high, above the flender fheaf,
The flimy mallow waves her filky leaf;

O'er the young fhoot the charlock throws a shade,
And clafping tares cling round the fickly blade;
With mingled tints the rocky coafts abound,.
And a fad fplendour vainly fhines around.' p. 5, 6.

The

The next poem, and the longest in the volume, is now presented for the first time to the public. It is dedicated, like the former, to the delineation of rural life and characters, and is entitled, The Village Register;' and, upon a very simple but singular plan, is divided into three parts, viz. Baptisms, Marriages, and Burials. After an introductory and general view of village manners, the Reverend author proceeds to present his readers with an account of all the remarkable baptisms, marriages and funerals, that appear on his register for the preceding year, with a sketch of the character and behaviour of the respective parties, and such reflections and exhortations as are suggested by the subject. The poem consists, therefore, of a series of portraits taken from the middling and lower ranks of rustic life, and delineated on occasions at once more common and more interesting, than any other that could well be imagined. They are selected, we think, with great judgment, and drawn with inimitable accuracy and strength of colouring. They are finished with much more minuteness and detail, indeed, than the more general pictures in The Village;' and, on this account, may appear occasionally deficient in comprehension, or in dignity. They are, no doubt, executed in some instances with a Chinese accuracy; and enter into details which many readers may pronounce tedious and unnecessary. Yet, there is a justness and force in the representation which is entitled to something more than indulgence; and though several of the groups are confessedly composed of low and disagreeable subjects, still, we think that some allowance is to be made for the author's plan of giving a full and exact view of village life, which could not possibly be accomplished without including those baser varieties. He aims at an important moral effect by this exhibition; and must not be defrauded either of that, or of the praise which is due to the coarser efforts of his pen, out of deference to the sickly delicacy of his more fastidious readers. We admit, however, that there is more carelessness, as well as more quaintness in this poem than in the other; and that he has now and then apparently heaped up circumstances rather to gratify his own taste for detail and accumulation, than to give any additional effect to his description. With this general observation, we beg the reader's attention to the following abstract and citations.

The poem begins with a general view, first of the industrious. and contented villager, and then of the profligate and disorderly. The first compartment is not so striking as the last. Mr Crabbe, it seems, has a set of smugglers among his flock, who inhabit what is called the Street in his village. There is nothing com

-parable