splendour of art and nature, and a heart which is capable of being roused by the trumpet-note of passion. He has also an ear delicately susceptible to the charms of harmony; and, in a word, he possesses many of the finest elements which can enter into the composition of a poet. But he must not stop here, as he seems but too likely to do: He must not listen to the harpings of partiality and praise, until his spirit is quite asleep under their fascinating influences. He must look more abroad over the world, and still more needful, he must look deeper within himself. He must consider

calmly and leisurely what literature is

-what has been done-what remains to be done what can be done and having opened some new field for himself, he must give himself like a man to its cultivation.

If he proceeds, as he has hitherto been doing, he will never be any thing more than the Oxford Professor of Poetry. If he does himself justice, he may very probably, but not very easily, win to himself a lasting place among the true poets of England.

It is no doubt a very honourable thing to be respected and admired in one of the first universities in the world; but Mr Milman ought to recollect, that Mr Hayley was just as much the idol of Commoners' and Fellow-commoners' worship, thirty years ago, as he himself is now. Even Lady Hervey, the clever, sensible Lady Hervey, talks, in one of her admirable letters, of meeting with a young gentleman destined to be "the Pope, or perhaps something better, of the age;" and this sort of cant rung from one side of England to the other, until Mr Hayley died, and his works followed him. Mr Milman lives in another sort of age from that in which Hayley appeared; but although we have no doubt he is a man of higher natural powers than Mr Hayley, we are quite certain, that thirty years hence he will just be as little thought of, even at Oxford, as Mr Hayley is now, unless he do really take in kindness what is meant both kindly and earnestly, and avoid coming before the public of England again, until he has something to bring with him, which

Their hands, enamour'd even to adoration

Applauding round them they are here, behold them.

Christian Hymn.

form.

voice

That wert mine instrument of bloodshed,

Earth sinks to slumber like the breezeless

down!

deep,

Mine hand shall never grasp thee more.

Vopiscus,

And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and sleep.

Assume the vacant Prefect's seat, and be Curst like myself-with sway-I cannot

wish thee

There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands,

The Angel of the Resurrection stands; While, on its own immortal pinions borne,

Following the Breaker of the emprisoning tomb,

Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its gloom.

Sing to the Lord! the desert rocks break out,

And the throng'd cities, in one gladdening shout;

The farthest shores by pilgrim step ex. plored;

Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around,

Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound,

Earth's universal homage to the Lord; Lift up thine head, imperial Capitol, Proud on thy height to see the banner'd

cross unroll.

splendour of art and nature, and a heart which is capable of being roused by the trumpet-note of passion. He has also an ear delicately susceptible to the charms of harmony; and, in a word, he possesses many of the finest elements which can enter into the composition of a poet. But he must not stop here, as he seems but too likely to do: He must not listen to the harpings of partiality and praise, until his spirit is quite asleep under their fascinating influences. He must look more abroad over the world, and still more needful, he must look deeper within himself. He must consider

calmly and leisurely what literature is

-what has been done-what remains to be done what can be done-and having opened some new field for himself, he must give himself like a man to its cultivation.

If he proceeds, as he has hitherto been doing, he will never be any thing more than the Oxford Professor of Poetry. If he does himself justice, he may very probably, but not very easily, win to himself a lasting place among the true poets of England.

It is no doubt a very honourable thing to be respected and admired in one of the first universities in the world; but Mr Milman ought to recollect, that Mr Hayley was just as much the idol of Commoners' and Fellow-commoners' worship, thirty years ago, as he himself is now. Even Lady Hervey, the clever, sensible Lady Hervey, talks, in one of her admirable letters, of meeting with a young gentleman destined to be "the Pope, or perhaps something better, of the age;" and this sort of cant rung from one side of England to the other, until Mr Hayley died, and his works followed him. Mr Milman lives in another sort of age from that in which Hayley appeared; but although we have no doubt he is a man of higher natural powers than Mr Hayley, we are quite certain, that thirty years hence he will just be as little thought of, even at Oxford, as Mr Hayley is now, unless he do really take in kindness what is meant both kindly and earnestly, and avoid coming before the public of England again, until he has something to bring with him, which may confer upon that public some new and substantial wealth of thought, of imagination, and of language.

The present work is little more than an elegant versification of a small part of an elegant prose-romance, published but a few months ago. Even if he had improved upon his original much more than he has done, we should still have been inclined to say, that he might have been employing his talents in a manner more worthy of the hopes his first appearances excited.

One word at parting. Has Mr Milman, who is a clergyman, ever thought

ITALY,

THIS is a very beautiful little duodecimo, and contains some very beautiful writing. After reading it, we sat musing for some minutes in our chair, considering with ourselves who could possibly have written it. Who that writes verses has lately been in Italy? Wordsworth has, but this is no more Wordsworth than it is Mahomet. Southey has been in Italy, and the verses of this volume are very like Southey in some things, but they cannot be his notwithstanding. Here and there they are as elegant as any of his, but they do not convey, in the upshot, any idea either of such a scholar, or of such a poet, as the Laureate. And, besides, Southey would never have made so many allusions to matters, which have been treated of by Lord Byron. He would have disdained but to mention the names of Dandolo, or the Foscari, or Falieri. Neither would he have paid such an absurd compliment to Ugo Fudgiolo, as occurs in the Notes. Neither would he have set his "little book" afloat upon the waters, without giving it the protection of his name. He is too proud to publish verses anonymously, and he is right to be so. This is certainly not Dr Southey.

Neither do we suspect it to be the work of any of the Cockney poets who have hitherto fallen under our notice, but we earnestly hope it may in the end turn out to be so nevertheless. If any of the Cockneys has written this, we consider him to have profited very much by our animadversions on the school he belongs to, and would hope

seriously of the state in which the eloquence of the pulpit is at this time all over the island? We know no department in which there is so much room for a man of learning, feeling, and eloquence, to distinguish himself; and, perhaps, it might be worth Mr Milman's while to consider very gravely whether, in spite of the early temptations and distinctions which have brought and kept him before the public as a writer of verses, the real strength of his talent might not, after all, find ampler scope and more congenial occupation elsewhere.

A POEM.*

he has utterly forsworn it. There are no rhymes here, for these would have betrayed a Cockney, even a half-converted Cockney, in a moment, and then we could have had no doubt about the matter. Cockneyism of thought there certainly is now and then a little bit but not enough either to excite our serious displeasure, or to make us quite sure that the stain may not be an unconscious one. Should it turn out that this is, after all, some old acquaintance, whom we have belaboured and mauled a dozen times, we can, in our future numbers, adopt one or other of two courses, either of which will equally serve our turn. We can, if we think fit, return to abusing him, making this little book an exception, and continuing to laud it; or we can get some clever correspondent to attack us lustily, for having bestowed on it any commendation, and drive us out of the field by an elaborate proof of its utter worthlessness.

In the meantime, let us praise "Italy, a poem," and let our readers buy it on our authority, for it costs but seven shillings.

The author writes a sort of sentimental journey in verse, each chapter or section containing the description of some particular scene, incident, character, personage, or story, which happened to interest him on his way over the Alps, and through the northern parts of Italy. Of these chapters or sections, many are extremely insipidsome full of affectation and conceitbut several are throughout lively, spirited, beautiful, and poetical, in no or

Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg, He slipp'd, he fell; and, through a fearful

day)

All in their best attire. There first he saw His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,

When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,

Seen behind all, and varying as he spoke, With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,

Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.

The tale was long, but coming to a close, When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stop

ping short,

He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up too; And twice there came a hiss that through