SONNET.

ON ECHO AND SILENCE.

In eddying course when leaves began to fly;
And Autumn in her lap the treasure strew,
As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse
Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high,
Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy;

to woo,

And, lo, she's gone! in robe of dark-green hue
Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew :

For quick the hunter's horn resounded thro' the sky.
In shade affrighted Silence melts away:

Not so her sister: - hark! for onward still

With far-heard step she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill!
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play

With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill!

In these the reader will observe a manly, because open and professed imitation of Milton, whom our author often imitates. After the Sonnets are five Odes ; of which the first, and third, being addressed to Ladies, (the Ladies indeed seem to employ a great part of M. B's thoughts,) are lively, elegant, and tender. The second on beginning the study of the Law, may be fairly ranked with Blackstone's never to be forgotten, Farewell to his Muse, for flow of versification and propriety of sentiment. The introduction of the Shade of Spenser is peculiarly happy.

« Inspired Spenser then perchance &c. &c. » The fourth Ode, to Spring, in imitation of the l'Allegro, is by no means unworthy its original. The imagery is selected with great taste, and is, in some places, new. The whole is too long to be inserted here; and parts appear to the best advantage when read together. The fifth Ode, on the loss, I suppose, of a favourite mistress, (for it is without a title,) deserves particular observation on account of the novelty and beauty of the stanza, of which the close is so well adapted to the air of melancholy, that breathes throughout the poem:

« Since Time at length &c. &c. » The following stanzas I have not room to transcribe, but they are such as all lovers of poetry and nature will read with delight. The next things are some imitations of Ossian's Bards, which are, I believe, all they could possibly be; however I may think all transpositions and paraphrases of this kind a sin against taste. An original writer, and Ossian is one who will be read by the latest posterity, let him have written seventeen years ago or seventeen hundred, generally puts the best word in the best place. It is seldom an imitator can be so successful; for there are hardly ever two good words, and never more than one best placǝ.

The three translations of Horace, Book the first, Ode fourth and thirty second; and Book the second, Ode ele venth, are executed with sprightliness and fidelity, anthe endeavour to represent the Sapphic stanza is to my ea at least successful.

There follow five more poems, of which no genera character can be given. The anapæstics to Miss L.L. on the author's departure, are, for elegance of versification and tenderness of sentiment, inferior to nothing of their kind. On a subject of love, nothing very original can be expected, yet the following passage may boldly challenge us to produce its resemblance.

Ah, Lucy! I've thought &c.

་

And now having written myself into a good humour, I do not care if I join with the younger counsel in the cause; (allowing however all its weight to the grave old saw of poeta nascitur, and recommending as in duty bound to the culprit to put some money in his purse) in saying that from the promising genius exhibited in this publication, if proper care be taken to strengthen and cultivate it, the world has a right to expect something, that it shall not soon be willing to forget! what can contribute towards it, must be found in Homer and the Greek tragedians, which M. B. must study with as much attention as he appears to have studied the English poets. The more he does so the more he will be satisfied that it is a Reviewer's duty to teach every author, not only as Boileau did Racine, to be choice in his rhymes; but to choose long and resolve late before he rhymes at "

FINIS.