Πας το οικειος εργον αγαπαω, "Every one loves his own work," says the Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on his own judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light.

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this publication? He answers He answers-simply these: The facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society.

The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, when the author was in his sixteenth year.-The Miscellanies are some of them the pro ductions of a very early age.-Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at thirteen-the others are of a later date.The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines.

Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen, and, remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, by too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours may otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement.

H. K. WHITE.

NOTTINGHAM.

TO MY LYRE.

AN ODE.

I.

THOU simple Lyre! — Thy music wild
Has serv'd to charm the weary hour,
And many a lonely night has 'guil❜d,
When even pain has own'd and smil❜d,
Its fascinating power.

II.

Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd
Will little heed thy simple tones:
Them, mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross, and thou and I must shroud

Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime;

For me, no academic lore

Has taught the solemn strain to pour,

Or build the polish'd rhyme.

IV.

Yet thou to Sylvan themes canst soar ;

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train:

The rustic swains believe thy power

Can hush the wild winds when they roar,

And still the billowy main.

V.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep,
I, still unknown, may live with thee,
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep

Thy solemn string, where low I sleep,
Beneath the alder tree.

VI.

This little dirge will please me more
Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye

The trickling tear should steal.
VII.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,

Perhaps from me debarr'd:

And dear to me the classic zone,

Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne, Adorns the accepted bard.

VIII.

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell

Where Cam or Isis winds along, Perchance, inspir'd with ardour chaste, I yet might call the ear of taste

To listen to my song.

IX.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style

I'd change to happier lays,

Oh! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile,

And through the long, the fretted aisle

Should swell the note of praise.