men were half as solicitous to discover truth as they are to maintain falsehood. And these remarks appertain quite as much to men of extensive talent, capacity, and genius, as to the young, shallow, and illiterate. The other evening, I supped with an old friend, who, although he had a large party of literati, whom he treated most liberally, is yet very exclusive. I will not draw his character, but give the reader a few of his canons of criticism. He maintains that blank verse is unfit for: poetry, and that if the Paradise Lost had been written by Pope, all the world would have admitted its superiority-such a subject, so treated, would have remained inimitable. Although he does not understand Greek, he is confident that Pope's translation of the Iliad surpasses the original. He maintains that English Poetry has been on the decline ever since the death of Pope. He despises the "Cockney School," and the "Lake School," and the "sentimental School," and in fact all the schools, because they are in opposition to Pope's school. That Lord Byron never wrote common sense till he, in defence of Pope, confuted Mr. Bowles. He hates the sonnet, because he cannot find such a thing in all the writings of Pope. I hope these specimens will give the reader a notion of my friend's poetical taste. There was of the party a young man, modest, but dignified, whose very fingers itched to attack, and to confute, this abettor of Pope. He set out with this observation; "in consequence of the uniformity of the versification of Pope, he has no hold of the feelings, he tires and disgusts the ear before he reaches the heart." He talked in an unintelligible and mysterious manner, of “in-door poetry," and "out door poetry," and said, there was more true poetry in a blade of green grass, than in the human countenance! that Wordsworth is the only great poet which the English nation has produced, and that all who think otherwise, know not what a poet is; he quoted the poem given by Hazlitt, in his lectures, "Hart-leap well," and the little piece "We are Seven," as being inimitably pathetic; he dwelt on that part of the latter, where the little girl goes to eat her supper over the grave of her brother, and he insisted, that it was the most simple possible. He was here interrupted by a gentleman, who firmly told him that he must be wrong in his judgment, for this very passage was held up to ridicule by Lord Byron himself, in Captain Medwin's late work, and had been copied into the various journals of the day; so that nothing was wanting to prove this same passage worthless. This led the company into a dissertation on taste; some maintaining, that there was. › a standard of taste, and others that there was no such thing:-the contest was warm and long. I admire a dispute, so I listened with the utmost attention to both sides, At length, two specimens of versification were produced, supported by my friend on his own side, and the young man on the other; the former was from Pope, the latter from Lord Byron. Two parties were immediately formed. After much ingenuity was displayed on both sides, it was suggested that the two specimens should be inserted in a periodical; a dispute then arose about "which periodical"-The specimens were soon voted (by a large majority,) to the Literary Magnet, it being known that I was exclusively attached to that work, I was requested to append them to my next article and here they are What are the falling rills, the pendant shades, Thus lived, thus died she; never more on her POPE. BYRON. May I remark, that no man of letters in the time of Pope would have endured this article from Byron, and that no lover of the modern poets could endure this extract from Pope. For my own part, I am exclusive by generality, and must confess, at the hazard of being excluded from all poetical schools, that I admire exceedingly both of these pieces. I very much esteem Pope, and I very much esteem Byron, and I very much esteem Wordsworth. A great deal has been said and written by some of the first men of the age, against the versification of Pope, against his poetry, and against himself. What idle exclusive babble: we first envy, then injure, then prove a man a fool, and then a-knave.-Pope is, undoubtedly, a poet, and a great poet-his versification is the best of its kind, and his subjects the most interesting to society, and his language is at least as pure as the language of any poet before or after him. These are but assertions, it is true, but they are assertions so easily proved, that I feel confident the readers of the Literary Magnet will excuse me in proof; if I thought otherwise I should be happy to gratify them. It will be seen from this that I have my likings; but although I prefer the Literary Magnet to all other periodicals, I do not quarrel with those who prefer others, not even with the readers of the Eclectic Review, and the Old Monthly Magazine; they are occasionally of use to me, for when I have been unusually excited by the pains or pleasures of life, or by a good book, or by a train of cogitations, so that I cannot sleep, the perusal of a few pages of these produces the best effects. I sleep soundly till morning! I am tolerant in all things, in religion, in politics, in literature, and science; I never hate a man who lives on the right bank of a river because I live on the left. A few degrees of latitude and longitude are nothing to me, I neither envy the giant of Patagonia, nor the dwarf of Lapland. I care as little for a few inches of altitude, as for a few shades of colour-nay, I have carried my system of exclusion so far as to conclude that, it is possible that women and negroes may have souls. I'LL LOVE THEE. WHAT, tho' misfortune be thy store, Tho' nought but sorrows mark thy path, Think not, the care which dims thine eye, The world's rude frowns will soon pass by, J. H. H. SONNET. THE SOLDIER. I SAW a man stretched on a bed of straw! In martial fields-His face, where once a glow Of health and friendship mix'd, was pale; each limb, And strong-now wasted, weak and slow! He was my friend! and kind, and brave, and free: Long had I known him--but no more shall I Enjoy with him bright scenes of earth and sky; I left him in a foreign land to die, Alone, in pain and sad obscurity. H. RAMSGATE PIER.(The Subject of the Plate.) Ir would be rather impertinent in us to say, what Ramsgate Pier is, after the admirable representation of it, which our artist has enabled us to present to our readers. We confess, with all the feelings of humility of one who has seen but little of the world, that we were never in Ramsgate, and are therefore unprepared to enter upon its local history, or to descant upon the manners and customs of its inhabitants. We remember looking at the place, through a telescope, a year or two ago, when we were on a voyage to Ostend; but the town was enveloped in such a dense fog, at the time, that we were unable to make any important discovery. Had it been our good fortune, to have taken our observation in clear whether, it is very probable we should have been more successful. All we recollect having seen, was a poor solitary seaman, walking up and down the beach, with a drawn sword in his hand we enquired of a lady, who stood by us, who this man could possibly be, and were politely informed by her, that it was one of the "Blockheads." : THE TORR.* Majestic pile! Thus, through the dreary flight of ages, thus And shadows deep,-too deep, for man's dim eye Upon thy awful form, to which compared, And bid it live for ever. Time destroys Wed almost to eternity, secure In their own strength, proud, baffling all the rage The ceaseless injuries of time, up rush The columns of the wilderness! * TORR's are enormous masses of granite piled one on another, on many of the hills on Dartmoor. Some of them may be seen at the distance of 20 miles. + This was written when Athens was in the power of the Turks. REVIEW. 1. The Literary Souvenir, or Cabinet of Poetry and Romance. London.-Hurst and Co. 2. Forget me Not. London.-Ackerman. 3. The Annual Remembrancer. London.-Relfe and Co. 4. Remember Me. London.-Poole. 5. Blossoms at Christmas. London.-Poole. EVERY body who has eyes to read-or, as some have the misfortune to be born blind, and we wish to be as inclusive as possible-every body who has ears to hear, will know that the volumes we have enumerated, are intended as Christmas presents. This, in other words, means that those, who, notwithstanding the frigidity of the season, have a certain peculiar warmth within them, have now an opportunity of bearing honorable testimony to the sincerity of their feelings, in those valuable Forget me Not's, and Remember Me's. We are glad to see the trumpery pocket books, which, until the last ycar or two, were so much in requisition at this season, superseded by these clever productions. There is something sensible, something which we can understand, in the latter. Many of the articles in them, from the pens of the ablest writers of the age; whilst the embellishments are executed in a very superior manner. are We think, the order in which they stand, at the head of this notice, is pretty near the order in which they stand in point of merit. Of the first of them, there can be no question: it forms an era in periodical literature. Such a constellation of names, as it boasts in the persons who have lent it the assistance of their talents, is not to be found in any other book in the country. Its Editor, Mr. Alaric Watts, has shewn considerable taste, and judgment, in the conception of the work, and in the manner in which it has been completed; and, we doubt not, that he will receive the full reward of his industry and talent. It is difficult, among the productions of so many eminent writers, to extract any particular article, without committing an act of injustice to the others we shall, however, transcribe a beautiful little poem which it contains, from the pen of Allan Cunningham. THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. O! my love's like the stedfast sun, Even while I muse, I see thee sit |