except in these occasional approximations to natural excentricity, Mr. Rose is rather dull with his dogs and his foxes, his elephants and bears. The he-lion, and the she-lion, and all the rest of the Animali Parlanti, (and some of them are of rarer species, both for the sake of rarer entertainment and of shewing off the natural philosophy of the author,) plot a great many plots, and tell a great many tales, but all to no purpose: the reader yawns; and the chorus of the beasts comes to a dead conclusion.

Art. 23. The two first Cantos of Richardetto, freely translated from the original burlesque Poem of Niccolo Fortiguerra, otherwise Carteromaco. 8vo. pp. 70. Murray. 1820.

We consider this as a very happy jeu d'esprit. Playful and poetical in its allusions, and general yet pointed in its satire, it combines the peculiarly wild and Italian rambling of the original, with a copious fund of native English humour.. We are quite refreshed with so much poetry and so much pleasantry united, in this æra of solemn or violent productions. Among other fortunate sketches, we have a scene which forcibly reminds us of the ludicrous interview between the Black Knight and Friar Tuck in "Ivanhoe;" and, perhaps, we cannot better consult the amusement of the reader than by extracting a portion of it.

The characters are Rinaldo and Ferrau; of whom the latter, having turned friar for the occasion, entertains the former with a grave narrative of inconceivable falsehoods, concerning his successful courtship of the far-famed Princess of Cathay:

"In short, I'd scarce a week been in Baldacca,

Before all things were settled for our marriage:
But Fortune, ever on the watch t' attack a
Too happy Lover, doom'd me a miscarriage,
Worse than I e'er sustain'd before Albracca,

When at its gates did that thrice-famous war rage.
The poor thing had so spoil'd her health by pining,
She found herself now rapidly declining :

"And, being pronounc'd by Galafron's physician,
In the last stage of a confirm'd consumption,
With many tears she told me her condition,

Own'd that she justly died for her presumption
In so despising every admonition,

And added (which I speak without assumption)
I, who, but now, would live no longer - I
Feel for your sake how hard it is to die.

"My dear, my sweet, my only lov'd Ferrau!'

(She sigh'd, and sighing in my arms reclin'd,) -
I press'd her to my throbbing heart, and saw
(O sight to strike a tender lover blind!)
When with the latest breath her frame could draw,
She quietly her harass'd soul resign'd.

I saw, Rinaldo, and I bore to see

Now canst thou wonder at this change in me."

• The

The storm that in Rinaldo painfully

Had struggled long, now burst upon the Friar.
"Old Mendez Pinto's but a type of thee,
Thou most profane, unconscionable
There's not a word in all thy history

liar!

But dooms thee justly to eternal fire;
And, in what last you've utter'd, your assurance
Surpasses far both man's and Heav'n's endurance,
"If on the best authority already

I did not know"- (and then he gave his author,
No other, namely, than that naked lady

Whom late he had preserv'd from bestial slaughter, And whom King Galafron, as I'm afraid I

Forgot to mention, call'd his youngest daughter →) "Medoro having died in his carousals,

And his fair Princess blest in new espousals,
"That she yet lives, in happiness and splendour,
And all the pride of undiminish'd beauty,
With one both fit and able to defend her,

And pay old Galafron a subject's duty —
If this I knew not, thou most vile pretender."

"Son, (quoth the Friar,) this calling names don't suit ye.

If she yet lives, I'm wrong and there's an end on't,

But I'm the man she married, son, depend on't."

At this he wax'd more angry than before,

And cried, "Thou scurvy Friar! thou ugly shaver!
Thou knotty pated ass! thou son of whore!
Dost thou pretend to gentle lady's favour?

Is thine a face for princess to adore?

Or dost thou plume thee on thy good behaviour?

Do bristled beard, lank jaws, and parchment cover,

Or boorish ways, denote thee for a lover?"

'While thus he storm'd, Ferrau from shelf took down
An instrument of pious flagellation,
Wherewith, at every word that made him frown,
He gave himself a hearty castigation;
Affording thus a lesson (I must own)

Well worthy of a Christian's imitation -
Thinking such discipline, so kindly cruel,
Far better than that heathen thing, a duel.
• But tho' a saint, Ferrau was still a man;

And, while his merciless opponent (master Unrivall❜d in the vulgar idiom,) ran

Thro' all its changes, he laid on the faster; Till, in his burning zeal, he soon began

To lose the use for which that holy plaster Was first design'd, neglecting, (most unwary!) His ghostly foe, for fleshly adversary;

ner:

And, holding with the fiend no further trial,
Shower'd on the Knight such gifts as (you may guess)
Soon terminated in a battle royal;

Which, were I of the Fancy, and could dress
In scientific language, 'twould supply all

The fourth page columns of the Sunday Press.
I'll only say for fear I else should mar it-
Rinaldo fibb'd the Friar, and spilt his claret.

• Ferrau, who was a most determin'd glutton,
And not composed of penetrable stuff,
Would sooner have been fell'd as dead as mutton,
Than once cry Craven, or say "Hold, enough!"
But, while he paus'd, his waistcoat to unbutton,
Rinaldo seiz'd his girdle, made of buff,

And therewith swang him round, as with a cable,
Still pummelling as hard as he was able;

So that an instrument of small utility

His scourge became, and I can't say how shocking
An end might have been put to their hostility:

When at the door was heard a mighty knocking,
That sounded like command-not mere civility;
Whereat, Ferrau exclaim'd in accents choaking,
"Dear son! I pray, keep silence in the cell-
Upon my life, it is the Constable."

We could extract many other passages, equally distinguished by felicity of Hudibrastic rhyme, and by easy absurdity of man- but the above will be sufficient, we imagine, to excite in every lover of "Broad Grins" a strong desire to peruse a little pamphlet in verse, which is dictated by the very airiest of the laughter-loving muses. The author seems well acquainted with his Italian prototypes; and he has given an intelligent account of the publication whence he principally derived his materials, in the preface, to which we must refer the reader.

We cannot conclude without observing a similar spirit of compliment, in this anonymous writer and in Mr. William Stewart Rose, directed towards their mutual publisher. Since the days of good old Jacob, and honest Bernard, this has not been usual with poets : but we hail the revival of a respectable antient custom, and trust that it will be followed whenever the bibliopolist deserves equally well of the bard. In these complimentary strains, we give the preference to Mr. Rose. The anonymous author sings thus:

"Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech;" As Pope to Mansfield, so to you sing I'

but Mr. Rose adopts a loftier style of address, and thus dismisses his Dear Beasts:'

Fear not the critic world, its whelps and worry,}
And your Polito know in Mister Murray.'

Art.

4s. 6d. Boards.

Art. 24. Chevy Chace, a Poem. Founded on the Ancient Ballad. With other Poems. Crown 8vo. Cadell and Davies. 1820. This is an elegant and pleasing little volume. In a well-written preface, the author informs us that it is from the antient ballad of Chevy Chase that the materials of the present poem are principally borrowed; and by the antient ballad is intended that which moved the heart of Sir Philip Sydney,' not that which occasioned the critique of Addison, who was mistaken in attributing Sir Philip's praise to the latter composition. The older song was republished in Percy's Reliques.

In some respects, however, the author of the work before us is original; and, indeed, throughout, he has so amplified and refined his materials as to deserve the praise of an inventor in the secondary sense. Still, the object of his imitation may be chiefly found in the style and spirit of Sir Walter Scott; and it must be no ordinary degree of merit which can reconcile us to such an imitation, after the eternal repetition of similar attempts; with which the press actually labours and groans, and so often, (like the mountain,) after all its throes, produces nothing but a

mouse!

From the Departure, from the Chase, from the Feast, from the Recounter*, or from the Repulse, we could select many passages of animated description, or clear narrative: but we reserve our space for the Battle; where, of course, the author has put forth his whole power, and where indeed we think he is generally successful.

Then fiercer rag'd the equal strife,
Man match'd to man and life to life;
Then strongly rose the battle's tide;
Full fast they clos'd on every side;
The deafening clamour rent the sky,
The dying shriek, the victor cry;
Screaming above the loud uproar,
Aloof the frighted falcons soar;
The stag-hound hears the din, and cow'rs
Trembling within the darkest bow'rs.
Push'd by the spear and disarray'd,
The archers draw their trusty blade,
Plunge desperate on the outstretch'd pike,
Grapple the foe and fiercely strike;
Or where the press forbids their blows,
Upon the nearest foeman close.
Together twin'd, the wrestlers gasp
Beneath the strong athletic grasp,
Till writhing on the blood-stain'd ground,
With shorten'd blade they fix the wound.
Wounds, perils, death, were held at nought;
No wavering doubt, no lurking thought

Rencounter, we presume, it should have been.

Of flight or fear in either band;
Firmly they fought with heart and hand.
Nor vulgar blood alone was spilt,
But joust was there and tourney-tilt;
With fiery shock together ran
Full many a gallant gentleman:
The brittle spears in shivers broke;
Stagger'd the steeds; beneath the stroke
The dizzy warriors backward bent.
There, on the turf, his buckler rent,
Down from his furious charger thrown,
Lay the brave Lord of Aggerstone;
And long shall Berwick's woods bewail
His fall! But warlike Delavale
A deep revenge and deadly, vow'd;
Spurring across the thickest crowd,
The Murray from his seat he threw
Him, by the spur entangled, drew
Thro' the wide woods his madd'ning horse,
And spurn'd at speed the breathless corse.
Nor strength nor blooming youth could save
Thee, Heron, from an early grave;
Tho' many a foe thine arm defied,
Beat down to earth Lord Maxwell's pride,
And Scottish Liddell captive led;
There, too, the valiant Hartley bled;
And still the bard delights to tell
How Ralph the Rokeby fought and fell;
Nor yet with passing years is gone
The fame of gallant Widdrington,
Who, tho' dismember'd, scorn'd to yield,
But bravely knelt and kept the field.

;

But who, thro' mingled sword and spear,
Drives his dark charger's mad career,
Cover'd with blood and foam and dust;
With downright stroke and sidelong thrust,
Whirling around his glittering brand?
Who but the stout Northumberland?
"Douglas! come forth! Does Douglas hide
His crest in war? Come forth!" he cried;
"My sword is cloy'd with meaner worth;
Douglas! the Percy calls
come forth!"
Resounding from his manly throat,
Far o'er the field the accents float,
Loud as the trumpet's brazen breath,

Where Douglas wrought the work of death.
The axe, that o'er his shoulder swung,
For the swift downfall ready hung,
Ere the doom'd victim felt its sway,
He check'd in air, and turn'd away;

Straight through the thickest press he bore;
As plunging from the lofty shore,

Some