Sheds not a ray in all his annual courfe; Shut out for ever from the longing eye From this wretched manfion fhe was relieved by an old friend of Elmer, who removed her to his houfe; where the was happy, till his fon attempted her virtue; for poor Ophelia was ever pursued by Misfortune in the fhape of Love; and though the rafcal luckily failed in his grand robbery, he always got fome inferior booty: fhe ran away from this houfe, leaving her purfe and money in a private drawer.' The mode of her departure muft, however, be quoted : So when the time of reft was come, and night But where now Shall houfelefs Virtue find a waking friend? Where Where fhall her fleepy eye be clos'd in peace? She paus'd, the gather'd courage, and at length The purse, as we have already said, was gone! Ophelia had no alternative, but to spend the night in the meadow. The description, that fucceeds, of the opening of a fummer morning, near a country town, is good: At length a breeze Blew from the east, and rent the fable clouds And her own brilliant day-ftar grac'd. The clouds, (But to Ophelia's eye not yet reveal'd) And feathers fmoother than the cygnet's down; Here dun and wavy as the turtle's breast. The fainting ftars withdraw, the moon grows pale, The mountains are on fire. The foreft burns Shot round. The fun appears. The jovial hills The The fhepherd whiftles, and the cow-boy fings. The railing fish-dame follows with her panniers. Then to the town once more Ophelia turn'd, And briskly stepping thro' the bufy street, Went on to Elmer's. Thrice fhe halted, thrice Her heart mifgave her, thrice fhe firmly vow'd Not to retreat. To Elmer's gate fhe comes, Throbbing with hurry, and her trembling hand Scarce dares to lift the latch. She hears a noise, And like the tim'rous hare with ear erect Stands lift'ning, and furveys the country round. 'Twas nothing but the woodman at his work, So on fhe went, at ev'ry perching bird Surpris'd, and ftartled at the falling leaf. In a bye-way the walks, that thro' a wood Leads to the house, and now beholds a feat In former days belov'd and aften fought, On ev'ry fide from the cold wind fecur'd, But open to the fouth. To it the fpeeds, But ere fhe enters, liftens and looks round. Nothing was heard. So fainting with fatigue, Here the refolves to reft. Once more fhe ftops, And looking round, fteps in and takes her feat.' Here Elmer enters; and with a defcription of his forgiveness, and of her penitence and recovered happiness, the poem closes. The fecond and fourth poems, called The Hue and Cry, and The Orphan Twins, are avowedly trifles; the former a happy one; the latter not fo. PANTHEA, the third, is long and tedious. For fome reafon, it should seem that this Greek tale will not receive English decorations. In the prefent attempt, difcrimination of character, expreffion of paffion, and loftinefs of defcription,' are fought the fearch is not crowned with remarkable success. Of the poet's defects in this, as in other places, the effence or character character is littleness or meannefs: grandeur or fublimity does not, however, characterize his excellence: he is often pretty, frequently beautiful, but feldom fublime: his defcription delights, but never aftonishes: he animates his reader to joy, but does not exalt him into rapture: he foothes him to forrow, but does not deprefs him into despair: his muse exerts herself rather to analyfe, than to combine: fhe fhews the moft brilliant fragments, but fails to produce a finished whole. Norwich, ART. X. Genuine Poetical Compofitions, on various Subjects. By Great Britain, do not difdain to affociate with the lowborn and obfcure, but have been frequently observed to seek them out, and to honour them with a diftinguished preference; in fo much, that poverty and poetry, from the days of blind Mæonides to the prefent, have been confidered as very nearly allied. Reviewers, therefore, are not furprized at beholding genius in a ruffet garb, nor at poetical compofitions written under the preffure of indigence:-yet fuch publications we deem entitled to indulgence, and our readers might have fome plea for calling the goodness of our hearts in queftion, were we to view them through the medium of ftern and remorseless criticism. The poetry of a female pen, compofed in youth, and in poverty, would difpofe us to still farther mildnefs; and with our minds thus foftened by the fhort hiftory of Elizabeth Bentley, prefixed to her poems, we entered on their perusal. It is but juftice, however, to add, that we found not much occafion for the exercise of critical forbearance. In a letter addreffed to the Rev. Mr. Walker, in Norwich, our female poet gives the following account of herself : I was born at Norwich, in the parish of All Saints, in November, 1767, and was the only child of my parents. My father's name was Daniel Bentley, by trade a journeyman cordwainer; who, having received a good education himself, took upon him to teach me reading and fpelling, but never gave me the leaft idea of grammar. Being naturally fond of reading, I used to employ my leisure hours with fuch books as were in the houfe; which were chiefly a fpellingbook, fable-book, dictionary, and books of arithmetic ; and with fuch little pamphlets as I could borrow of my neighbours. When I was about ten years of age, my father was afflicted with a paralytic stroke, which took from him the use of one fide, and disabled him from working at his bufinefs; but ftill retaining the use of his right hand, and his disorder not affecting his mental faculties, he taught me the art of writing, from copies in the fpelling-book. My fa ther ther was now obliged to go about felling garden-stuff for a living, till (a few months before his death) he obtained the place of bookkeeper to the London Coach, which then fet out from the King's His lameness continued till his deHead, in the Market-Place. ceafe, which happened by a fecond stroke of the fame diforder, on the 25th of January 1783, in the 48th year of his age; I being then about fifteen years old. My father died in the parish of St. Stephen, in which place my mother and I have continued ever fince. About two years after my father's death, I difcovered in myself an inclination for writing verfes, which I had no thought nor defire of being feen; but my mother fhewing my firft productions to fome acquaintances, they encouraged me to proceed. Soon after I purchafed a small grammar-book, fecond-hand, from which I attained the art of expreffing myfelf correctly in my native language. My mother's maiden name was Lawrence; her father, when living, kept a cooper's fhop in St. Stephen's parish.' From this fhort narrative, it appears that this poetess of Nature enjoyed few advantages of education, and had few incentives to ftudy: but she must certainly have read more than she enumerates, for the mentions no books of poetry, and some of these she doubtlefs had feen. Her poems are, nevertheless, generally elegant and harmonious. As a fpecimen, we shall extract the following Ode To HOPE. O thou! advance, whofe heav'nly light And anguish change to eafe. 'Tis thou, fweet Hope, of race divine, Thou breath'ft thy influence o'er each line, Thou bid'ft his anxious bofom glow, 'Tis thou, fweet Hope, whofe magic pow'r Thou mak'ft the captive's heart rejoice In thought he hears fair Freedom's voice, But |