r Poet introduces the only surviving Bard of
that country in concert with the spirits of his murdered brethren, as
prophetically denouncing woes upon the Conqueror and his posterity. The
circumstances of grief and horror in which the Bard is represented,
those of terror in the preparation of the votive web, and the mystic
obscurity with which the prophecies are delivered, will give as much
pleasure to those who relish this species of composition, as anything
that has hitherto appeared in our language, the Odes of Dryden himself
not excepted.

[I, 2, I, 3, part of II, 1, and the conclusion of _The Bard_ are
quoted]--_The Monthly Review_.

[Footnote F: The best Odes of Pindar are said to be those which have
been destroyed by time; and even they were seldom recited among the
Greeks, without the adventitious ornaments of music and dancing. Our
Lyric Odes are seldom set off with these advantages, which, trifling as
they seem, have alone given immortality to the works of Quinault.]

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

_The Traveller, or a Prospect of Society. A Poem_. _Inscribed to the
Rev. Mr._ Henry Goldsmith. _By_ OLIVER GOLDSMITH, _M.B. 4to. Pr. 1s.
6d_. Newbery.

The author has, in an elegant dedication to his brother, a country
clergyman, given the design of his poem:--'Without espousing the cause
of any party, I have attempted to moderate the rage of all. I have
endeavoured to shew, that there may be equal happiness in other states,
though differently governed from our own; that each state has a peculiar
principle of happiness; and that this principle in each state,
particularly in our own, may be carried to a mischievous excess.'

That he may illustrate and enforce this important position, the author
places himself on a summit of the Alps, and, turning his eyes around, in
all directions, upon the different regions that lie before him,
compares, not merely their situation or policy, but those social and
domestic manners which, after a very few deductions, make the sum total
of human life.

'Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po;
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanded to the skies.
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravell'd fond turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each re