ne's way till we get into a passion, (with our
guide, I suppose) is peculiar to a poetic subject. It is impossible to
mistake this for prose. Then how pathetic the conclusion! What hard
heart can refuse its compassion to personages _abused_ by a _dream_, and
that dream the _dream of a History!_

Oh, wonderful poet, thou shalt be immortal, if my eulogiums can make
thee so! To thee thine own rhyme shall never be applied, (_Dii, avertite
omen_).

"Already, pierc'd by freedom's searching rays,
The waxen fabric of his fame decays!"

ARTICLE VII.

INKLE AND YARICO, A POEM, BY JAMES BEATTIE, L.L.D. 4TO.

This author cannot certainly be compared with Mr. Hayley.

We know not by what fatality Dr. Beattie has acquired the highest
reputation as a philosopher, while his poetry, though acknowledged to be
pleasing, is comparatively little thought on. It must always be with
regret and diffidence, that we dissent from the general verdict. We
should however be somewhat apprehensive of sacrificing the character we
have assumed, did we fail to confess that his philosophy has always
appeared to us at once superficial and confused, feeble and
presumptuous. We do not know any thing it has to recommend it, but the
good intention, and we wish we could add the candid spirit, with which
it is written.

Of his poetry however we think very differently. Though deficient in
nerve, it is at once sweet and flowing, simple and amiable. We are happy
to find the author returning to a line in which he appears so truly
respectable. The present performance is by no means capable to detract
from his character as a poet. This well known tale is related in a
manner highly pathetic and interesting. As we are not at all desirous of
palling the curiosity of the reader for the poem itself, we shall make
our extract at random. The following stanzas, as they are taken from a
part perfectly cool and introductory, are by no means the best in this
agreeable piece. They are prefaced by some general reflexions on the
mischiefs occasioned by the _sacra fames auri_. The reader will perceive
that Dr. Beattie, according to the precept of Horace, has rushed into
the midst of things, and not taken up the narrative in chronological
order.

"Where genial Phoebus darts his fiercest rays,
Parching with heat intense the torrid zone:
No fanning western breeze his rage allays;
No passing cloud, with kindly shade o'erthrown,
His place usurps; b