"Spirit of love and sorrow-hail! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with evening's dying gale: Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear! "O! at this still, this lonely hour, "To paint the wild romantic dream, "O lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt The minster's moonlight aisles along, t; Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. "I hear their dirges faintly swell! "Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, "Lead to the mountain's dusky head, "Or guide me where the dashing oar "To pebbly banks that Neptune laves, With measured surges, loud and deep, Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, "There pause at midnight's spectred hour, It cannot, we think, be denied, that we have here beautiful ideas expressed in appropriate versification; yet here, as in her prose compositions, the poetess is too much busied with external objects, too anxious to describe the outward accompaniments of melancholy, to write upon the feeling itself; and although the comparison be made at the expense of a favourite author, we cannot help contrasting the poetry we have just inserted, with a song, by Fletcher, on a similar subject. PAS. (Sings.)" Hence, all you vain delights, Wherein you spend your folly! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, In these last verses the reader may observe, that the human feeling of the votary of melancholy, or rather the pale passion itself, is predominant; that our thoughts are of, and with, the pensive wanderer; and that the "fountain heads and pathless groves," like the landscape in a portrait, are only secondary parts of the picture. In Mrs Radcliffe's verses, it is different. The accessaries and accompaniments of melancholy are well described, but they call for so much of our attention, that the feeling itself scarce solicits due regard. We are placed among melancholy objects, but our sadness is reflected from the scene, it is not the growth of our own minds. Something like this may be observed in Mrs Radcliffe's romances, where our curiosity is too much interested about the evolution of the story, to permit our feelings to be acted upon by the distresses of the hero or heroine. We do not acknowledge them as personal objects of our interest, and, convinced that the authoress will extricate them from their embarrassments, we are more concerned about the course of the story, than the feelings or fate of those of whom it is told. But we must not take farewell of a favourite author with a depreciating sentiment. It may be true, that Mrs Radcliffe rather walks in fairy-land than in the region of realities, and that she has neither displayed the command of the human passions, nor the insight into the human heart, nor the observation of life and manners, which recommend other authors in the same line.1 But she has 1 ["In the writings of Mrs Radcliffe there is a considerable degree of uniformity and mannerism, which is perhaps 1 taken the lead in a line of composition, appealing to those powerful and general sources of interest, a latent sense of supernatural awe, and curiosity concerning whatever is hidden and mysterious; and if she has been ever nearly approached in this walk, which we should hesitate to affirm, it is at least certain, that she has never been excelled or even equalled. We have been given to understand, we trust from good authority, that a posthumous work of Mrs Radcliffe's is likely soon to make its appearance. Come when it will, and contain almost what it may, it must be an acquisition to the public of no common interest. 1 the case with all the productions of a strong and original genius. Her heroines too nearly resemble each other, or rather they possess hardly any shade of difference. They have all blue eyes and auburn hair-the form of each of them has the airy lightness of a nymph'-they are all fond of watching the setting sun, and catching the purple tints of evening, and the vivid glow or fading splendour of the western horizon. Unfortunately they are all likewise early risers. I say unfortunately, for in every exigency Mrs Radcliffe's heroines are provided with a pencil and paper, and the sun is never allowed to rise nor set in peace. Like Tilburina in the play, they are inconsolable to the minuet in Ariadne,' and in the most distressing circumstances find time to compose sonnets to sunrise, the bat, a sea-nymph, a lily, or a butterfly."-DUNLOP's History of Fiction, vol. iii., p. 387.] [As this sheet is passing through the press, the Editor observes the announcement of the "Poetical Works of Mrs Ann Radcliffe, now first collected, in two volumes, 8vo;" but whether the poetical Romance previously alluded to by Sir Walter Scott is to be included in this publication, does not appear.-May, 1834.] ALAIN RENE LE SAGE. WE must on the present, as on former occasions, commence our biographical sketch of a delightful author, with the vain regret, that we can say little of his private life which can possibly interest the public. The distinguished men of genius, whom, after death, our admiration is led almost to canonize, have the lot of the holy men, who, spending their lives in obscurity, poverty, and maceration, incur contempt, and perhaps persecution, to have shrines built for the protection of their slightest relics, when once they are no more. Like the life of so many of those who have contributed most largely to the harmless enjoyments of mankind, that of Le Sage was laborious, obscure, and supported with difficulty by the precarious reward of his literary exertions. ALAIN RENE LE SAGE was born in a village near to the town of Vannes, in Britanny, about the year 1668. The profession of his father is not mentioned; but as he bequeathed some property to his son, he could not be of the very lowest rank. Unfortunately he died early, and his son fell under the tutelage of an uncle, so careless of one of the most sacred duties of humanity, that he neglected alike the fortune and education of his ward. The latter defect was in a great measure supplied by the |