miller; but has of late been so far favoured by fortune, as to become (to employ his own homely, but expressive language), the possessor of the very place, which, when a boy, he was unwillingly compelled to leave in tears.' In short, he is now a master miller, at Ferriby Sluice, Lincolnshire. The solicitations of his friends,' who had seen and approved many little poems from his pen, printed in a respectable provincial newspaper, (the Hull Advertiser, we believe), whose proprietor, Mr. Wilson, has interested himself very kindly in his behalf, induced him to undertake the present publication; and although he puts in his claim to indulgence on the score of his situation in life,' and of a ⚫ limited education,' he stands in far less need of it than very many writers of verse of infinitely more lofty pretensions.. There is something pleasing, and even touching in the following paragraph from his preface:

Should any objection be made to the title of the book, (several of the poems having been written during my state of servitude) I can assure the reader, if I may be thus allowed to express myself, that I have been a miller at heart all my life,—that my forefathers were millers for ages past,-and I was brought up at the post mill at Barrow, till the age of fourteen, where 1 acquired a knowledge of the business, which, perhaps, in more mature years, I might never have so effectually obtained; but having no father to protect me, and my grandmother, of course, leaning somewhat more to the inclinations of her own children than to those of her grandchild, I was obliged to leave the place, and went to live with the Rev. Edward Henry Hesleden, Vicar of Barrow.

Those who do not rejoice with us that the worthy Robert Franklin has at length obtained the object of his fervent aspirations, can scarcely have their hearts in the right place. Every man to his taste,' says the proverb. Some poets look for their reward in the smiles of their dulcineas; others in the admiration of the world; whilst not a few are silly enough to trust to posterity for the liquidation of their claims; but our honest miller has acted with greater prudence; he has limited his hopes to more reasonable bounds, and has, consequently, not been disappointed. How many are there who might have saved themselves a host of heart-corroding vexations, had they been equally moderate in their expectations. But it is time to leave the miller for his muse.

The poems of which Franklin's little volume is composed, are for the most part devoted to subjects either of a 'rural' character, or connected with the domestic affections; and it is only when he attempts to soar into a loftier and more ethereal atmosphere, that he ceases to be, to a certain extent, successful. His style appears to have been founded, in no small degree, upon that of Goldsmith, as will be seen by the following simple but beautiful verses, forming a portion of the leading poem in the book:

MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

Dear native village, hail! the seat of mirth;
Joy of my youth, and witness of my birth;
Though long a stranger to thy peaceful charms,
Though long a wanderer from thy sheltering arms,
Though far from thee my wasting years decline,
Once more receive me, for I'm truly thine ;-
Once more thy rural beauties let me see,
And with a lover's fondness gaze on thee.
For oh! how welcome every scene appears,

That charmed the childish mind in earliest years.
Yon straggling elms that skirt the rising hill,
The scattered hamlets, and the aged mill;

The church-the bells, by distance sweeter made,
The spreading hawthorn, and the vernal shade;
All, all, have charms, and each alike conveys
The calm delight that crowned my early days.
Here lie the grounds on which we used to play;
Here passed our sports of innocence away.
There stands the oak beside the little pool.
So often visited when leaving school,

Where jokes and frolics filled each heart with glee,
Whilst numbers cut and carved the aged tree.
Here, too, a cheerful group were yearly found,
When each with straw and sticks, in bundles round,
Fed the bright flame beneath November's sky,
And burnt the effigy of traitor GUY.

Where are my playmates now? ah! whither fled?
Some few are here-some distant, and some dead.
"Tis thus in life we find our friendships end,
And death divides the relative and friend.
Yes, those are gone! remembered when away,
Whom I had wished to meet some future day;
And fondly hoped to shake, ere life's decline,
The friendly hands of those who once shook mine.
But 'tis in vain; the heart can only mourn
Or sigh for hours that never may return.
Companions of my yonth, who still remain,
Who shared with me the joys of childhood's reign,
And eager chased, beneath the summer sky,
The murmuring bee,and harmless butterfly;
Who witnessed every game and pastime too,
I dedicate my humble lines to you;

And name those objects that could once impart
Mirth, joy, and wonder to my childish heart;
The rainbow in its varying colours drest,
When the dark thunder-storm had howled to rest;
The big white clouds, in fancy packs of snow;
The setting sun that sought the vale below;
The bush, the hedge, where, with inglorious care,
We robbed, ah! basely robbed the feathered pair;
The well-known pasture, and the meadow gay,
And many a gambol on the new made hay;
The neighboring fields, o'er which induced to roam,
We ran to hail the joyful Harvest Home;
Delighted joined the cheerful, shouting band,
When the last load moved slowly o'er the land;
Placed on its top, with green boughs circled round,
We hailed the village with redoubled sound;
When poor old Edward shook the orchards bough,
A prize for all the scrambling race below.
The thought of these, and many a faded scene,
Recals to mind the joys that once had been ;
All speak a language, and inform the mind
Of various pleasures, ever left behind.

The poetical reader will here trace some trifling imitations both of Rogers and Bloomfield; but not enough to detract from the praise due to the author. On such subjects persons of feeling and refinement must write in a great measure alike. There is only a certain number of chords in the human heart, and therefore is it that it is difficult to evince any marked originality in treating on subjects connected with the domestic affections. Of a different but not less pleasing character is the following little poem. We have, however, omitted one stanza, the blemishes of which would spoil the effect of the remaining three.

THE SWALLOW'S RETURN.

WELCOME, Welcome, feathered stranger!
Now the sun bids nature smile;
Safe arrived, and free from danger,
Welcome to our blooming isle :
Still twitter on my lowly roof,
And hail me at the dawn of day,
Each morn the recollected proof
Of time that ever fleets away!

Fond of sunshine, fond of shade,
Fond of skies serene and clear,
Even transient storms thy joys invade,
In fairest seasons of the year;
What makes thee seek a milder clime?
What bids thee shun the wintry gale?
How knowest thou thy departing time?
Hail! wonderous bird! hail, Swallow, hail!

Sure something more to thee is given,
Than myriads of the feathered race;
Some gift divine, some spark from heaven,
That guides thy flight from place to place!
Still freely come, still freely go,

And blessings crown thy vigorous wing;
May thy rude flight meet no rude foe,
Delightful Messenger of Spring!

The Visit from Bridlington to Flamboro' Head, is spirited and graphic, but too long for quotation. The Stanzas on the four seasons are also, on the whole, highly meritorious. For Waterloo, The Blessings of Peace, Napoleon, and The Convict, we can say but little. The Murderer too is somewhat bombastic; but we must not forget to notice with due approbation The Poacher, (which is really a poem that even Crabbe himself might have written), and The Sabbath Morn.' We would fain present our readers with another specimen or two of the 'Miller's Muse,' but that our limits will not admit of our doing so, consistently with our plan of presenting our readers with as great a variety of subjects as possible. We cannot, however, take leave of Robert Franklin, without expressing a hope that his little book may bring grist' to his pocket, if not to his mill; that his sails' may never want a favouring breeze to fill them; that those pursuits from which he expects to derive advantage, may never (as a mill-swift has been sometimes known to occasion the destruction of the miller) operate to his prejudice; but that he may go on grinding poetry and corn, until he has gained as much pelf and 'fame' as are necessary to form the summum bonum' of his very humble expectations.

6

THE OMEN.*

WE scarcely know in what terms to characterise this extraordinary little volume; for, whilst it displays considerable talent, both as to the arrangement of its story, and the manner in which that story is developed, the principal incidents are of a very repulsive description, and such as a writer of good taste and good feeling, ought on no account to have selected. There are crimes of the mere existence of which it is painful to be reminded; and those on which the narrative before us principally hinges, are precisely of this description. We agree with the learned and eloquent Sir Thomas Browne, that there are some sins on which it is sinful to dilate. We desire no records of such enormities. The pens of men may sufficiently expatiate without these singularities of villainy; for, as they increase the hatred of vice in some, so do they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And this is one thing that may make latter ages worse than were the former; for the vicious examples of ages past, poisons the curiosity of these present, affording a hint of sin unto seduceable spirits, and soliciting those into the imitation of them, whose heads were never so perversely principled as to invent them. In things of this nature, silence commendeth history.' Our readers will understand the applicability of these sentiments to the Omen, as soon as we shall have made them acquainted with the leading features of its story. In the first chapter of the work the narrator presents us with the following account of his reminiscences of childhood:

Even my childhood was joyless, and a mystery overshadows all my earliest recollections. Sometimes, on the revisitations of the past, strange and obscure apparitional resemblances leave me in doubt whether they are, indeed, the memory of things which have been, or but of the stuff that dreams are made of "The vision of a splendid mansion and many servants, makes me feel that I am, as it were, still but a child, playing with an orange on the carpet of a gorgeous A wild cry and a dreadful sound frighten me again; and as I am snatched up and borne away, I see a gentleman lying bleeding on the steps of a spacious staircase, and a beautiful lady distractedly wringing her hands.

room.

• While yet struggling in the strangling grasps of that fearful night-mare, a change comes upon the spirit of my dream, and a rapid procession of houses and trees, and many a green and goodly object passes the window of a carriage in which I am seated, beside an unknown female, who sheds tears, and often caresses me.

We arrive at the curious portal of a turretted manorial edifice; I feel myself lifted from beside my companion, and fondly pressed to the bosom of a venerable matron, who is weeping in the dusky twilight of an ancient chamber, adorned with the portraits of warriors. A breach in my remembrance ensues; and then the same sad lady is seen reclining on a bed, feeble, pale, and wasted, while sorrowful damsels are whispering and walking softly around.

She laid her withered hand upon my head, as I stood at her pillow: It felt like fire, and, shrinking from the touch, I pushed it away, but with awe and reverence; for she was blessing me in silence, with such kind and gentle eyes! My tears still flow afresh, whenever I think of those mild and mournful eyes, and of that withered and burning hand.

'I never beheld that sad lady again; but some time after, the female who brought me in the carriage led me by the hand into the room where I had seen her dying. It was then all changed; and on the bed lay the covered form of a mysterious thing, the sight of which filled my infantine spirit with solemnity and dread. The poor girl, as she looked on it, began to weep bitterly; I, too, wept, but I knew not wherefore; and I clung to her, overwhelmed with the phantasma of an unknown

fear.

'Things horrible and strange,

Sink on the wax of a soft infant's memory.'

The Omen, Blackwood, Duodecimo, pp. 160.

These dim recollections continue to occupy the youth's mind for many years, when he at length discovers that his mother was an adultress; that his father had been murdered by her paramour; and that that paramour was a Mr. Oakdale, (a name of insufficient tragical dignity for the occasion) who had resided in a mysterious kind of way in the neighbourhood, near the scene of the narrator's early years of boyhood. The manner in which he becomes acquainted with all these things is sufficiently unaccountable. He goes to see Hamlet performed at Drury-lane Theatre; notices the emotion of Mr. Oakdale in a neighbouring box, and on this very slender foundation makes up his mind, that his mother is an adulteress; that his father has been murdered; and that his 'sallow sublime sort of Werter-faced' friend Mr. O. was the assassin. We should have premised that this presentiment-monger was sent to Oxford, with a very handsome provision, but without knowing from whom he derived it, and that it was on one of his visits to the metropolis, that he discovered the key to his otherwise indistinct recollections. The mechanism of this part of the tale strikes us as being egregiously absurd. To get rid of his unpleasant remembrances, our hero goes abroad, and meets at Hamburgh with a General and Mrs. Purcel, and their daughter. With the younger lady he, of course, falls deeply in love; and her personal attractions are accordingly detailed with a degree of warmth, which the denouement renders extremely disgusting. As the young lover is heir to a very handsome property, the General has no objection to his being received as a lover by his daughter. The mother, disapproves strongly of the connection. As, however, the otherwise favoured suitor supposes that her opposition arises from her being in love with him herself, he resolves, with the consent of the General, to marry his mistress privately. It so happens that his uncle dies a few days before the day fixed for his marriage. He accordingly decides upon killing two birds with one stone, namely, burying the old gentleman, and marrying the young lady at the same time. The denouement we shall quote in the author's own words.

"The funeral procession moved towards the abbey as the clock was striking seven :-the service was read, and the burial completed. The friends of my uncle, who had come to pay the last tribute of their regard, had retired, and General Purcel and myself also left the church; but instead of going back to the coach which had brought us, we walked into the cloisters.

Sydenham was not at the funeral. Maria, with a young friend and her maid, were under his charge in a house in Abingdon-street; and as soon as the hearse and the remains of the pageantry had left the abbey, they entered the church by Poet's Corner.

• Except the clergyman, and the servants of the cathedral, there were no spectators. By some inexplicable influence, however, my valet, of his own accord, remained at the door to prevent interruption, and the ceremony proceeded; but, just at the moment when I was in the act of putting on the ring, he came rushing towards us with such an expression of consternation in his countenance, that I was startled and alarmed before he had power to tell his fear. In the same moment Maria screamed, for her mother entered the church, pale, dishevelled, and frantic, crying, I forbid the bans-brother and sister-brother and sister!' I heard no more: the vast edifice reeled, as it were, around me, and the pillars and monuments seemed as if they were tumbling upon my head; and then there is a hiatus in my remembrance, a chasm in my life.

"When I had recovered from the shock, under which I had fallen senseless on the pavement, I found myself at home in my own chamber, and Sydenham standing mournfully at my bed-side. I asked no questions, but pressed his hand. The carriage,' said he, is at the door, and I will go with you.'

'I made no answer, but rose, for I had not been undressed, and followed him to the carriage.