GEORGE HENRY SMITH.

GARRICK, Henderson, and about half-a-dozen actors of celebrity, wrote (when the fit was on them) poetry, or what they intended the world should deem such; but these offsprings of their Muse are, for the most part, gone quietly to sleep in the lap of oblivion.

The individual before us, whose "Attempts in Verse" (as he calls them) have excited our attention, was a performer in that city of elegance and fashion, yclept Bath, and is a brother of Mrs. Bartley, our justly-celebrated tragic actress.His book, which wears the unassuming air of true talent, is replete with poetic beauties, and sentiments the most pure and elevating.

The subjects of the poems are very much at variance with each other, and display a more than ordinary versatility of talent. The volume, we perceive, was published by subscription; and truly happy should we feel, if this slight notice should increase its sale; as it is but seldom that the press presents us with a book of poesy so talented and so unassuming, and whose every page affords abundant proofs of correctness of taste and amiability of disposition.

VOL. III.

I

We have little doubt our readers will agree with us in thinking that the following lines deserve to exist as long as the verses of the sweet Poet whose decease called them forth.

When to cold earth the Great return,

Wakes the slav'd Harp its venal strain—

Nay, int'rest lureth meu to mourn,

With courtly woe, in polish'd plain,

The worthless heirs of others' fame,
The Titled refuse of the earth,
Whose only glory was their shame,

Their pride and blur an honour'd birth.

II.

Peals the loud Lyre its proudest praise,
When Conqu❜rors-conquer'd are by Death,

And prostitutes its choicest lays,

To honour crime, with angels' breath.
Still does the Bard his verse bequeath,
To grace the dust a crown hath worn,
And weaves too oft a laurell'd wreath,
By bloodshed 'filed, injustice torn.

III.

And shall unsung, unhonour'd, lie
The lowly, innocent, and meek?
Shall talent, worth, unnotic'd die,

And none to pay due homage seek?

Not one their praises love to speak,

Nor to their memory drop the tear? Unpractis'd though my voice, and weakMay not such theme its words endear?

IV.

Ah! ye, who love the simple verse,
Which tells of rural joys and pains,
To hear an artless mind rehearse

The peaceful lives of artless swains,
Who love the page where Nature reigns,
And holiest feelings point the tale-
View not with scorn these untaught strains,
But sweetest Bloomfield's death bewail!

V.

Yet humble measures well may suit
The Minstrel of the "Farmer's Boy;"
Unmeet the passion-breathing Lute
Or regal Psaltery to employ,
His name to laud-whose chiefest joy
Was still the shepherd's Doric reed,
And who, in notes which cannot cloy,
Trill'd the chaste music of the mead.

VI.

Sweet as the lark her carol pours,

When blithe she springs to greet the morn,

And pleasing as the hedge-row flow'rs,

Or the white blossoms of the thorn,

The rhymes his guileless tales adorn,

The modest thoughts those tales illume, These still are ours-but Fate has borne

Their gentle Author to the tomb.

VII.

Still waveth wood, and smileth dale,
Still streamlets lave the rushy soil,
And welcometh the morning gale,
The ploughman to his early toil;
Still careful housewives busy coil

The snowy flax, and ply the wheel

But He has left this worldly moil,

Who taught the world such scenes to feel!

VIII.

Though homely was his rustic style,

Nor blaz'd with gems from classic lore,

It stole unto the heart the while

And Virtue's fascination wore; Nor ever foul pollution bore

To taint the wholesome springs of youth, Nor, like the tempter Fiend of yore, Gave haggard Vice the mien of Truth.

IX.

Aye reverenc'd be the Poet then,

Who never sought the vain acclaim

Of luring o'er his fellow men,

With worse than murder's deadly aim;

To worship at the Bestial Fane,
Where scoffing Sceptics worship pay,

And glorying in their mortal stain,

Reject the Soul-to cling to Clay!

X.

Alas! that Genius lends its grace, `
By false ambition madly driven,
Its own bright splendour to efface,

And sinks to Earth-the powers of Heaven.

Not always is the chaplet given

To deck the swift, or crown the strong,

And lays which have to virtue risen,

Alone to dateless time belong.

XI.

Then, Bloomfield, shall thy verse remain,
When prouder Bards shall be forgot,

For Darkness must resign her reign,
The Light of Nature dieth not!

And happier far thy anxious lot,

Uncheer'd by Fortune's fav'ring sun, Than who for gold their manhood blot, Or follow fame to be undone.

XII.

Ye Rich, ye Noble, bow your head,

Writhe to the dust in conscious shame,

For Bloomfield sunk among the dead,

In sickness, poverty, and pain;