'That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; See, though by circling deeps together held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd; Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Represt ambition struggles round her shore, Whilst, over-wrought, the general system feels Its motions stopt, or phrenzy fires the wheels. Nor this the worst. As social bonds decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; Till time may come, when, stript of all her charms, That land of scholars, and that nurse of arms; Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, And monarchs toil, and poets pant for fame; One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings unhonor'd die.' Such is the poem, on which we now congratulate the public, as on a production to which, since the death of Pope, it will not be easy to find any thing equal.--_The Critical Review_. WILLIAM COWPER _Poems by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple, Esq._ _8vo. 5s._ Johnson. These Poems are written, as we learn from the title-page, by Mr. Cowper of the Inner Temple, who seems to be a man of a sober and religious turn of mind, with a benevolent heart, and a serious wish to inculcate the precepts of morality; he is not, however, possessed of any superior abilities, or powers of genius, requisite to so arduous an undertaking; his verses are, in general, weak and languid, and have neither novelty, spirit, or animation, to recommend them; that mediocrity so severely condemned by Horace, Non Dii non homines, &c. pervades the whole; and, whilst the author avoids every thing that is ridiculous or contemptible, he, at the same time, never rises to any thing that we can commend or admire. He says what is incontrovertible, and what has already been said over and over, with much gravity, but says nothing new, sprightly, or entertaining; travelling on in a plain, level, flat road, with great composure, almost through the whole long, and rather tedious volume, which is little better than a dull sermon, in very indifferent verse, on Truth, the Progress of Error, Charity, and some other grave subjects. If this author had followed the advice given by Caraccioli,[G] and which he has chosen for one of the mottos prefixed to these Poems, he would have clothed his indisputable truths in some becoming _disguise_, and rendered his work much more agreeable. In its present state, we cannot compliment him on its shape or beauty; for, as this bard himself _sweetly_ sings, 'The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear, Falls soporific on the listless ear.' In his learned dissertation on _Hope_, we meet with the following lines