[Greek: Pas to oicheios ergon agapao], "Every one loves his own work," says Stagyrite; but it was no overweening affection of this kind which induced this publication. Had the author relied on his own judgment only, these Poems would not, in all probability, ever have seen the light. Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives for this publication? He answers--simply these: The facilitation, through its means, of those studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been the principal objects of his ambition; and the increase of the capacity to pursue those inclinations which may one day place him in an honourable station in the scale of society. The principal Poem in this little collection (Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompanied with such reflections as the scene naturally suggested. It was written twelve months ago, when the Author was in his sixteenth year:--The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a very early age.--Of the Odes, that "To an early Primrose" was written at thirteen--the others are of a later date.--The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than that they consist only of fourteen lines. Such are the Poems towards which I entreat the lenity of the Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn; he may likewise possibly discover something to commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen; and, remembering that, may he forbear from crushing, by too much rigour, the painted butterfly whose transient colours may otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement. H. K. WHITE. Nottingham. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. CLIFTON GROVE. A SKETCH. Lo! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke, Which with the dawn from yonder dingle broke; No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head, The crows assembling seek their wind-rock'd bed; Still'd is the village hum--the woodland sounds Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, And general silence reigns, save when below The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow; And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate; Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.