BERNARD BARTON was born in 1784, and was educated in one of the seminaries of the Society of Friends. He subsequently took up his residence at Woodbridge in Suffolk, where he held a situation in a banking-house. His first publication was an anonymous miscellany entitled Metrical Effusions," which was followed in 1818 by "Poems by an Amateur," and in the next year by a volume under his proper signature, which was favourably noticed in the literary gazettes, and was reprinted from the third London edition in Philadelphia. In 1826, he published "Napoleon

SPIRITUAL WORSHIP.

THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have been

[seen

On the day of its first dedication,
When the cherubim's wings widely waving were
On high on the ark's holy station;

When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd
To minister, standing before thee,

Retired from the cloud which the temple then fill'd,
And thy glory made Israel adore thee;
Though awfully grand was thy majesty then,
Yet the worship thy gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.

And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd,
But by Him unto whom it was given

To enter the oracle where is reveal'd

Not the cloud, but the Brightness of heaven?

Who having once enter'd, hath shown us the way,
O Lord! how to worship before thee;
Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,
But in spirit and truth to adore thee;

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known,
When she of Samaria found him

By the patriarch's well, sitting weary alone,
With the stillness of noontide around him.

How sublime, yet how simple, the homage he taught
To her who inquired by that fountain,
If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought,
Or adored on Samaria's mountain!

Woman, believe me, the hour is near,

When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, Will neither be worshipp'd exclusively here, Nor yet at the altar of Salem.

and other Poems and we believe he has since written several small works in prese and verse. From the Life and Correspondence of LAMB, by Sergeant TALFOURD, WE learn that BARTON belonged to the circle of intimate friends in whose society that gentlehearted humourist so much delighted. Many of LAMB's most familiar and characteristic letters were addressed to the Quaker poet.

BARTON'S style is diffuse, but simple and graceful. His poetry is generally descriptive and meditative, tender and devoted, and animated by cheerful views of life.

For God is a spirit, and they who aright
Would perform the pure worship He loveth,
In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight
That spirit the Father approveth.

TO THE SKYLARK.

BIRD of the free and fearless wing!
Up! up! and greet the sun's first ray,
Until the spacious welkin ring

With thy enlivening matin lay!
I love to track thy heavenward way
Till thou art lost to aching sight,
And hear thy song, as blithe and gay

As heaven above looks pure and bright.

Songster of sky and cloud! to thee

Has heaven a joyous lot assign'd; And thou, to hear those notes of glce, Would seem therein thy bliss to find: Thou art the first to leave behind,

At day's return, this lower earth; And soaring, as on wings of wind,

To spring whence light and life have birth

Bird of the sweet and taintless hour!
When dewdrops spangle o'er the lea,
Ere yet upon the bending flower
Has lit the busy humming bee;
Pure as all nature is to thee,

Thou with an instinct half divine,
Wingest thy fearless flight so free
Up toward a still more glorious shrine.

Bird of the morn! from thee might man,
Creation's lord, a lesson take:

If thou, whose instinct ill may scan
The glories that around thee Ireak,

Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake

To joy and praise-Oh! how much more Should mind, immortal, earth forsake,

And man look upward to adore! Bird of the happy, heavenward song! Could but the poet act thy part, This soul, upborne on wings as strong

As thought can give, from earth might start: And he, with far diviner art

Than genius ever can supply,

As thou the ear, might glad the heart,
And bring down music from the sky!

CHILDREN OF LIGHT.

WALK in the light! so shalt thou know That fellowship of love

His Spirit only can bestow,

Who reigns in light above.
Walk in the light!—and sin, abhorr'd,
Shall ne'er defile again;

The blood of Jesus Christ the Lord
Shall cleanse from every stain.

Walk in the light!--and thou shalt find
Thy heart made truly His,
Who dwells in cloudless light enshrined,
In whom no darkness is.

Walk in the light!-and thou shalt own

Thy darkness pass'd away,

Because that light hath on thee shone
In which is perfect day.
Walk in the light!-and e'en the tomb
No fearful shade shall wear;
Glory shall chase away its gloom,

For Christ hath conquer'd there!
Walk in the light!-and thou shalt be
A path, though thorny, bright;
For God, by grace, shall dwell in thee,
And God himself is light!

TO MARY.

It is not alone while we live in the light
Of friendship's kindling glance,
That its beams so true, and so tenderly bright,
Our purest joys can enhance :-

But that ray shines on through a night of tears,
And its light is round us in after years.
Nor is it while yet on the listening ear
The accents of friendship steal,
That we know the extent of the joy so dear,
Which its touching tones reveal :-
"Tis in after moments of sorrow and pain,
Their echo surpasses music's strain.

Though years have roll'd by, dear Mary! since we
Have look'd on each other's face,

Yet thy memory is fondly cherish'd by me,
For my heart is its dwelling-place;
And, if on this earth we should meet no more,
It must linger there still until life is o'er.

The traveller who journeys the live-long day
Through some enchanting vale,—

Should he, when the mists of evening are gray
Some neighbouring mountain scale,-
Oh! will he not stop, and look back to review
The delightful retreats he has wander'd through !
So I, who have toil'd up life's steep hill
Some steps, since we parted last,
Often pensively pause, and look eagerly still

On the few bright spots I have pass'd:-
:-
And some of the brightest. dear Mary! to me,
Were the lovely ones I enjoy'd with thee.
I know not how soon dark clouds may shade
The valley of years gone by;

Or how quickly its happiest haunts may fade
In the mists of an evening sky;-
But-till quench'd in the lustre of life's setting sun
I shall look back at times, as I now have done.

TO A PROFILE.

I KNEW thee not! then wherefore gaze
Upon thy silent shadow there,
Which so imperfectly portrays

The form thy features used to wear?
Yet have I often look'd at thee,
As if those lips could speak to me.

I knew thee not! and thou couldst know,
At best, but little more of one

Whose pilgrimage on earth below

Commenced, just ere thine own was done;
For few and fleeting days were thine,
To hope or fear for lot of mine.
Yet few and fleeting as they were,

Fancy and feeling picture this,
They prompted many a fervent prayer,
Witness'd, perchance, a parting kiss;
And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee,
At such a period, profit me?

Whether they did or not, I owe

At least this tribute to thy worth; Though little all I can bestow,

Yet fond affection gives it birth; And prompts me, as thy shade I view, To bless thee, whom I never knew!

FAREWELL.

NAY, shrink not from the word "farewell "
As if 't were friendship's final knell;

Such fears may prove but vain :
So changeful is life's fleeting day,
Whene'er we sever-hope may say,
"We part-to meet again!"
E'en the last parting heart can know,
Brings not unutterable wo,

To souls that heavenward soar;
For humble faith, with steadfast eye,
Points to a brighter world on high,
Where hearts that here at parting sigi
May meet-to part no more.

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT was born on the nineteenth of October, 1784, at Southgate in Middlesex. His father, a clergyman of the established church, was an American refugee, and his mother a sister of BENJAMIN WEST, President of the Royal Academy. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, where LAMB and COLERIDGE were his school-fellows; and was subsequently for some time in the office of an attorney; but he abandoned the study of the law to accept a place under government, which he held until the establishment of the Examiner, by himself and his brother, in 1809. The Examiner was violent in its politics, and was for many years conducted with great ability and success. HUNT was several times prosecuted by the government, and was imprisoned two years in the Surrey jail for a libel on the Prince Regent. He covered the walls of his cell with garlands, however, and wrote as industriously as ever. It was while a prisoner that ne composed The Feast of the Poets, The Descent of Liberty, and The Story of Rimini. It was in this period, also, that he became acquainted with Lord BYRON. He has been censured, and I think justly, for his conduct towards the noble poet, respecting whose faults gratitude might have made him silent, for BYRON had been a liberal friend when his friendship was serviceable to him.

In 1816 HUNT established The Reflector, a quarterly magazine; afterward, in conjunction with SHELLEY and BYRON, The Liberal, and, with HAZLITT, The Round Table. He also published in weekly numbers The Indicator and The Companion, two of the most delight ful series of essays in the English language. In the preface to the last edition of these papers he tells us that they were written during times of great trouble with him, and helped him to see much of that fair play between his own anxieties and his natural cheerfulness, of which an indestructible belief in the good and the beautiful has rendered him perhaps not undeserving." In 1840 he published a selection of his contributions to various periodicals under the title of The Seer, or Common-Places Refreshed, "to show that the more we look at any thing in this beautiful

and abundant world with a desire to be pleased with it, the more we shall be rewarded by the loving Spirit of the universe with discoveries which await only the desire." His other principal prose writings are Critical Essays on the Performers of the London Theatres, and Recollections of Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries.

The best of HUNT's poems is The Story of Rimini. In the edition of his Poetical Works published by Moxon in 1844, it is much altered: the morality is improved, and the catastrophe is conformed to history. Besides this and the other poems to which I have alluded, he has written Hero and Leander, The Palfrey, Captain Sword and Captain Pen, Blue Stocking Revels or the Feast of Violets, The Legend of Florence, Miscellaneous Poems, and a volume of Translations.

One of HUNT's most apparent characteristics is his cheerfulness. His temperament is obviously mercurial. His fondness for the gayer class of Italian writers indicates a sympathy with southern buoyancy not often encountered in English poetry. His versification is easy and playful; too much so, indeed, for imposing effect. He seems to have written generally under the inspiration of high animal spirits. His sentiment is lively and tender, rather than serious and impressive. The reviewers have censured him with rather too much severity for occasional affectations. With a few exceptions on this score his Story of Rimini is a charming poem. The Legend of Florence, written at a later period, is one of the most original and captivating of modern plays. Many of his Epistles glow with a genial humour and spirit of fellowship which betray fine social qualities. He lives obviously in his affections, and cultivates literature with refined taste rather than with lukewarm assiduity.

HUNT'S intimacy with SHELLEY and KEATS is well known to every one acquainted with the lives of those poets. He was to the last, as in earlier days, a general favorite in society, and had more and warmer personal friends than almost any other literary man in England.

FROM THE LEGEND OF FLORENCE.

AGOLANTI AND HIS LADY.

In all except a heart, and a black shade
Of superstition, he is man enough!

Has a bold blood, large brain, and liberal hand
As far as the purse goes; albeit he likes
The going to be blown abroad with trumpets.
Nay, I won't swear he does not love his wife
As well as a man of no sort of affection,
Nor any domestic tenderness, can do so.
He highly approves her virtues, talents, beauty:
Thinks her the sweetest woman in all Florence,
Partly, because she is,-partly, because
She is his own, and glorifies his choice;

And therefore he does her the honour of making her
The representative and epitome

Of all he values,-public reputation,
Private obedience, delighted fondness,
Grateful return for his unamiableness,
Love without bounds, in short, for his self-love:
And as she finds it difficult, poor soul,
To pay such reasonable demands at sight
With the whole treasure of her heart and smiles,
The gentleman takes pity on-himself!
Looks on himself as the most unresponded to
And unaccountably ill-used bad temper
In Tuscany; rages at every word

And look she gives another; and fills the house
With miseries, which, because they ease himself.
And his vile spleen, he thinks her bound to suffer;
And then finds malice in her very suffering!
... And yet, observe now :-

Such is poor human nature, at least such
Is poor human inhuman nature in this man,
That if she were to die, I verily think
Hed weep, and sit at the receipt of pity,
And call upon the gods, and think he loved her!

A DOMESTIC SCENE.

A chamber hung with purple, and containing a cabinet picture of the Madonna, but otherwise little furnished. Agolanti is here alone, until the entrance of Ginevra, while he is speaking, upon which he closes the door over the picture, hands her a chair, and adjusts another for himself, but continues to stand.

Ago. Every way she opposes me, even with arms Of peace and love. I bade remove that picture From this deserted room. Can she have had it Brought back this instant, knowing how my anger, Just though it be, cannot behold unmoved The face of suffering heaven? O, artifice In very piety! "Twere piety to veil it From our discourse, and look another way.

Gin. (Cheerfully.) The world seems glad after its hearty drink

Of rain. I fear'd, when you came back this morning, The shower had stopp'd you, or that you were ill. Ago. You fear'd! you hoped. What fear you

that I fear,

Or hope for that I hope for? A truce, madam,
To these exordiums and pretended interests,
Whose only shallow intent is to delay,
Or to divert, the sole dire subject,—me.

Uoh you would see the spectacle! you, who start

Ago. You are correct as to those three. How many Open'd? Your look, madam, is wondrous logical Conclusive by mere pathos of astonishment; And cramm'd with scorn from pure unscornfulness I have, 'tis true, strong doubts of your regard For him, or any one; of your love of power None, as you know I have reason; though you take Ways of refined provokingness to wreak it. Antonio knows these fools you saw but now, And fools have foolish friendships, and bad leagues For getting a little power, not natural to them. Out of their laugh'd-at betters. Be it as it may, All this, I will not have these prying idlers Put my domestic troubles to the blush; Nor you sit thus in ostentatious meekness Playing the victim with a pretty breath, And smiles that say "God help me!" Well, madam. What do you say?

Gin. I say I will do whatever You think best, and desire.

Ago. And make the worst of it By whatsoever may mislead, and vex? There-now you make a pretty sign, as though Your silence were compell'd.

Gin. What can I say,

Or what, alas! not say, and not be chided? You should not use me thus. I have not strengta for it

So great as you may think. My late sharp illness Has left me weak.

Ago. I've known you weaker, madam, But never feeble enough to want the strength Of contest and perverseness. Oh, men too! Men may be weak, even from the magnanimity Of strength itself; and women can take poor Advantages, that were in men but cowardice.

Gin. (Aside) Dear Heaven! what humblest doubts of our self-knowledge Should we not feel, when tyranny can talk thus! Ago. Can you pretend, madam, with your sur

passing

Candour and hea enly kindness, that you never

See there you have! you own it! how pretend To make such griefs of every petty syllable, Wrung from myself by everlasting scorn?

Gin. One pain is not a thousand; nor one wrong, Acknowledged and repented of, the habit Of unprovoked and unrepented years.

Ago. Of unprovoked! Oh, let all provocation Take every brutish shape it can devise To try endurance with; taunt it in failure, Grind it in want, stoop it with family shames, Make gross the name of mother, call it fool, Pander, slave, coward, or whatsoever opprobrium Makes the soul swoon within its range, for want Of some great answer, terrible as it's wrong, And it shall be as nothing to this miserable, Mean, meek-voiced, most malignant lie of lies, This angel-mimicking non-provocation From one too cold to enrage, and weak to tread on! You never loved me once-You loved me not— Never did-no-not when before the altar, With a mean coldness, a worldly-minded coldness And lie on your lips, you took me for your husband, Thinking to have a house, a purse, a liberty, By, but not for, the man you scorn'd to love! Gin. I scorn'd you not-and knew not what

scorn was

Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing
But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits.
Oh, could you trust yourself-But why repeat
What still is thus repeated day by day,
Still ending with the question, "Why repeat?"
[Rising and moving about.]

You make the blood at last mount to my brain,
And tax me past endurance. What have I done,
Good God! what have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny,
Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none?

Ago. I thank you madam, humbly,
That was sincere at least.

Gin. I beg your pardon.

Anger is ever excessive, and speaks wrong.

Ago. This is the gentle, patient, unprovoked And unprovoking, never-answering she!

Gin: Nay, nay, say on; I do deserve it-I Who speak such evil of anger, and then am angry, Yet you might pity me too, being like yourself In fellowship there at least.

Ago. A taunt in friendliness!

Meekness's happiest condescension!

Gin. No,

So help me heaven! I but spoke in consciousness
Of what was weak on both sides. There's a love
In tha, would you but know it, and encourage it.
The consciousness of wrong, in wills not evil,
Brings charity. Be you but charitable,
And I am grateful, and we both shall learn.

Ago. I am conscious of no wrong in this dispute,

Go to Matteo; ar I tell him, from herself,
That 'tis her orders she be excused at present
To all that come, her state requiring it,
And convalescence. Mark you that addition.
She's getting well; but to get well, needs rest. [Exit
Fior. Needs rest! alas! when will you let her rest
But in her grave? My lady! My sweet mistress!
[Applying a volatile to her temples.]
She knows me. He has gone: the Signor's gone.
(Aside.) She sighs, as though she mourn'd him
Gin. (listening.) What's that?

Fior. Nothing, madam; I heard nothing.
Gin. Every thing

[man

Gives me a painful wonder; you, your face,
These walls. My hand seems to me not more hu-
Than animal; and all things unaccountable.
"Twill pass away. What's that? [An organ is heard.ļ
Fior. Yes, I hear that.

"Tis Father Anselmo, madam, in the chapel,
Touching the new organ. In truth, I ask'd him,
Thinking that, as the Signor is so moved
By whatsoever speaks to him of religion,
It might have done no harm to you and him, madam,
To hear it while conversing. But he's old
And slow, is the good father.

[Ginevra kisses her, and then weeps abundantly.] Gin. Thank heaven! thank heaven and the sweet sounds! I have not

Wept, Fiordilisa, now for many a day,
And the sound freshens me; loosens my heart.
[Music is heard.]

O blessed music! at thy feet we lie,
Pitied of angels surely.

Fior. Perhaps, madam,

You will rest here, and try to sleep awhile?
Gin. No, Fiordilisa: (rising) meeting what mus
Is half commanding it; and in this breath
Of heaven my mind feels duty set erect
Fresh out of tears. Bed is for night, not day,
When duty's done.
So cheer we as we may.

FANCY.

FANCY'S the wealth of wealth, the toiler's hope The poor man's piecer-out; the art of nature, Painting her landscapes twice; the spirit of fact, As matter is the body; the pure gift Of Heaven to poet and to child; which he Who retains most in manhood, being a man In all things fitting else, is most a man; Because he wants ro human faculty, Nor loses one sweet taste of the sweet world.