was not inconsiderable. A still more unlooked for honour has since fallen upon our Friend Bernard. We have seen his name announced as one of a very select, though motley list of associates of a certain newly established Royal Society of Literature, in which the Quaker Poet is, if we mistake not, the only sectary thought worthy of such high association. Testimonies of respect and approbation, come from whom they may, when spontaneous, unequivocal, and disinterested, no wise man and no good man will despise; and though an infant Society like the one in question, notwithstanding its royal sanction, must for the present seek to gain honour, rather than affect to bestow it, yet, their selection of Bernard Barton as an associate, does credit to both parties: it is a homage paid to character as much as to talent, which indicates a right feeling in those who awarded it.

...What testimonies of approbation he has met with from his own body, we know not. A prophet is not without honour, it is said, save in his own country; and sometimes, a man of letters is not without honour save among his own religious connexions. Especially, should he be more intent to serve, than to please, those with whom his principles identify him, and in so doing, should he innocently offend against any received canons of phraseology, or established habits of thinking, he must expect to be coldly praised for his best endeavours, and to be forgiven, rather than commended by his own. party, for striking out into a new line of thought or of expression. We can imagine, in the present instance, that many Friends may resent having the phenomenon of a Quaker poet, or a poetical representative of Quakerism, held up so obtrusively, although it is quite obvious, that the innocent object of such invidious distinction is in no wise to blame, and ought not to suffer, for the manner in which his critics and admirers may express themselves. We have heard it drily remarked, that Friend Barton was not the first or the only writer of poetry in the Society. It is a fact, however, that he is the only one who has ventured to put out Quaker colours, and has succeeded in making them respected for the sake of his poetry. For this we honour him, and for this he deserves to be honoured, especially by his own connexions, that neither the flattering encomiums he has won from "high places," nor the neglect he may have had to complain of in other quarters, has made him change his habit or his phrase. We once saw him, as plain and primitive in his garb, and as meek in his air, as if he had never been conversant with any other books than the Ledger and the Cash-book. And in the present volume, he will be found to have undergone no metamorphosis. There is more

explicit orthodoxy than many of his own sect will approve, more piety than most of his critics will relish, more Quakerism than a mere poet would have ventured on, and better poetry than has often been found in combination with all three.

We have so fully expressed our opinion of Mr. Barton's talents on former occasions, that it will only be necessary for us in the present instance to state, that, in our judgement, this volume will amply sustain the test of comparison with his previous productions. Of one poem, indeed, which, now appears not for the first time, but which has hitherto been confined to almost private circulation, entitled "A Day in Autumn," we have already expressed a very favourable estimate, which we feel no disposition to retract. Next to the Ode to the Sun, which is certainly the most resplendent of Mr. Barton's productions, we are inclined to rank the poem above alluded to. Nothing is more likely than that the present volume will be judged inferior to its predecessors, and nothing was less improbable than it should really be inferior; for the attempt to elaborate rarely succeeds in making compensation for the degree of sameness which will be detected or fancied in an author's second or third volume. But we have no hesitation in pronouncing it equal in merit, and superior in interest, to" Napoleon and other poems." Mr. Barton has decided wisely in returning to the modest duodecimo form, and in trusting to minor poems' altogether for the attraction of his present volume. He has evidently put forth his strength to do his best, under the impression,-we trust, a fallacious one,→ that these strains may be his last; nor do we perceive any declension of either vigour or simplicity as the consequence of greater care and a more cultivated taste brought to the composition. Mr. Barton apologises for the quaintness of his title: we think it a happy one, and sufficiently warranted by the circumstances under which most of the poems have been written. But the motto is a gem set in the title-page.

Dear night! this world's defeat;

The stop to busie fools; care's check and curb;
The day of Spirits; my soul's calm retreat,

Which none disturb !'

Henry Vaughan.

We cannot do better than take as our first extract, the Ode to Night's prime minister, the Owl.

Bird of the solemn midnight hour!
Thy Poet's emblem be;

If arms might be the Muses' dower,

His crest were found in thee:

ཀ སདྡཱ བྱཱ ཀ །

Thou spend'st the hours of garish light
In silence and alone:

'Twere well if nuns and hermits spent
Their days in dreams as innocent,
As thine, my bird, have flown.

Are not the hours to thee most dear,
Those which my bosom thrill?
Evening-whose charms my spirits cheer,
And Night, more glorious still.
I love to see thee slowly glide
Along the dark wood's leafy side,
On undulating wing,

So noiseless in thy dream-like flight,
Thou seem'st more like a phantom sprite,
Than like a living thing.

I love to hear thy hooting cry,
At midnight's solemn hour,
On gusty breezes sweeping by,

And feel its utmost power:
From Nature's depths it seems to come,
When other oracles are dumb;

And eloquent its sound,
Asserting Night's majestic sway,
And bearing Fancy far away
To solitudes profound;-

To wild, secluded haunts of thine,
Which hoary eld reveres ;
To ivied turret, mould'ring shrine,
Gray with the lapse of years;

To hollow trees by lightning scath'd;
To cavern'd rocks, whose roots are bath'd'
By some sequester'd stream;

To tangled wood, and briery brake,
Where only Echo seems awake

To answer to thy scream.

While habits, hours, and haunts so lone
And lofty, blend with thee,

Well may'st thou, bird of night! be prone
To touch thought's nobler key;
To waken feelings undefin'd,
And bring home to the Poet's mind,
Who frames his Vigil-Lay,
Visions of higher musings born,
And fancies brighter than adorn
His own ephem❜ral day.'

The following poem is not original: it is avowedly modernized from the old author whose poems have furnished the motto. It has all the richness and quaintness of our earlier bards; and without having at hand the means of ascertaining how much of the beauty of the poem is owing to its modern dress, we must give it in proof, at least, of our Author's taste and judgement.

'SABBATH DAYS.

Types of eternal rest-fair buds of bliss,

In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week;
The next world's gladness imag'd forth in this-
Days of whose worth the Christian heart can speak.
Eternity in Time-the steps by which

We climb to future ages-lamps that light
Man through his darker days, and thought enrich,
Yielding redemption for the week's dull flight.
Wakeners of prayer in Man-his resting bowers
As on he journeys in the narrow way,
Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours
Are waited for as in the cool of day.
'Days fix'd by God for intercourse with dust,
To raise our thoughts, and purify our powers;

Periods appointed to renew our trust,

A gleam of glory after six days' showers!

A milky way mark'd out through skies else drear,
By radiant suns that warm as well as shine-

A clue, which he who follows knows no fear,

Though briars and thorns around his pathway twine.

Foretastes of Heaven on earth-pledges of joy
Surpassing fancy's flights, and fiction's story-

The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy,

And the bright out-courts of immortal glory!'

There is a very impressive poem entitled " Dives and Lazarus:" the subject is well treated, and, notwithstanding what might be deemed its unpoetical nature, is invested with a picturesque force of representation.

DIVES AND LAZARUS.
In wakeful dreams of thought
Before my view was brought,
By Fancy's vivid art, the solemn hour
When Lazarus revil'd,

And Dives, Fortune's child,

Alike confess'd stern Death's resistless power.
How opposite the scene!
The first with brow serene,
Receiv'd the mandate with a grateful smile;
A smile that seem'd to say

What here should tempt my stay?

What from the peaceful grave my thoughts beguile ?
• Him Death's stern herald found
By dogs encompass'd round,

By dogs less brutal than Wealth's pamper'd son;
For they, at least, reliev'd

The sufferer, hope-bereav'd,

Whose only solace there from them was won.

The sight, methought, awoke

In him who dealt the stroke

A sense of pity;-with a gentle hand,
And glance that none could dread,
Upon the Beggar's head

He for a moment dropp'd his chilling wand.
That touch suffic'd !-for, straight
Before the Minion's gate

A lifeless, loathsome mass the Beggar lay,
Which e'en the dogs with fear
Beheld, and drew not near,

But left to rav'ning birds their nat❜ral prey.

• Yet from that loathsome sight
Up sprang à form of light,

Radiant and beautiful as angels are;

And round that form, I ween,

A heavenly host were seen,

Of seraphs bright, immortal, waiting there.

These with unfeign'd delight,
Prepar'd to guide its flight

To the fair regions of eternal day;

And soon from outward gaze
With songs of joy and praise

The glorious vision pass'd in light away.
But see! the rich man's gate,
Where Lazarus of late

Lay, an unheeded spectacle of woe,
Shows an unwonted change,
And wears an aspect strange,
and solemn passers come, and

As

sage

go.