BERNARD BARTON. BERNARD BARTON was born in London, January 31, 1784. His family were Friends, and he himself remained a member of that society. He became a clerk in a banking-house at Woodbridge in 1810, and remained there until 1847. He published "Metrical Effusions" in 1812, "Poems by an Amateur" in 1818, and several other volumes of verse. He also edited one or two collections. He was a friend of Southey, Lamb, and Byron. A few years before his death, Sir Robert Peel granted him a pension of £100. He died suddenly on the 19th of February, 1849. His daughter has published selections from his poems and letters. Barton's poetry is of no very high order, but is generally respectable. CARACTACUS. BEFORE proud Rome's imperial throne The dauntless captive stood. Though through the crowded streets of Rome, That day in triumph led- A free and fearless glance he cast And now he stood, with brow serene, In Cæsar's palace hall; Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand Deep stillness fell on all the crowd, "Think not, thou eagle lord of Rome, I would address thee as thy slave, "I might perchance, could I have deigned To hold a vassal's throne, E'en now in Britain's isle have reigned A king in name alone, Yet holding, as thy meek ally, "Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day But fetterless and free If freedom he could hope to find, "But canst thou marvel that, freeborn, Or that I should retain my right "Rome, with her palaces and towers, By us unwished, unreft, Her homely huts and woodland bowers To Britain might have left; Worthless to you their wealth must be, But dear to us, for they were free! "I might have bowed before, but where Had been my triumph now? To my resolve no yoke to bear Thou ow'st thy laurelled brow; Inglorious victory had been thine, And more inglorious bondage mine. "Now I have spoken, do thy will; Be life or death my lot, NAY, tell me not, my dearest, That time has dimmed thine eye; Still, still my path thou cheerest, As in days that are gone by. Say not thy cheek is faded, By sorrows, cares, and fears; That thy brow is somewhat shaded By the clouds of other years. If Time much more had taken, I could forgive each theft, While thy heart remained unshaken, And its love for me was left. I, too, am something older, Than when I met with thee; But hearts become no colder, If they are what hearts should be. Thy own bas never altered, As years have o'er me past; Thy love has never faltered, When my brow has been o'ercast. Then tell me not of changes, In cheek, or brow, or hair; The love such loss estranges, Must be lighter far than air. Though morning's early splendor The rich harvest of the year. Inspires no thought of gloom, In hearts that share together Hopes of bliss beyond the tomb. NOT OURS THE VOWS. Nor ours the vows of such as plight While leaves are green, and skies are bright, But we have loved as those who tread With clouds above, and cause to dread THERE BE THOSE. THERE be those who sow beside The noiseless footsteps pass away, Yet think not that the seed is dead That silent stream, that desert ground, From whom the seed, there scattered, fell. THE SEA. BEAUTIFUL, Sublime, and glorious; Image of eternity! Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee, See thy surface ebb and flow, Whether morning's splendors steep thee Earth-her valleys and her mountains, The unfathomable fountains Such art thou, stupendous ocean! LEIGH HUNT. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT was born in London, October 19, 1784. He was educated at Christ's Hospital, and in 1805 began to write literary and dramatic criticism for his brother's paper, The Examiner, of which at the age of twenty-four he became joint editor and proprietor. He was fiercely liberal in his politics, and for making fun of the Prince Regent he was sentenced to a fine of £500 and two years' imprisonment. In prison he was visited by Byron, Shelley, and Keats, and the comforts and adornments constantly sent in by numerous friends made his confinement almost a pleasure. There he wrote his "Story of Rimini," a narrative poem, which was published on his release and gained him an acknowledged place as a poet. In 1818 he started a serial called "The Indicator," and ten years later a sequel to it called "The Companion." For many years he was constantly busy producing stories, essays, biographies, and poems; all of which were fairly successful in their day, but few of which, probably, will long survive. He published a collected edition of his poems in 1833. As a poet he can hardly be ranked very high. The "Story of Rimini" still has admirers, but much of it is only the baldest prose. He died at Highgate, August 28, 1859. His son Thornton published a selection from his letters and correspondence in 1862. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) And, with a look made of all sweet accord, LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS. AN exquisite invention this, What delight in some sweet spot Then, after we have kissed its wit, JENNY KISSED ME. JENNY kissed me when we met, Say that health and wealth have missed me; ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM was born at Blackwood, in Nithside, Dumfriesshire, December 7, 1784. He received a few years of schooling, and at the age of ten was apprenticed to his brother, a stone-mason. His father had a small library, which Allan read eagerly. He was fond of the legends and tales which his mother used to tell, and began to rhyme at an early age, imitating Ossian and the old Scottish bards. He had a vivid remembrance of Burns, whom he saw when a boy, and for whom he cherished a profound reverence. At the age of eighteen he went to see the Ettrick Shepherd, whose poetry be greatly admired. Two years later, when the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" was published, he immediately committed the entire poem to memory, and when "Marmion" was published he went to Edinburgh to get a glimpse of Scott. Cunningham's first published poems appeared in the Scots Magazine in 1807. In 1809 Mr. | Cromek, a London engraver, employed him to make a collection of the old songs of Nithside and Galloway; and Cunningham palmed off upon him, as such, a large number written by himself. The collection was published in 1810, and attracted considerable attention. After some fluctuations of fortune, he became superintendent of Chantrey's studio, and gave his leisure hours to literature. He contributed frequently to Blackwood's and the London Magazine, and in 1825 published “The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern." He also published three romances, an epic entitled "The Maid of Elvar," and several compilations, and edited a fine edition of Burns. In July, 1811, he married Miss Jane Walker, by whom he had a daughter and four sons, one of whom, Peter, is a man of some note in literature. Cunningham died of apoplexy, October 29, 1842. His fame is due to the beauty of his songs. THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds of luve- Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, Fu' safter than the down; The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holy psalmodie; And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, AWAKE, MY LOVE! AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray She comb'd her curling ringlets down, Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon; And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind The lark's song dropp'd-now loud, now hush wings, And sweetly I'd sleep, and soun'. Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve! Come here and kneel wi' me! The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie and hie; The goldspink answer'd from the bush; 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day |