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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
In mind's unconquered mood,
As if the triumph were his own,

The dauntless captive stood.
None, to have seen his freeborn air,
Had fancied him a captive there.

Though through the crowded streets of Rome,
With slow and stately tread,
Far from his own loved island home,

That day in triumph led-
Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed
Of Rome's victorious power;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.

And now he stood, with brow serene,
Where slaves might prostrate fall,
Bearing a Briton's manly mien

In Cæsar's palace hall;
Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek,
The liberty e'en there to speak.

Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand
The claim that look preferred,
But motioned with uplifted hand
The suppliant should be heard-
If he indeed a suppliant were
Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,
From Claudius on his throne
Down to the meanest slave that bowed
At his imperial throne;
Silent his fellow-captive's grief
As fearless spoke the Island Chief.
VOL. II.-35

"Think not, thou eagle lord of Rome,
And master of the world,
Though victory's banner o'er thy dome
In triumph now is furled,

I would address thee as thy slave,
But as the bold should greet the brave!

"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,
A monarch's mimic pageantry.

"Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day
I might have rode with thee,
Not in a captive's base array,

But fetterless and free

If freedom he could hope to find,
Whose bondage is of heart and mind.

"But canst thou marvel that, freeborn,
With heart and soul unquelled,
Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,
By thy permission held ?

Or that I should retain my right
Till wrested by a conqueror's might?

"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,

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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
May rapture's thrill impart,
The vesper hour, more tender,
Sinks deeper in the heart.
Though spring be gay with roses,
And summer skies are clear,
Yet autumn's hand incloses

The rich harvest of the year.
E'en age's wintry weather,

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
Their troth in sunny weather,

While leaves are green, and skies are bright,
To walk on flowers together.

But we have loved as those who tread
The thorny path of sorrow,

With clouds above, and cause to dread
Yet deeper gloom to-morrow.

THERE BE THOSE.

THERE be those who sow beside
The waters that in silence glide,
Trusting no echo will declare
Whose footsteps ever wandered there.

The noiseless footsteps pass away,
The stream flows on as yesterday;
Nor can it for a time be seen
A benefactor there had been.

Yet think not that the seed is dead
Which in the lonely place is spread;
It lives, it lives-the spring is nigh,
And soon its life shall testify.

That silent stream, that desert ground,
No more unlovely shall be found;
But scattered flowers of simplest grace
Shall spread their beauty round the place.
And soon or late a time will come
When witnesses, that now are dumb,
With grateful eloquence shall tell

From whom the seed, there scattered, fell.

THE SEA.

BEAUTIFUL, Sublime, and glorious;
Mild, majestic, foaming, free-
Over time itself victorious,

Image of eternity!

Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee,

See thy surface ebb and flow,
Yet attempt not to explore thee
In thy soundless depths below.

Whether morning's splendors steep thee
With the rainbow's glowing grace,
Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee,
'Tis but for a moment's space.

Earth-her valleys and her mountains,
Mortal man's behests obey;

The unfathomable fountains
Scoff his search and scorn his sway.

Such art thou, stupendous ocean!
But, if overwhelmed by thee,
Can we think, without emotion,
What must thy Creator be?

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!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold:
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its
head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, "The names of those who love the

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LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS.

AN exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss-
This art of writing billet-doux
In buds, and odors, and bright hues!
In saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks;
In puns of tulips; and in phrases,
Charming for their truth, of daisies;
Uttering, as well as silence may,
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit too for the lady's bosom !
The place where billet-doux repose 'em.

What delight in some sweet spot
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers
And one's epistolary powers!
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange tubs, and beds of pansies;
One's sighs, and passionate declarations,
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach,
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering every day one's pathos!
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Dote on its tender brilliancy,
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea, and its confessions
Made with as sweet a maiden's blush
As ever morn bedewed on bush:
('T is in reply to one of ours,
Made of the most convincing flowers.)

Then, after we have kissed its wit,
And heart, in water putting it
(To keep its remarks fresh), go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground,
And with enchanted hands compose
Our answer all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose and of violet,
And little darling (mignonette);
Of look at me and call me to you
(Words, that while they greet, go through you):
Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not,
Bridewort-in short, the whole blest lot
Of vouchers for a lifelong kiss-
And literally, breathing bliss!

JENNY KISSED ME.

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief! who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary; say I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I'm growing old-but add,
Jenny kissed 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.

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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
JEANIE.

THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine!

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,
And the heart that wad part sic luve!
But there's nae hand can loose my band,
But the finger o' Him abuve.
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
And my claithing ne'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds of luve-
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

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,
And I will speak o' thee.

AWAKE, MY LOVE!

AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild-swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs:
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,

Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon;
And from her home, by Preston-burn,
Came forth the rival light of morn.

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,
And I canna pray without thee.

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindlie and hie;
Our gudeman leans ower his kale-yard dike,
And a blithe auld bodie is he.

The goldspink answer'd from the bush;
The plover, fed on heather-crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain-top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;—
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

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