Ere trick'ry had usurp'd the place
Of unsophisticated grace.

I quarrel not with those who deem
Essential to poetic mood,

High-sounding phrase, and lofty theme,
And "ready arts to freeze the blood;"
Intent to dazzle, or appal;

But nature still is best of all.

To be by taste's and fashion's laws The favourite of this fickle day; To win the drawing-room's applause, To strike, to startle, to display, And give effect, would seem the aim Of most who bear the poet's name. For this, one idol of the hour,

Brilliant and sparkling as the beams Of the glad sun, culls every flower,

And scatters round dews, gems, and streams, Until the wearied, aching sight,

Is "blasted with excess of light."

Another leads his readers on

With scenery, narrative, and tales
Of legends wild, and battles won-
Of craggy rocks, and verdant vales;
Till, always on amazement's brink,
We find we have no time to think.

And last, not least, a master mind,
Around whose proud and haughty brow,
Had he but chosen, might have twin'd
The muses' brightest, greenest bough,
Who, would he his own victor be,
Might seize on immortality.

He too, forsooth, with morbid vein,
Must fling a glorious fame away;
Instruction and delight disdain,

And make us own, yet loathe his sway: From Helicon he might have quaff'd Yet turn'd to Acheron's deadly draught. O shame and glory of our age! With talents such as scarcely met In bard before: thy magic page Who can peruse without regret? Or think, with cold, unpitying mien, Of what thou art, and might'st have been? No more of such: from these I turn, From sparkling wit, and amorous lays: From glooms that chill, and "words that burn,” And gorgeous pomp of feudal days; I turn from such, as things that move Wonder and awe, but wake not love.

To thee, and to thy page despis'd
By worldly hearts, I turn with joy,
To ponder o'er the lays I priz'd,

When once a careless, happy boy;
And all that fascinated then,
More understood, delights again.

Nor is it, Wordsworth, trivial test
Of thy well-earn'd poetic fame,
That the untutor❜d youthful breast
Should cherish with delight thy name:
If feeling be the test of truth,
That touchstone is best prov'd in youth.
Thine is no complicated art,
Which after-life alone can give
The power to appreciate; in the heart
Its purest, holiest canons live ;
And nature's tact is most intense
In the soul's early innocence.
''Tis then the sun, the sky, the air,

The sparkling stream, the leafy wood,
The verdant fields, the mountains bare,
Are felt, though little understood:
We care not, seek not then to prove
Effect, or cause: we feel, and love.
And in that day of love and feeling,
Poetry is a heavenly art;
Its genuine principles revealing
In their own glory to the heart,
Nature's resistless, artless tone
Awaks an echo of its own.

These truths, for such they are, by thee,
Illustrious Poet! well are seen;

And to thy wise simplicity

Most sacred have they ever been;

Therefore shalt thou, before the NINE
Officiate, in their inmost shrine !

Then journey on thy way: though lowly,
And simple, and despis'd it be;
Yet shall it yield thee visions holy,
And such as worldlings never see:
Majestic, simple, meek, sublime,
And worthy of an earlier time.
• Continue still to cultivate,
In thy sequester'd solitude,
Those high conceptions which await
The musings of the wise and good;
Conceptions lofty, pure, and bright,
Which fill thy soul with heavenly light.

Thou need'st not stoop to win applause
By petty artifice of style;

Or studied wit, that coldly draws

From fops or fools a vapid smile:

And still less need'st thou stoop to borrow
Affected gloom, or mimic sorrow.

But take thee to thy groves and fields,
Thy rocky vales, and mountains bare,
And give us all that nature yields

Of manners, feelings, habits there:
Please and instruct the present age,

And live in history's latest page.' pp. 82-87.

The contents of a volume so miscellaneous, the larger por-tion of which consists of occasional pieces, must necessarily be of very unequal merit. Of some, the sentiment forms the chief recommendation. The Author is rather too fond of the Anapæstic verse, which he employs on occasions to which it can be adapted only by exquisite skill. The stanzas on the death of Sir Samuel Romilly,' afford an instance of the very injudicious choice of this measure; and in the second stanza occurs an expression not in perfect accordance either with the subject or with Quaker phraseology:

There are woes which descend like the bolt of Jove's thunder?

Silent Worship' is the title of another poem, in which the effect of the rhythm is most discordant to the reader's feelings. Mr. Barton will do well to study the character of the various measures of English verse; and perhaps it will be safer for him altogether to avoid the measure we refer to. In the stanzas on the conversion of the Jews,' there are some sadly halting lines. Those on the death of the Princess Charlotte, are much more successful.

In proof that Mr. Barton is not deficient, however, either in taste or fancy, we shall select two of his simple lyrics, to Sleep and to the Winds. Leaving these specimens to speak for themselves, we give our cordial approbation to the Author.

• SLEEP.

What is it that stills the sigh of sorrow,
And forbids her tears to flow?-

That allows the desolate-hearted to borrow
A transient relief from woe?

It is thou, sweet Sleep! O then listen to me!
Be it but in thy dreams, while I sing of thee.

Could I embody the thoughts which now
Pass my soul's living tablet over,
No being more lovely and fair than thou,
Before mortal eye could hover:
T

VOL. XV. N. S.

Not deathly and pale, like a spectre stealing
On the slumb'rer, whose eyes thy power is sealing;-
• But a form full of beauty, of joy, and grace,
And features with kindness bright,

Such as a Raphael would love to trace;
A creature of glory and light,
With a silvery cloud, to chasten each hue
Too radiant else, should arise to view.

· With angel eye, and a brow that never
Had been other than meekly calm;
And lips which a soft smile seems to sever,
Such as shed round a soothing charm;
With a step more light than Zephyr's sigh,
Would I paint thee, in loveliness passing by.
Such could I fancy thee, roving far
Beneath the pale moon's glistening beam;
Or the fainter light of heaven's fairest star,
Attended by many a shadowy dream:
Those purer visions, in mercy given

To slumbering souls, when they dream of heaven!
By an infant's couch I behold thee sit,
Its widow'd parent's earthly treasure:
And over its features, like sunshine, flit
Bright gleams of half unconscious pleasure:
Smiles of a spirit that knows no fears,
Such as belong not to after years.

And then to its parent, disconsolate-hearted
But for that cherub, thou turn'st; and lo!
The undried tear, which perhaps had started
Before those eye-lids could slumber know,
Like a dew drop at morn is exhal'd, in the union
Of souls, still mingling in blest communion.
And last, to the bed of some dying saint,
I can fancy thee gliding with noiseless foot,
Who, worn out with anguish, and ready to faint,
Ere thou drew'st nigh, was patiently mute:
Thou comest; and straight on his closing lids
Falls a spell, that protracted pain forbids.

As soon as his eyes soft slumbers seal,
He forgets all the anguish he felt before;
And the glory his faded features reveal,

Tells whither his thoughts exulting soar: He seems to have cast off his mortal array, "And walks in the light of a sunless day." • Must he awake upon earth, to prove

The vision but cheated? O! rather say, That HE, who is goodness, compassion, and love, Permits him in slumber to pass away;

And all in that dream he could feel or see,
Is his through a blissful eternity!

TO THE WINDS.

Ye viewless Minstrels of the sky!
I marvel not, in times gone by,
That ye were deified:
For, even in this later day,

To me oft' has your power, or play,
Unearthly thoughts supplied."

Awful your power! when, by your might,
You heave the wild waves, crested white,
Like mountains in your wrath;
Ploughing between them valleys deep,
Which, to the sea-man rous'd from sleep,
Yawn like Death's opening path!

Graceful your play! when, round the bower Where Beauty culls Spring's loveliest flower, To wreathe her dark locks there, Your gentlest whispers lightly breathe The leaves between, flit round that wreath, And stir her silken hair.

Still, thoughts like these are but of earth, And you can give far loftier birth :—

Ye come! we know not whence! Ye go!-can mortals trace your flight? All imperceptible to sight,

Though audible to sense.

The Sun, his rise, and set we know;
The Sea,-we mark its ebb, and flow;
The Moon,-her wax, and wane ;
The Stars,-Man knows their courses well,
The Comets' vagrant paths can tell ;—
But You his search disdain.

Ye restless, homeless, shapeless things!
Who mock all our imaginings,

Like Spirits in a dream;

What epithet can words supply

Unto the Bard who takes such high

Unmanageable theme?

But one :-to me, when Fancy stirs

My thoughts, ye seem HEAVEN'S messengers,

Who leave no path untrod;

And when, as now, at midnight's hour,

I hear your voice in all its power,
It seems the VOICE OF GOD.'