To have look'd round upon that scene of glee,

Of smiles devoid of care, and brows from sorrow free.

1

The bright sun threw his glory all around,

And then the balmy, mild, autumnal breeze
Swept, with a musical and fitful sound,

Among the fading foliage of the trees;
And, now and then, a playful gust would seize
Some falling leaf, and, like a living thing
Which flits about wherever it may please,
It floated round in many an airy ring,
Till on the dewy grass it lost its transient wing.
'We wandered on,-for I was not alone,

Though such a scene and such a morning might
Have suited well the contemplative tone

Of some secluded, saintly anchorite,

Whose dreams had peopled it with phantoms bright:
I could not wish them, for around me were

Beings more real; who, in my delight,

Appreciating its source, were pleas'd to share,

When we stood still to gaze, or held high converse there.' 'High converse! The Poet vindicates the application of the term to themes of no loftier import than poetry supplies. They conversed of donjons, towers,

Hid in St. John's vale from Sir Roland's eye, Or melting, soon as seen, into the vapoury sky;' of Byron's vagrant, lawless Childe;' of Moore's sweetly 'wild' tale of what the gentle Peri did befall;' of Wordsworth, and even of Peter Bell. These references shew a spirit of pretty wide tolerance, and a taste formed upon no exclusive preferences."The Bridal of Triermain" is well worthy of the distinction assigned it in this selection. It is one of Sir Walter Scott's most elegant and spirited lays;' and before he acknowledged himself to be in that poem his own imitator, seemed to put it in doubt whether the last Minstrel' was yet dead. In none of the master's' productions, whom the anonymous author pretended to adopt as his model, is there more of the genuine spirit of romance, and it is combined with a delicacy of sentiment, and a compressed' force of diction, which are not very strikingly characteristic of his six-canto-long, later tales. know of scarcely any other production of living poet, better suited to the mood congenial with an Autumn day.

We

From this notice of the Author's favourite bards, the transition is natural to poetry itself, which is vindicated from being opposed to religion.

O Poesy! thou dear delightful art!
Of sciences by far the most sublime;
Who, acting rightly thy immortal part,

Art virtue's handmaid, censor stern of crime,

Nature's high priest, and chronicler of time;
The nurse of feeling; the interpreter

Of purest passion;-who, in manhood's prime,
In age, or infancy, alike canst stir

The heart's most secret thoughts:-to Thee I now prefer
My aspirations.-Unto Thee I owe

Nor wealth nor fame; yet hast thou given to me
Some secret joys the world can ill bestow,
Delights which ope not to its golden key,
And wait not on its pride and pageantry:

:

For thou hast nourish'd, in those lonely hours
That have been spent in intercourse with thee,
Kind feelings, chasten'd passions, mental powers,
And hopes which look through time. These are not worldly

dowers.

• For such I thank thee! Thou hast granted all

I could expect in life; yet, when I must
Return to nature's chill original

That portion of me which is form'd of dust,
When I go down to darkness! take in trust

Some scatter'd fragments of my transient name!

I ask no storied urn, no marble bust;

These move me not; yet could I wish to claim
From some few left behind a dearer meed than fame.

And should some portion of my song survive
The death of him who frames it, may it be
Such only as may keep his name alive

In hearts of spotless moral purity,

Of virtuous feeling, gentle sympathy,

And elevated thoughts; such have I known

May these but cherish my lov'd memory

In some few silent hours, when left alone,

And "fame's obstreperous trump" I willingly disown.'

The blameless ardours,' the deep and undefined emotions, the genuine pleasures of poetry,' are far from being confined to the gifted few who have the power of giving to their feelings the eloquent utterance of verse. Poetry is the offspring of leisure; and where this leisure has not been enjoyed in early life, the instances are rare in which the talent has been developed as an after acquirement, although the sentiment of Poetry may be kindled up by accidental circumstances in minds where it has hitherto lain dormant, and, which shall thus seem to acquire a new intellectual sense. And the very strength of these new feelings shall disqualify for the slow process by which alone they could be fitted with expression. Just as a person of hly cultivated musical taste, who has neglected in early life perfect himself in the practice before his ear had become

skilled to discriminate the nicer shades of harmony,-finds himself incapable of undergoing the preparatory labours of a learner. The mind must work its way to a knowledge of the finer rules by which Genius achieves what is excellent, through a long series of experiments, and a waste of pleasurable exertion, at a time when the labour is its own reward, when all spontaneous exertion is pleasurable.

But there are many who have never strove

To tune their harps, nor had a harp to tune;
Who, notwithstanding, shew their genuine love
Of thee, by reverencing each tender boon
Thy impulses confer. These, when the moon
Unveils her cloudless glory to the sea,

Or, on a still and lovely night in June,

Shoots her soft radiance through some leafy tree,
These at such moments turn instinctively to thee.
'Conscious, while soft emotions round them throng,
Of more than language ever can convey,
Their thoughts are poetry! their feelings-song!
As if they dwelt not in these forms of clay,
But walk'd with spirits.-Or if such should stray,
As I did in the hours which now I sing,
When nature's beauties yield to calm decay,

With chosen friends around them loitering,

To such an Autumn day no transient joy may bring.'

We should judge from Mr. Barton's passion for Autumn, that, if he has reached his prime, he has not outlived the feelings of youth. It is the favourite season of the young. As we grow older, the falling leaf becomes a trite moral, and the gorgeous colouring of decaying nature begins to please less than the tender freshness, and reviving promise, and symbolical youth of the spring. We hope he may live to find this out; and then, if his fancy does not prove a bird of passage, he may sing of a 'day in 'spring.'

The address to the river Orwell is equal, perhaps, to any part of the poem, and there is a gleam of pensive feeling shed over it, which adds considerable interest to the description. There seems an allusion to tender remembrances connected with the scene, which the Author does not care more distinctly to reveal,"Hopes, friendships, love, that charm'd me and pass'd by. And now our morning ride is ended; past The hour of dinner;—round us gathers eve :And he who frames this legend must, at last, Of the kind circle round him take his leave. Nor would he foolishly repine, or grieve,

Though some may be whom he may meet no more.
Even should it prove so, why should this bereave

His breast of some fond thoughts unknown before, Which friends till then unmet have added to its store?' The poem concludes with the following beautiful apostrophe to Night.

• Soul-soothing season! period of repose,

Or introverted thought which day debars;
Can language paint, can poetry disclose,

The magic of thy silence, dews, and stars?
When the loud mirth of day no longer mars
Our better feelings with its empty sound;
When we forget awhile the cruel jars

Our souls in worldly intercourse have found,

How welcome are thy shades, with peaceful quiet crown'd!

They gather round us, from their silent wings

Scattering kind blessings; to the wretched-dear.

Prosperity to gaudy day-light clings,

But thou art Sorrow's chosen, meek compeer:
Thou hid'st her from the cold and heartless sneer

Of wealth's sleek minions, pride's contemptuous crew;
Hushest her sigh, conceal'st her bitter tear,

And, by thy healing influence, dost renew
Her fortitude to bear, her courage to subdue.
•And if thou didst not this, there is in thee

Yet ample scope for Poetry's fair themes:
For thou, O Night! art guardian of the key
That opes the portal of the land of dreams.
Touch'd by thy spell our roving fancy teems
With things to which Day has no parallel ;
Beings too beauteous far to brave its beams,

Much too ethereal upon earth to dwell;
And glories dreams alone render accessible.
• Waving, however, these thy wilder flights,
As joys ideal, unsubstantial, vain;
And passing o'er thy soothing, calm delights
Administer'd to sorrow's pallid train ;-
Enough is left to bid us bless thy reign:
For thy revolving periods health renew
Unto our wearied nature;-flush again

Beauty's wan cheek, curtain her eye of blue,
Or with fresh splendours fill its orb of darker hue.
One topic more, still Night! will yet intrude
Upon my serious thought while hymning Thee :-
Thou art the emblem, type, similitude,

Of silence yet more awful; although we
Are loath the approach of death's dark night to see!
Father of mercies! THOU whose goodness gave
Thy Son Belov'd, man's sacrifice to be,

Grant that in life's last hour my soul may crave,

Nor crave in vain, His love to light me through the grave.'

We must admit that our extracts are out of all proportion, if estimated by the length of the poem; but, understanding that very few copies were printed, and that those have circulated chiefly among the Author's private friends, we have felt warranted to indulge ourselves and our readers, by transcribing very freely from the copy which has fallen into our hands. Should we appear chargeable in this respect with partiality, we shall hold Mr. Barton bound to justify our conduct by his future productions; and we shall experience more disappointment than long-sighted critics of our standing willingly subject themselves to, if he does not do something more still, to "keep his name alive," and to entitle him to a dearer meed than fame. But even should he never exceed the present performance, the praise he has earned will not be lost upon him, if it does but excite the strenuous resolution never to do less than his best: Personally unknown, however, as Mr. Barton is to us, we will not altogether disavow a feeling of partiality. A sentiment of this kind is due to the moral purity and unaffected piety of his writings; it is also inspired by the refreshing simplicity of his poetry. It is a great thing for a young writer in the present day, to escape being infected with the manner of some one or other of our leading or fashionable poets, according as his taste may prompt him to select for his model the bard of the Lakes, the minstrel of the Glen, or the poet of the Drawing room. The influence of Lord Byron's writings on public taste, has been still more pernicious than that of either Wordsworth, Scott, or Moore. But all of them, though unequalled in their several styles, have concurred to lead their admirers more or less astray from the proper aim and genuine purpose of poetry, and, by some peculiar species of affectation, to alienate them from the chaster graces of the purest models. And this affectation, the affectation either of sentimentalism, or of mannerism, or of simplicity, or of Childe Haroldism, taints almost all the poetical literature of the day. The gentlemen who pride themselves on reviving the style of our elder writers, have a species of affectation altogether their own; a sort of poetical foppery which is quite as offensive as that of any other school.' Hence, although there has never, perhaps, been a period in which there was a richer display of poetical genius, there is but very little poetry adapted permanently to interest the heart. We feel that, for purity of taste, strong manly sense, real delicacy of feeling, and true pathos, we must go back to Cowper and to Burns. Mr. Barton's poetry, therefore, by being so entirely unaffected, preserving as it does, all the quietness and simplicity of the Quaker character, without any of its formality or quaintness, and addressing the feelings in a tone to which we have long been unaccustomed from his contempo