deductions, the poem is worthy of its Author; and this, after the opinion we have more than once expressed respecting Mr. Barton's talents, is no equivocal praise. We subjoin a few

stanzas.

What is Napoleon now,-admitting all

His former talents, enterprise, and power?
The time has been, nor distant, when the thrall
Of his portentous name made monarchs cower,
And tremble in the proudest palace-tower:
Fate seemed his fiat, fortune as his guide;
And empire, held by suffrance, was the dower
Which, when he took unto himself a bride,

He spared an elder throne, with cool contemptuous pride.
What is he now? Ten years ago his death

Had spread through Europe with a voice of thunder;
Fame's trump had blazon'd with her loudest breath
The tale; and many a captive, groaning under
The conqueror's yoke, had snapt his chains asunder.
Stupid indifference now supplies the place,

In many minds, of that mute vacant wonder

They then had known, what time they paused a space,
Before they deem'd him dead, with solemn doubtful face.

'He dies upon a surf-surrounded rock!

Far from each court, and every courtly ring;
Far from the fields where once, in battle's shock,
Death stalk'd around him, a familiar thing:
His eagle long before had furl'd his wing;
His star of honour set, to rise no more!
Nor could a hope remain that time might bring
Glory to either spell, as heretofore;

Therefore to him the life of life itself was o'er.

And we who of his death the tidings hear,
Receive them as a tale of times gone by,
Which wakes nor joy, nor grief, nor hope, nor fear:
And if in nobler hearts a passing sigh

For such a lot reflection may supply,

Few follow up that feeling to its source:

The multitude, with undiscerning eye,

See all around pursue its usual course,

And care not for his death, nor thoughts it should enforce."

We now turn with pleasure to the minor poems which compose the bulk of the volume. In the very front, its proper station, we have a noble poem to the Sun, from which we cannot resist making a long extract.

"Monarch of day, once rev'rently adored

By virtuous Pagans, if no longer thou

With orisons art worshipped, as the lord
Of the delightful lyre, or dreadful bow;
If thy embodied essence be not now,

As it once was, regarded as divine;
Nor blood of victims at thine altar flow,

Nor clouds of incense hover round thy shrine, Yet fitly may'st thou claim the homage of the Nine.

• Nor can I deem it strange, that in past ages

Men should have knelt and worshipp'd thee; that kings, And laurell'd bards, rob'd priests, and hoary sages,

Should, far above all sublunary things,

Have turn'd to thee, whose radiant glory flings
Its splendour over all. Ere Gospel light

Had dawn'd, and given to thought sublimer wings,
I cannot marvel, in that mental night,

That nations should obey, and nature own thy right.
For man was then, as now he is, compell'd
By conscious frailties manifold, to seek
Something to worship. In the heart, unquell'd
By innate evil, thoughts there are which speak
One language in Barbarian, Goth, or Greek:
A language by the heart well understood,
Proclaiming man is helpless, frail, and weak,
And urging him to bow to stone, or wood,

Till what his hands had form'd his heart rever'd as good.
Do I commend idolatry?-O no!

I merely would assert the human heart

Must worship: that its hopes and fears will go
Out of itself, and restlessly depart

In search of somewhat which its own fond art,
Tradition, custom, or sublimer creed

Of Revelation brings, to assuage the smart

With which its inward wounds too often bleed;

When nature's boasted strength is found a broken reed.
Can it be wondrous then, before the name

Of the ETERNAL GOD was known, as now,

That orisons were pour'd, and votaries came
To offer at thine altars, and to bow

Before an object beautiful as thou?

No, it was natural, in those darker days,
For such to wreathe around thy phantom brow

A fitting chaplet of thine arrowy rays,

Shaping thee forth a form to accept their prayer or praise.

Even 1, majestic Orb! who worship not

The splendour of thy presence, who control

My present feelings, as thy future lot

Is painted to the vision of my soul,

When final darkness, like an awful scroll,

Shall quench thy fires;-even I, if I could kneel

To aught but Him who fram'd this wondrous whole,
Could worship thee; so deeply do I feel
Emotions, words alone are powerless to reveal.
For thou art glorious! when, from thy pavilion,
Thou lookest forth at morning; finging wide
Its curtain-clouds of purple and vermillion,
Dispensing light and life on every side;
Brightening the mountain cataract, dimly spied
Through glittering mist, opening each dew-gemm'd flower,
Or touching in some hamlet, far descried,

Its spiral wreathes of smoke that upward tower,
While birds their matins sing from many a leafy bower.
And more magnificent art thou, bright Sun!

Uprising from the ocean's billowy bed:
Who, that has seen thee thus, as I have done,
1
Can e'er forget the effulgent splendours spread
From thy emerging radiance? Upwards sped,
E'en to the centre of the vaulted sky,

Thy beams pervade the heavens, and o'er them shed
Hues indescribable-of gorgeous dye,
Making among the clouds mute, glorious pageantry.
Then, then, how beautiful, across the deep,
The lustre of thy orient path of light!
Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and shew their crests of white,
The eye, unsated, in its own despite,

Still

up that vista gazes; till thy way

Over the waters seems a pathway bright

For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay

Man's homage unto HIM who bade thee" RULE the Day."

And thou thyself, forgetting what thou art,
Appear's: thy Maker's temple, in whose dome

The silent worship of the expanding heart

May rise, and seek its own eternal home:

The intervening billows' snowy foam,

Rising successively, seem steps of light,
Such as on Bethel's plain the angels clomb;

When, to the slumbering patriarch's ravish'd sight,
Heaven's glories were reveal'd in visions of the night.
Nor are thy evening splendours, mighty Orb!..
Less beautiful: and oh! more touching far,
And of more power, thought, feeling to absorb
In silent ecstacy, to me they are:

When, watchful of thy exit, one pale star
Shines on the brow of summer's loveliest eve;

And breezes, softer than the soft guitar,

Whose plaintive notes Castilian maids deceive, Among the foliage sigh, and take of thee their leave.

O! then it is delightful to behold

Thy calm departure; soothing to survey
Through opening clouds, by thee all edged with gold,
The milder pomp of thy declining sway:
How beautiful, on church-tower old and grey,
Is shed thy parting smile; how brightly glow
Thy last beams on some tall tree's loftiest
While silvery mists half veil the trunk below,
And hide the rippling stream that scarce is heard to flow.
Majestic Orb! when at the tranquil close

spray,

Of a long day in irksome durance spent,
I've wandered forth, and seen thy disk repose
Upon the vast horizon, while it lent
Its glory to the kindling firmament,

While clouds on clouds, in rich confusion roll'd,
Encompass'd thee as with a gorgeous tent,

Whose most magnificent curtains would unfold,
And form a vista bright, through which I might behold
Celestial visions.-Then the wondrous story

Of BUNYAN'S PILGRIM seem'd a tale most true;
How he beheld their entrance into glory,

And saw them pass the pearly portal through;

Catching, meanwhile, a beatific view

Of that bright city, shining like the sun,

Whose glittering streets appear'd of golden hue,
Where spirits of the just, their conflicts done,

Walk'd in white robes, with palms, and crowned every one.'

Mr.

Our next extract is in a different and a higher strain. Barton has a style of his own, but he reminds us frequently of Montgomery, whose happiest efforts he has rivalled in the exquisite moral propriety and pathos of the following poem.

The Pool of Bethesda.

• Around Bethesda's healing wave,
Waiting to hear the rustling wing
Which spoke the Angel nigh, who gave
Its virtue to that holy spring,
With patience and with hope endued,
Were seen the gather'd multitude.

• Among them there was one, whose eye
Had often seen the waters stirr'd ;
Whose heart had often heav'd the sigh,
The bitter sigh of hope deferr'd;
Beholding, while he suffer'd on,
The healing virtue given-and gone!

No power had he; no friendly aid
To him its timely succour brought;
N

VOL. XVIII. N. S.

But, while his coming he delay'd,
Another won the boon he sought;
Until THE SAVIOUR'S love was shewn,
Which heal'd him by a word alone!

Had they who watch'd and waited there
Been conscious who was passing by,
With what unceasing, anxious care,
Would they have sought his pitying eye;
And craved, with fervency of soul,
His power Divine to make them whole.

• But habit and tradition swayed
Their minds to trust to sense alone;
They only hoped the Angel's aid;

While in their presence stood, unknown,
A greater, mightier far than he,
With power from every pain to free.

• Bethesda's pool has lost its power!
No angel, by his glad descent,
Dispenses that diviner dower

Which with its healing waters went.
But He, whose word surpass'd its wave,
Is still omnipotent to save.

And what that fountain once was found,
Religion's outward forms remain
With living virtue only crown'd

While their first freshness they retain ;
Only replete with power to cure

When, Spirit-stirr'd, their source is pure!

"Yet are there who this truth confess,
Who know how little forms avail;

But whose protracted helplessness
Confirms the impotent's sad tale;
Who, day by day, and year by year,
As emblems of his lot appear.

They hear the sounds of life and love,
Which tell the visitant is nigh;
They see the troubled waters move,

Whose touch alone might health supply;
But, weak of faith, infirm of will,
Are powerless, helpless, hopeless still!

Saviour! thy love is still the same
As when that healing word was spoke :
Still in thine all-redeeming Name

Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke!
O! be that power, that love display'd,
Help those whom THOυ alone canst aid!”