But prithee tell us something of thyself;

Reveal the secrets of thy prison house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations;

The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations,
And countless kings have into dust been humbled,
Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,
And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled:

Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face?
What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence !

Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecayed within our presence,

Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning,

When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning!

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost forever?
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.1

1

TO HIS DAUGHTER.

O daughter dear, my darling child,
Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,

Thou who hast care and pain beguiled,

And wreathed with Spring my wintry age!-
Through thee a second prospect opes

Of life, when but to live is glee;

And jocund joys and youthful hopes

Come thronging to my heart through thee.

'Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine.

Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers

Where love and youth their transports gave;
While forward still thou strewest flowers,

And bid'st me live beyond the grave;
For still my blood in thee shall flow,
Perhaps to warm a distant line;
Thy face my lineaments shall show,
And e'en my thoughts survive in thine.

Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute,
This heart is dust, these eyes are closed-
And thou art singing to thy lute

Some stanza by thy sire composed-
To friends around thou may'st impart

A thought of him who wrote the lays,
And from the grave my form shall start,
Embodied forth to fancy's gaze.

Then to their memories will throng

Scenes shared with him who lies in earth

The cheerful page, the lively song,

The woodland walk, or festive mirth;
Then may they heave the pensive sigh,
That friendship seeks not to control,
And from the fixed and thoughtful eye
The half unconscious tears may roll:
Such now bedew my cheek-but mine
Are drops of gratitude and love,
That mingle human with divine,
The gift below, its source above.

How exquisitely dear thou art

Can only be by tears expressed,
And the fond thrillings of my heart,

While thus I clasp thee to my breast!

The following most admirable and witty imitation of Wordsworth's “Lyrical Ballads” was probably written by Horace :

THE BABY'S DEBUT-BY W. W.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New Year's day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop

Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.

Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is,
He thinks mine came to more than his;
So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlor door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite;
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,
And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt:
No Drury Lane for you to-day!"
And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!"
Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind;
The tails of both hung down behind;
Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped it with a mop,
And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes
(I always talk to Sam);

So what does he, but takes and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,
And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall, and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me!

My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good

As these that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won't hide it, I'll be bound:

And there's a row of lamps; my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why
They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-
Umbob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, "Go on, my pretty love;
Speak to 'em, little Nan.

"You've only got to curtsey, whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh and lisp,
And then you're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats not quite
Thirteen got fifty pounds a-night,
Then why not Nancy Lake?"

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?
And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?
Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit!
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentle folks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsey, like a pretty miss,

And if you'll blow to me a kiss,

I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows kiss and exit.

BERNARD BARTON, 1784-1849.

BERNARD BARTON, the celebrated Quaker poet, was born near London in 1784, and in 1806 removed to Woodbridge, where he shortly afterwards married, and was left a widower at the birth of his only child, who now survives him. In 1810, he entered as clerk in the banking-house of the Messrs. Alexander, where he officiated almost to the day of his death. There is very little of incident in his private life. He had for some time previous to his death been afflicted with disease of the heart. On the day of his death he appeared as well as usual; but, soon after going into his chamber at night, he rang the bell for his servant, who, on entering the room,

found him in an easy chair panting for breath, and his medical attendant arrived only to see him breathe his last, on the 19th of February, 1849. Bernard Barton is known to the world as the author of much pleasing, amiable, and pious poetry, animated by fine feeling and fancy, and delighting in subjects of a domestic and moral character. He sang of what he loved -the domestic virtues in man, and the quiet pastoral scenes in nature; and no one can read his poetry without feeling it to be the production of one of a chastened imagination, pure moral feeling, and who sympathized with all that tends to elevate and bless man. His first volume of poetry was published in 1811, and he continued to write till near the close of life, his poems filling seven or eight volumes. His "Household Verses," a collection of fugitive pieces, published in 1845, contains, perhaps, more of his personal feelings than any previous publication; but much of his poetry remains unpublished in the hands of his friends. A few years before his death, he received a pension of one hundred pounds, conferred upon him by the queen, during the premiership of Sir Robert Peel.

To those of his own neighborhood, Barton was known as a most amiable, genial, charitable man—of pure, unaffected piety; the good neighbor-the cheerful companion-the welcome guest-the hospitable host. Whether at his official place in the bank, or in the domestic circle, he was the same pleasant man, and had the same manners to all; always equally frank, genial, and communicative: and as he was charitable toward all, so he was beloved by all, of whatever creed, party, or condition in life.

HUMAN LIFE.

"In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down and withereth."-Ps. xc. 6.

I walked the fields at morning's prime,
The grass was ripe for mowing;
The skylark sang his matin chime,
And all was brightly glowing.

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy,
His pulse with rapture beating,
Deems life's inheritance is joy-
The future proudly greeting."

I wandered forth at noon:-Alas!
On earth's maternal bosom

The scythe had left the withering grass,
And stretched the fading blossom.

And thus, I thought, with many a sigh,
The hopes we fondly cherish,

Like flowers which blossom but to die,
Seem only born to perish.

Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed,
Through lonely hay-fields musing,