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, Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast, Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face? Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead! 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, In living virtue, that, when both must sever, 1 TO HIS DAUGHTER. O daughter dear, my darling child, Thou who hast care and pain beguiled, And wreathed with Spring my wintry age!- 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; And bid'st me live beyond the grave; Yes, daughter, when this tongue is mute, Some stanza by thy sire composed- A thought of him who wrote the lays, 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; How exquisitely dear thou art Can only be by tears expressed, 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, Papa (he's my papa and Jack's) And brother Jack a top. Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is, Takes out the doll, and, oh my stars! Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And bang, with might and main, This made him cry with rage and spite; If he's to melt, all scalding hot, Aunt Hannah heard the window break, Well, after many a sad reproach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind; The chaise in which poor brother Bill I wiped the dust from off the top, My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, So what does he, but takes and drags My father's walls are made of brick, As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, As these that now I see. What a large floor! 'tis like a town! And there's a row of lamps; my eye! At first I caught hold of the wing, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, "You've only got to curtsey, whisp- But while I'm speaking, where's papa? To join them in the pit. And now, good gentle folks, I go 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, "And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy, I wandered forth at noon:-Alas! The scythe had left the withering grass, And thus, I thought, with many a sigh, Like flowers which blossom but to die, Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed, |