No. IV. Yes, Bard belov'd! to many a feeling breast GRAY.* It might almost necessarily be inferred, from the general character which has been given of Mr. Barton's poetry in the preceding number, that it was in a high degree calculated for the expression of those hallowed feelings which spring from the cultivation of benevolence, affection, and piety, and which, as constituting not only the basis of our happiness here, but of that which is to reward us hereafter, may be said to embrace the existence of both worlds. To impress upon the mind, in fact, the great and salutary conviction that this life is but the dawn of our existence, yet that to the principles and passions which are developed during its course, we are to owe the colour of our final *With some slight deviation from the original. state; that it is valuable therefore, not in itself, but in proportion as it is morally connected with and preparatory to a nobler form of being; and that its phenomena, both intellectual and physical, are intimately blended with, and typical, indeed, of futurity, will appear to have been objects perpetually within the contemplation of our author; nor can matter of greater importance to the welfare of his species ever occupy the attention of philosopher or poet. It has been therefore in accordance with this plan that many of Mr. Barton's poems are expressly written, with the view of reconciling the wearied and heart-broken mourner to the numerous privations which so often render our passage through this world but a pilgrimage of pain and sorrow; of shewing that life is to be estimated, not by its duration, but by the mode in which it has been employed; of directing our hopes firmly on that unchangeable state whither we are hourly tending, and, in the mean while, of so recommending the enjoyment of the beauties, the harmonies, and sublimities of material nature, as may contribute to render them not only subservient to a better comprehension of our future being, but the medium through which we may approach the precincts even of Deity itself. That he has succeeded in enforcing these topics with all the eloquence which an earnestness in the cause, together with beauty of diction, sweetness of versification, and vigour of thought, can communicate, it shall now be our endeavour to shew. One of the many sorrows to which the lot of humanity is subject, and one too which, as blighting the fond dreams that fancy and affection had formed, is often most severely felt, flows from the separation of the mother and her child, a privation which is painted by our poet in lines of exquisite pathos, and the last of which strikes me as singularly impressive. my Pale and cold is the cheek that kisses oft press'd, And quench'd is the beam of that bright sparkling eye; For the soul, which its innocent glances confess'd, Has flown to its God and its Father on high. No more shall the accents, whose tones were more dear Than the sweetest of sounds even music can make, In notes full of tenderness fall on my ear; If I catch them in dreams, all is still when I wake! It is a balm however of no weak efficacy to reflect, that the innocent object of our love has not only escaped the numerous evils to which this life is necessarily exposed, but possibly the pangs of conscious guilt; and it is still more consolatory to know that it rests in a state of assured happiness; sentiments which, however trite from repetition, were never more beautifully expressed than in the words of Mr. Barton. In the world thou hast left, there is much to allure The most innocent spirit from virtue and peace, Hadst thou liv'd, would thy own have been equally pure, And guileless, and happy, in age's increase? Temptation, or sooner or later had found thee; Perhaps had seduc'd thee from pathways of light; Till the dark clouds of vice, gath'ring gloomily round thee, Had enwrapt thee for ever in horror and night. But now, in the loveliest bloom of the soul, While thy heart yet was pangless, and true, and unstain'd; Ere the world one vain wish by its witcheries stole, What it could not confer, thou for ever hast gain'd! Like a dew-drop, kiss'd off by the sun's morning beam, A brief, but a beauteous existence was given; Thy soul seem'd to come down to earth in a dream, And only to wake, when ascended to heaven! Yet the death of infancy, though it rend many of the sweetest ties which bind us to existence, cannot be so intensely deplored as that of the child who has made some progress in the pilgrimage set before him, and whose superior endowments both of head and heart had already promised to fulfil the dearest hopes that parental partiality had cherished. After a disruption thus fatal to all perhaps which had rendered life valuable, whither shall the mourner turn for peace and consolation?- It is a question which has been answered by our amiable bard in a manner and from a source that cannot fail to soothe the affliction he wishes to alleviate, as |