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William Barnes.

Barnes, clergyman, poet, and philologist, was born in 1810. He is the author, among other works, of "Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect," "A Grammar and Glossary of the Dorset Dialect," "An Anglo-Saxon Delectus." An edition of the "Rural Poems," with illustrations by Hammatt Billings, an American artist, was published in Boston in 1869.

PLORATA VERIS LACHRYMIS. Oh now, my true and dearest bride, Since thou hast left my lonely side, My life has lost its hope aud zest. The sun rolls on from east to west, But brings no more that evening rest, Thy loving-kindness made so sweet, And time is slow that once was fleet,

As day by day was waning.

The last sad day that showed thee lain
Before me, smiling in thy pain,
The sun soared high along his way
To mark the longest summer day,

And show to me the latest play

Of thy sweet smile, and thence, as all
The days' lengths shrunk from small to small,
My joy began its waning.

SONNET: RURAL NATURE.

Where art thou loveliest, O Nature, tell!
Oh, where may be thy Paradise? Where grow
Thy happiest groves? And down what woody dell
Do thy most fancy-winning waters flow?
Tell where thy softest breezes longest blow?
And where thy ever blissful mountains swell
Upon whose sides the cloudless sun may throw
Eternal summer, while the air may quell

His fury. Is it 'neath his morning car,
Where jewelled palaces, and golden thrones,
Have awed the Eastern nations through all time?
Or o'er the Western seas, or where afar

Our winter sun warms up the southern zones
With summer? Where can be the happy climes?

Samuel William Partridge.

Partridge is a native of London, born November 23d, 1810. He became a publisher, having his establishment in Paternoster Row. His little poem, "Not to Myself Alone," has been wonderfully popular. It has been often quoted from the pulpit, and has found a place in many

With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the

ocean.

Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing: Search the world all around from the sky to the ground,

No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing.

Sweet Kate, who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,

Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,

Your fair turnéd arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly?

Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love:

The sight leaves his eye as he cries, with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

Mrs. Louisa S. McCord.

AMERICAN.

Mrs. McCord (1810-1879) was the daughter of Langdon Cheves, a distinguished lawyer and statesman, who as member of Congress helped Clay and Calhoun to carry the declaration of war in 1812. She inherited much of her father's intellectual vigor, and wrote ably on politics and political economy, translating Bastian's well-known work. She married a prominent lawyer, the well-known author of " McCord's Reports." Her first essay in poetry was a little volume entitled "My Dreams," published in 1848. This was followed in 1851 by "Caius Gracchus," a tragedy in five acts, abounding in striking passages, full of noble thought aptly expressed. Though not written for the stage, it has many flashes of dramatic power. Born to affluence, literature was to her, however, a pastime rather than a pursuit. A devoted daughter of the State of her birth, proud of its history, and sensitive to its honor, she generously gave her aid to the South in its struggle for independence, sincerely believing she was on the side of right. Her only son, Cheves McCord, fell gallantly in battle. To the mother's heart it was a fatal blow. She was a large contributor, both in money and personal effort, to the hospitals and other institutions, and she lived to be cheered by the dawn of brighter prospects for South Carolina.

WHAT USED TO BE.

Happiness that ne'er was fading,

Dreams that darkness ne'er was shading,

Flowers that were not born to wither;
These are things I used to see!
Fancy, aye the future wooing,
Hope, her heavenward course pursuing,
Pluming each unruffled feather;

These are things that used to be!

But alas! their transient being,
To the future's night was fleeing;
And when brightest they were fading,-
Those bright things I used to see!
Life, no more such pleasures giving;
Memory, with our present striving,
All her stock of joys unlading,

Points us to what used to be.

But doth not this past deceive us, Cheating thus, with joys that leave us, Souls which have a higher duty

Than those things I used to see? These were toys for youthful folly; Life has duties high and holy, Robed in Truth's, not Fancy's, beauty, Like those things that used to be.

Duties holy-duties bindingWhere the soul, its errors finding, Reason's light from Truth deriving,

Learns, those things it used to see Were but beacon-lights, to guide us Where life's battle-fields betide us; Where, in nobler efforts striving, We forget what used to be.

THY WILL BE DONE.

Thy will be done! Almighty God,
Our weakness knows no other prayer
But this: "God's will be done!"
We cannot shape our future good;
To mark thy mercy's bounds we fear:
Father! thy will be done!

Still to our weakness clinging fast,
With naught to point or guide our way,
We cry
"God's will be done!"

And 'mid the storm of life, the blast
Of warring tempest, still we say,
"Father! thy will be done!"

And this the surest charm to lull The tempest in its raging might,

PASSAGES FROM "CAIUS GRACCHUS."

ORIGIN OF GREAT THOUGHTS.

From head and heart alike great thoughts are born;
The truly noble cannot sever them:

I'd shun the man who at his nature scoffs,
And, trampling on his own divinity,
Feels not the consciousness of human greatness.

THE PEOPLE'S HEART.

It is a noble duty to awake

The heart of truth, that slumbers in them still.
It is a glorious right to rouse the soul,
The reasoning heart that in a nation sleeps!
And Wisdom is a laggard at her task,
When but in closet speculations wrapped
She doth forget to share her thought abroad,
And make mankind her heir.

TRUTH THROUGH STRUGGLE.

Each dirty rivulet its ripple brings,
Which in the sweeping current mingling, drops
Its dust and dross. Its purer part goes on,
And on, and on,-until at last the whole,
By the great alchemy of reason, flows
Pure-as it must be, from its origin!
Thought sprang from God; and all bestained with
earth,

Struggling and creeping still, at last the truth
Is forced upon the day! The world's great mind,
Though stumbling oft in error, must at last
Work out its vexéd problem, and perfection,
Wrought from reflected deity in man,
Burst sun-like from the mist of error forth.

NO GOOD EFFORT VAIN.

For the right,

Man, even in despair, should ever strive:
The very effort, howsoever vain,

Is always something gained. To the great work

Or yet if triumphing in life's success,
Flattered, beloved, admired, the mother finds
(Be she true woman with a true woman's heart)
No moment when that heart can idly rest
From the long love which ever fetters it
In bondage to her child!-My boy,
thine eye
Some day perchance may fall upon these lines,
And, catching here the shadow of my love,
Thy soul may guess its fulness, and may feel,
Through every struggle in this changing life,
That, like a guardian angel hovering round,
To comfort, check,-to pity, or to blame,—
To chide, to hope, to pray,—it watching stands,
But never to condemn!-A mother's heart
Might throb itself away in patient woe,—
Might break to end its pang,-but never, never,
Could deem her child a thing of vice or shame.
God bless thee, boy! and make thee stainless, pure,
Upright, and true, e'en as my thought doth paint
thee!

Margaret Fuller.

AMERICAN.

Sarah Margaret Fuller (1810-1850) is better known by her maiden name, though she became, by marriage at Rome in 1847, the Marchioness Ossoli. She was born in Cambridge, Mass., May 23d. Educated by her father,

she became eminent for her rapid attainments in literature, her acquirement of languages, her general learning, and her brilliant conversational powers. In 1840 shie edited The Dial; in 1844, became connected with the New York Tribune; and in 1846 went to Italy as the correspondent of that journal. In May, 1850, she embarked with her husband and infant son at Leghorn, in the ship Elizabeth, for New York, and perished with them in the wreck of that vessel on Fire Island. Her life was written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Henry Channing, and James Freeman Clarke, each contributing his individual view of her character. She was a woman of decided genius, but had so confident an estimate of her own powers, that her manner was at times too supercilious