BERNARD BARTON'S HOUSEHOLD VERSES.

AFTER, a silence of nine years, Bernard Barton again comes before the public with a volume of Household Verses ; chiefly treating of social and domestic incidents, and religious topics in the peaceful spirit of religion, though sometimes wandering beyond them to a thought suggested by a picture, a ruin or a tomb, but even in the treatment of the larger subjects suggested by such counterfeit presentments still returning to his original theme. Sometimes a birthday suggests topics of reflection, thankfulness, and memory ; sometimes a wedding induces hopeful wishes; anon a friend calls for affectionate greeting and a re- vival of kindly remembrance ; and then death claims a tribute to the virtues of the departed, the grief of the survivors, and the hopes of the Christian. A holyday passed amid the beauties of nature with congenial minds gives rise to a poem, or a sonnet, or, in the case of Burstal, to a series of sonnets ; a baronial hall, an old English private or eccle- siastical building, induces the poet to recall the past and point its moral. Some poems will be found of a strictly religious kind ; and some too of a commoner character, suggested by prints, or similar themes of inspira- tion, as if an Annual had been in the writer's mind.

The execution of Household Verses displays the usual characteristics of Bernard Barton. There is the respectable English tone, and purity of feeling, mingled with a subdued or Quaker-like heartiness. There is the usual propriety and justness of thought, and facile fluency of versification ; always producing a calm and equable flow of agreeable poetry, often rising to simple beauty, and sometimes approaching force. Force or strength, however, will be found the desideratum of the volume. A theme is frequently pursued too far ; the gold is beaten to too thin a leaf, and wants the weight which condensation gives. Perhaps, too, more variety would have been agreeable to the reader. The themes, indeed, are varied enough within their limits ; but the character of thought and style of diction are too similar. The reader almost wishes that the poet's life had glided less peacefully serene ; that some commotion or some

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flare-up " had occurred to produce deeper thought, and more powerful though perhaps more rugged diction. Even on the subject of the dead, there is too rejoicingly trustful a spirit, and too dancing a metre for many minds, although the subject is general—" To the Dead in Christ." "Ye are gone from the saddened hearth,

Your time-hushed tones are stilled; Ye are gone from the bowers of earth, From the homes your presence filled. Ye are gone to the spirits' land,

And we miss your looks of love; Ye have joined that happy band Who rejoice in light above.

And our spirits yearn below For the music of your voice know That • our longing hearts would know

That which bids you rejoice.

Ye have done with sin and sorrow,

Ye are freed from care and pain; Ye dread not the coming morrow, Ye never can fear again.

Ye have laid down those mansions of clay Around which sad memory hovers; And your spirits have winged their way To scenes their pure via= discovers.

The golden bowl is broken, Loosed life's silver cord; And your spirits, by angels spoken, Rejoice with Christ the Lord !"

In the following glance at the contentions which disturb the " Es- tablishment," this calmer wisdom is in place.

"Is the world much WISER grown,

When the surplice and the gown, Turning East or turning West, Are of magnitude confest, And, in days of fearful signs, Dwelt upon by grave divines? Shall we never comprehend, That Religion's aim and end In such things can have no part,

But appeals unto THE HEART?

There would rear her hallowed throne, Rule and reign by love alone !"

One of the most real poems in the volume is that "To a Professional Friend on his Retirement from Active Life " : at least its freshness gives it both reality and individuality ; which can hardly be attained in verses on such worn themes as marriages, births, and deaths.

" Thine is no blood-stained victor-wreath, Won in the fields of martial fame; The trumpet's peal, the bugle's breath, May swell not to exalt thy name: Gentler and purer is its claim,

Nor unconfess'd its calm appeal; And well thy bard might blush for shame,

If its full force he could not feel.

If many a year of arduous toil Devoted to a noble art, Patience—which pain could never foil, Honour—that blunted slander's dory

Kindness—which soothed the mourners heart,

And manners, gentle and benign;

May gratulating thoughts impart,— Such, honoured friend, are justly thine.

Where pain and sickness proved their power,

Numbers have blessed thy timely skill:

Where this was bootless,—in the hour

Of anguish, when the heart grew chill,

Thy sympathy, like balm, bath still

Fallen upon hearts by sorrow riven,

Wakening on earth a grateful thrill, And prayers which soared for thee to heaven.

Nor less in many a wretched cot,

Where lonely want laid down to die, Mindful of poverty's hard lot, Hath thy unpurchased aid been nigh: Glad tears have risen to many an eye, Called by thy generous kindness forth; And the poor sufferer's heartfelt sigh Of gratitude confessed thy worth.

Such are not profitless, though dumb; For Heaven records each kindly deed And word and thought;--a time will come When such for thee shall loudly plead; And acts unasked for, and unfee'd, Unknown, unthought of, then shall live, And for thee win a richer meed Than aught this world could ever give.

Then welcome to life's calm retreat,

From its most toilsome, hourly care: May every boon that makes it sweet Around thy social hearth repair; And every bliss that man can share, Comfort while here and hope above, All that can prompt warm fnendship's prayer, Crown thee and thine with peace and love."