ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. his "Paul Jones" and "Sir Michael Scott," we have never seen, but we believe them to be inferior to his more recent novels. THE father and grandfather of the late ALLAN CUNNINGHAM were farmers, in Blackwood, a place of much natural beauty, near Dumfries, in Scotland, where the poet was born on the At the end of four years from the commenceseventh of December, 1784. When eleven | ment of his life in the metropolis, CUNNINGyears of age, he was taken from the parish school and apprenticed to his elder brother, a stone mason, with whom he remained until he became a skilful workman. The practical knowledge thus acquired was of much value to him when in later years he wrote his " Lives of British Architects," a work as distinguished for judicious criticism as for accuracy of statement and the attractive simplicity of its style. The first publications of CUNNINGHAM were several lyrical pieces in CROMEK'S "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," a volume of which they constituted the most pleasing contents. They attracted the attention of Dr. PERCY, who declared them to be too good for antiques; they were praised by Scorr;* and their popularity, surprising as much as it gratified the author, led to an acknowledgment of their paternity. In 1810 CUNNINGHAM finally abandoned the trowel for the pen, and went to London. An early and judicious marriage secured to him a quiet and happy home. From the suffering experienced by so many men of genius, the excitements and the ruin of HOOK, MAGINN, and others among his contemporaries, he was thus saved. His moral worth was equal to his intellectual accomplishments, and he won the success which in nearly all instances attends upon talents united with industry and integrity. Among his earliest publications were "Mark Macrabin, or the Covenanters," a prose story of considerable power printed in "Blackwood," and a series of tales and traditions in the London Magazine. These, and * SIR WALTER SCOTT says, in his introductory epistle to "The Fortunes of Nigel," "With a popular impress, people would read and admire the beauties of Allan-as it is, they may perhaps only note his defects-or, what is worse, not note him at all. But never mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to Caledonia for all that. There are some lyrical effusions of his, too, which you would do well to read, Captain. 'It's hame, and it's hame,' is equal to BURNS." HAM entered the studio of Sir FRANCIS CHANTRY, where he remained until the death of that eminent sculptor, who is supposed to have been much indebted to him for the marks of imagination and fancy which appear in his works. He still found time for literary pursuits, and in a short period wrote several prose fictions, and "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem, the scenery and characters of which belong to his native district. In 1825 he published his "Scottish Song," in which are preserved the finest lyrics of his native country, with copious traditional and critical notes; in 1831, "Lives of Eminent Painters and Sculptors," which has been reprinted in Harpers' Family Library, and the "Lives of British Architects," to which we have before alluded. In 1832 he wrote "The Maid of Elvar," the last and the best of his larger poems. It is a rural epic, smoothly versified, and containing many pleasing pictures of scenery and life. Among his more recent works were "Lord Roldan," a novel, "The Life and Land of Burns," and "Memoirs of Sir David Wilkie," the last of which he finished but two days before his own death, which occurred on the twenty-ninth of October, 1843. Cunningham commenced many years ago, "The Lives of the Poets from Chaucer to Coleridge," a work which he was well qualified to write, but it was never finished. In the "Life and Land of Burns," is a fine portrait of "Honest Allan," as Scott was wont to call him, exhibiting in vigorous proportions, penetrating eyes, and countenance expressive of power and gentleness, the most striking qualities of the man. He is presented in the tartan, symboling that love of Scotland which he ever cherished, and which is also shown in the selection of the subjects of his works, in their style, and in their spirit. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast: Oh for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high: And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free,The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horn'd moon, GENTLE HUGH HERRIES. Go seek in the wild glen Yon green hill I'll give thee, They rein'd their proud war-steeds, But deep in yon wild glen, THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. Он! my love's like the steadfast sun, Even while I muse, I see thee sit We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon Though I see smiling at thy feet It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! The green leaf of loyalty's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering and a', But I'll water 't with the blood of usurping tyrannie, And green it will grow in my ain countree. It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! There's nought now from ruin my country can save But the keys of kind heaven to open the grave, That all the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countree. It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; The new green grass is growing aboon their bloody grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree. THE SHEPHERD SEEKS HIS GLOWING HEARTH. THE shepherd seeks his glowing hearth, Wild is the night-green July's eve, Now is the time for talk, my love, Soft sighing, mutual wishing, Heart-throbbings, interchange of vows, Words breathed mid holy kissing; All worldly maxims, wise men's rules, My raptured soul disdaineth; For with my love the world is lost And all the world containeth. AWAKE, MY LOVE! AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray MY AIN COUNTREE. The sun rises bright in France, But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. Oh! gladness comes to many, Oh! it's not my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, But the love I left in Galloway, Wi' bonnie bairns three; My hamely hearth burn'd bonnie, And smiled my fair Marie,I've left a' my heart behind me, In my ain countree. The bud comes back to summer, But I win back-oh never! BERNARD BARTON. BERNARD BARTON was born in 1784, and was educated in one of the seminaries of the Society of Friends. He subsequently took up his residence at Woodbridge in Suffolk, where he held a situation in a banking-house. His first publication was an anonymous miscellany entitled "Metrical Effusions," which was followed in 1818 by "Poems by an Amateur," and in the next year by a volume under his proper signature, which was favourably noticed in the literary gazettes, and was reprinted from the third London edition in Philadelphia. In 1826, he published "Napoleon SPIRITUAL WORSHIP. and other Poems," and we believe he has since written several small works in prose and verse. From the Life and Correspondence of LAMB, by Sergeant TALFOURD, we learn that BARTON belonged to the circle of intimate friends in whose society that gentlehearted humourist so much delighted. Many of LAMB's most familiar and characteristic letters were addressed to the Quaker poet. BARTON'S style is diffuse, but simple and graceful. His poetry is generally descriptive and meditative, tender and devoted, and animated by cheerful views of life. For God is a spirit, and they who aright Would perform the pure worship He loveth, THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, been On the day of its first dedication, When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd, Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven ? This, this is the worship the Saviour made known, By the patriarch's well, sitting weary alone, How sublime, yet how simple, the homage he taught Woman, believe me, the hour is near, When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, Will neither be worshipp'd exclusively here, Nor yet at the altar of Salem. That spirit the Father approveth. TO THE SKYLARK. BIRD of the free and fearless wing! With thy enlivening matin lay! Songster of sky and cloud! to thee Has heaven a joyous lot assign'd; And thou, to hear those notes of glee, Would seem therein thy bliss to find: Thou art the first to leave behind, At day's return, this lower earth; And soaring, as on wings of wind, To spring whence light and life have birth. Bird of the sweet and taintless hour! Thou with an instinct half divine, Up toward a still more glorious shrine. Bird of the morn! from thee might man, Thus bidd'st a sleeping world awake Should mind, immortal, earth forsake, Bird of the happy, heavenward song! Could but the poet act thy part, This soul, upborne on wings as strong As thought can give, from earth might start: And he, with far diviner art Than genius ever can supply, As thou the ear, might glad the heart, CHILDREN OF LIGHT. WALK in the light! so shalt thou know Who reigns in light above. Shall ne'er defile again; The blood of Jesus Christ the Lord Walk in the light!-and thou shalt find Walk in the light!-and thou shalt own For Christ hath conquer'd there! TO MARY. Ir is not alone while we live in the light Of friendship's kindling glance, That its beams so true, and so tenderly bright, Our purest joys can enhance :- Nor is it while yet on the listening ear That we know the extent of the joy so dear, Though years have roll'd by, dear Mary! since we Yet thy memory is fondly cherish'd by me, For my heart is its dwelling-place; The traveller who journeys the live-long day Through some enchanting vale, Should he, when the mists of evening are gray, So I, who have toil'd up life's steep hill Some steps, since we parted last, I know not how soon dark clouds may shade Or how quickly its happiest haunts may fade TO A PROFILE. I KNEW thee not! then wherefore gaze Which so imperfectly portrays I knew thee not! and thou couldst know, Commenced, just ere thine own was done; Yet few and fleeting as they were, Yet fond affection gives it birth; FAREWELL. NAY, shrink not from the word "farewell!" Such fears may prove but vain : To souls that heavenward soar; |