and that he appears always more inclined to the treatment of topics which leave a sadness upon the minds of his readers.

The latest publication of Barry Cornwall is a volume of songs, collected chiefly from the various works in which they had previously appeared. As a song writer, also, he frequently hits those apparently vague, but really subtle, analogies in the feeling of the beautiful which characterise the Old Poets; but if he occasionally rivals them in grace, fancy, and sweetness, he now and then falls into the common error of considering as perfections their artificialities, and their conceits; "preferring the quaint to the natural, and often losing truth in searching after originality." The lyrics of Barry Cornwall are, therefore, however exquisite as small poems, unlikely to make their way among the multitude; and, with few exceptions, have not been received as national songs. We have seen writers far inferior enjoying a much wider popularity: compositions of comparatively little merit have been made familiar as household words, because they treat of matters common to all, in language understood by all, while the admirers of Barry Cornwall have been limited to those who have a refined taste, and a delicate appreciation of what is truly excellent. Our extracts will sufficiently prove the fine and masterly power of the Poet. A sound mind, a rich fancy, a rare and exquisite skill in dealing with words, and a pure style of versification, is evident in them all. Mr. Procter has, however, kept the promise of his genius. Among the Poets of Great Britain he holds a very foremost rank; if, now that his judgment is matured, he would again essay dramatic composition, he might occupy a station still higher,and take his undisputed seat beside the glorious creators of a gone-by age, whose fame

A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be,
Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea,
In the wild waters labouring, far from home,
For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam !
Few friends to cheer him through his dangerous life,
And none to aid him in the stormy strife:
Companion of the sea and silent air,

The lonely fisher thus must ever fare;

Without the comfort, hope, with scarce a friend, He looks through life, and only sees its end! Eternal ocean! Old majestic sea!

Ever love I from shore to look on thee,

And sometimes on thy billowy back to ride,
And sometimes o'er thy summer breast to glide:

But let me live on land, where rivers run,Where shady trees may screen me from the sun; Where I may feel, secure, the fragrant air; Where (whate'er toil or wearying pains I bear)

Those eyes, which look away all human ill, May shed on me their still, sweet, constant light; And the little hearts I love may (day and night) Be found beside me safe and clustering still !

SONG.

HERE'S a health to thee, Mary,
Here's a health to thee;

The drinkers are gone,

And I am alone,

To think of home and thee, Mary.

There are some who may shine o'er thee, Mary,
And many as frank and free;

And a few as fair,

But the summer air

Is not more sweet to me, Mary.

I have thought of thy last low sigh, Mary,
And thy dimm'd and gentle eye;

And I've call'd on thy name
When the night winds came,
And heard my heart reply, Mary.

Be thou but true to me, Mary,

And I'll be true to thee;

And at set of sun,

When my task is done,

Be sure that I'm ever with thee, Mary.

WOMAN.

GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume;
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,

And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;

And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.

Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power, But left her all in her wintry hour;

And the crowds that swore for her love to die, Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh ;And this is man's fidelity!

'Tis woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart;
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.

STANZAS.

IN glowing youth he stood beside
His native stream, and saw it glide,
Showing each gem beneath its tide,-
Calm as though nought could break its rest,
Reflecting heaven on its breast;

And seeming, in its flow, to be
Like candour, peace, and piety.

When life began its brilliant dream,
His heart was like his native stream;
The wave-shrined gems could scarcely seem
Less hidden than each wish it knew:
Its life flow'd on as calmly, too;
And heaven shielded it from sin,
To see itself reflected in.

He stood beside that stream again,
When years had fled in strife and pain;
He look'd for its calm course in vain,-
For storms profaned its peaceful flow,
And clouds o'erhung its crystal brow ;-
And turning then, he sigh'd to deem
His heart still like his native stream.

THE BLOOD HORSE.

GAMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed;
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known:
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within;
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light:
Look!-how round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float;
Sinewy strength is on his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his veins;
Richer, redder never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!
He-who hath no peer-was born
Here, upon a red March morn ;
But his famous fathers, dead,
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred :
And the last of that great line
Seemed as of a race divine!

And yet he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun,
By some lone fountain fringed with green:
With him, a roving Bedouin,
He lived-(none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day)-
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!

KING DEATH.

KING Death was a rare old fellow!
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And pour'd out his coal-black wine.