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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 seventh of December, 1784. When eleven years 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 SCOTT;* 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."

his "Paul Jones" and "Sir Michael Scott," we have never seen, but we believe them to be inferior to his more recent novels.

At the end of four years from the commencement of his life in the metropolis, CunningHAM 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 pre

sented 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 wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast:
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

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,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark! the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud:
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free,-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.


Go seek in the wild glen

Where streamlets are falling, Go seek on the lone hill

Where curlews are calling; Go seek when the clear stars Shine down without number, For there shall ye find him

My true love in slumber. They sought in the wild glenThe glen was forsaken; They sought on the mountain, 'Mang lang lady-bracken; And sore, sore they hunted My true love to find him, With the strong bands of iron To fetter and bind him.

Yon green hill I'll give thee,

Where the falcon is flying, To show me the den where

This bold traitor's lyingOh make me of Nithsdale's Fair princedom the heiress, Is that worth one smile of

My gentle Hugh Herries? The white bread, the sweet milk, And ripe fruits, I found him, And safe in my fond arms

I clasp'd and I wound him; I warn you go not where

My true lover tarries,

For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.

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On my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run:
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,

Nor moments between sighs and fears;
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain,—
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood:
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee

As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;
Or linger'd mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rose:
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought;
And fancy in her heaven flies free,-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
"T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from fortune's tree;
And sweeter still, to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine;
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods are green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,—
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower:
Oh then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;

And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak,—

I think the wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine!


Ir's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! There's an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain,

As I pass through Annan Water, with my bonnie bands again;

When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf upon the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree.

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


But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree.


AWAKE, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs:
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.
She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon;
And from her home, by Preston-burn,
Came forth the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropp'd,-now loud, now hush,-
The goldspink answer'd from the bush;
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain top.
'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.
Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Takest thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.


THE shepherd seeks his glowing hearth,

The fox calls from the mountain, The folded flocks are white with rime, Swans seek the silent fountain; And midnight starless is and drear, And Ae's wild waters swelling, Far up the lonesome greenwood glen, Where my fair maiden's dwelling. Wild is the night-green July's eve,

Ne'er balmier seem'd or warmer; For I sing thy name, and muse on thee, My mild and winsome charmer; Thy bower sheds far its trysting light

Through the dark air of DecemberThy father's dreaming o'er his wealth, Thy mother's in her chamber.

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.


The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree.

Oh! gladness comes to many,

But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean

To my ain countree.

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,
An' the blossom to the bee,
But I win back-oh never!
To my ain countree.
I'm leal to the high heaven,

Which will be leal to me;
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon,
Frae my ain countree.


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


THOUGH glorious, O God! must thy temple have been


On the day of its first dedication,
When the cherubim's wings widely waving were
On high on the ark's holy station;

When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd
To minister, standing before thee,

Retired from the cloud which the temple then fill'd,
And thy glory made Israel adore thee;
Though awfully grand was thy majesty then,
Yet the worship thy gospel discloses,
Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men,
Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.

And by whom was that ritual for ever repeal'd,
But by Him unto whom it was given

To enter the oracle where is reveal'd

Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven?

Who having once enter'd, hath shown us the way,
O Lord! how to worship before thee;
Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day,
But in spirit and truth to adore thee;

This, this is the worship the Saviour made known,
When she of Samaria found him

By the patriarch's well, sitting weary alone,
With the stillness of noontide around him.

How sublime, yet how simple, the homage he taught
To her who inquired by that fountain,
If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought,
Or adored on Samaria's mountain!

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.

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, In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, That spirit the Father approveth.


BIRD of the free and fearless wing!
Up! up! and greet the sun's first ray,
Until the spacious welkin ring

With thy enlivening matin lay!
I love to track thy heavenward way
Till thou art lost to aching sight,
And hear thy song, as blithe and gay

As heaven above looks pure and bright.

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!
When dewdrops spangle o'er the lea,
Ere yet upon the bending flower
Has lit the busy humming bee;
Pure as all nature is to thee,

Thou with an instinct half divine,
Wingest thy fearless flight so free

Up toward a still more glorious shrine.

Bird of the morn! from thee might man,
Creation's lord, a lesson take:

If thou, whose instinct ill may scan
The glories that around thee break,

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WALK in the light! so shalt thou know That fellowship of love

His Spirit only can bestow,

Who reigns in light above. Walk in the light!—and sin, abhorr'd, Shall ne'er defile again;

The blood of Jesus Christ the Lord

Shall cleanse from every stain.
Walk in the light!-and thou shalt find
Thy heart made truly His,
Who dwells in cloudless light enshrined,
In whom no darkness is.

Walk in the light!-and thou shalt own
Thy darkness pass'd away,
Because that light hath on thee shone
In which is perfect day.

Walk in the light!-and e'en the tomb
No fearful shade shall wear;
Glory shall chase away its gloom,

For Christ hath conquer'd there!
Walk in the light!-and thou shalt be
A path, though thorny, bright;
For God, by grace, shall dwell in thee,
And God himself is light!


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 :-

But that ray shines on through a night of tears,
And its light is round us in after years.

Nor is it while yet on the listening ear
The accents of friendship steal,
That we know the extent of the joy so dear,
Which its touching tones reveal:—
"Tis in after moments of sorrow and pain,
Their echo surpasses music's strain.

Though years have roll'd by, dear Mary! since we
Have look'd on each other's face,

Yet thy memory is fondly cherish'd by me,
For my heart is its dwelling-place;

And, if on this earth we should meet no more,
It must linger there still until life is o'er.

The traveller who journeys the live-long day Through some enchanting vale,

Should he, when the mists of evening are gray,
Some neighbouring mountain scale,-
Oh! will he not stop, and look back to review
The delightful retreats he has wander'd through?
So I, who have toil'd up life's steep hill
Some steps, since we parted last,
Often pensively pause, and look eagerly still

On the few bright spots I have pass'd :-
And some of the brightest, dear Mary! to me,
Were the lovely ones I enjoy'd with thee.
I know not how soon dark clouds may shade
The valley of years gone by;

Or how quickly its happiest haunts may fade
In the mists of an evening sky;-
But-till quench'd in the lustre of life's setting sun,
I shall look back at times, as I now have done.


I KNEW thee not! then wherefore gaze
Upon thy silent shadow there,
Which so imperfectly portrays

The form thy features used to wear?
Yet have I often look'd at thee,
As if those lips could speak to me.

I knew thee not! and thou couldst know,
At best, but little more of one

Whose pilgrimage on earth below

Commenced, just ere thine own was done;
For few and fleeting days were thine,
To hope or fear for lot of mine.
Yet few and fleeting as they were,

Fancy and feeling picture this,
They prompted many a fervent prayer,

Witness'd, perchance, a parting kiss;
And might not kiss, and prayer, from thee,
At such a period, profit me?
Whether they did or not, I owe

At least this tribute to thy worth;
Though little all I can bestow,

Yet fond affection gives it birth; And prompts me, as thy shade I view, To bless thee, whom I never knew!


NAY, shrink not from the word "farewell!"
As if 't were friendship's final knell ;

Such fears may prove but vain :
So changeful is life's fleeting day,
Whene'er we sever-hope may say,
"We part-to meet again!"
E'en the last parting heart can know,
Brings not unutterable wo,

To souls that heavenward soar;
For humble faith, with steadfast eye,
Points to a brighter world on high,
Where hearts that here at parting sigh,
May meet-to part no more.

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