right and wrong as a part of speculative ethics; there is a moral air, coloring, and drapery thrown over all of them, and so firmly adhering, that they cannot be removed, without destroying the whole form and texture. To assert that her pages send out no poisonous influence, that the spirit which breathes from them, is incapable of tarnishing a mind of unsullied whiteness, is to allow her but a small part of her merit. No one can become familiar with her language and sentiments, without being sensible, not merely that his feelings have received no injury, no stain, but that they have gained something in vigor and delicacy. Moral ideas are introduced into her writings frequently enough to impart a hue, a prevailing expression, to her ordinary trains of thought, but never appear misplaced or obtrusive. The cast of her morality, though pure and elevated, is not gloomy and ascetic. She was not by temperament inclined either to fanaticism or rigor; but was serious without austerity, and, without romantic sentiment, possessed feelings alive to the delicate shades of moral beauty.

With Mrs Barbauld's devotional taste and feelings, the public is already well acquainted. Several of her beautiful hymns have long enriched our best collections of sacred poetry, and are esteemed by all who are capable of taking delight in sentiments of elevated and confiding piety, clothed in the attractions of verse. The devotional spirit of her 'Hymns in Prose for Children,' is felt, we presume, by most persons, to constitute one of their distinguishing excellences, and to add greatly to the charms of those simple, impressive, and deservedly popular productions. Her piety was calm and rational, yet a pervading sentiment, intimately blending with all her views, affections, and hopes. It partook of a serene and cheerful, rather than of a desponding and anxious character. Whenever the train of her reflections leads her to introduce devotional sentiments, she conveys them in language at once definite and forcible. She never loses herself in the cloudy regions of mysticism, never disgusts us by gross ideas and coarseness. She was a friend to earnestness, fervor, and simplicity in devotion, and it is matter of pleasing reflection, that writings of so popular a stamp, destined to form part of our familiar literature, breathe a moral and devotional spirit so unexceptionable, so pure, and so elevated.

We now proceed to illustrate our observations by a few ex

tracts. racter.

The first volume, besides

of a

very miscellaneous chaa well written Memoir of the

!

author by Miss Aikin, contains her poems, most of which have before appeared in the collection already alluded to, in separate pamphlets, and the magazines of the day; and they are now collected and arranged, we are told, in nearly a chronological order. Of these poems many are of a light, though pleasing character, and written in an easy and correct style of versification. The longest, and certainly one of the best in point of poetic merit, is Eighteen Hundred and Eleven.' This charming production of genius and taste would of itself be sufficient to establish Mrs Barbauld's fame on an immoveable basis. It strongly reminds us of the best strains of the author of 'The Deserted Village,' and The Traveller. But we will not mar it by any extracts.

As a specimen of the author's powers of familiar, lively, and somewhat humorous description, may be mentioned the lines on Washing day. The following stanzas from the 'Ode to Remorse' may be taken as an example of her more dignified and serious manner.

Dread offspring of the holy light within,
Offspring of Conscience and of Sin,

Stern as thine awful sire, and fraught with woe
From bitter springs thy mother taught to flow,-

Remorse! To man alone 't is given

Of all on earth, or all in heaven,

To wretched man thy bitter cup to drain,

Feel thy awakening stings, and taste thy wholesome pain.'

Thy goading stings the branded Cain
Cross the' untrodden desert drove,

Ere from his cradling home and native plain
Domestic man had learnt to rove.

By gloomy shade or lonely flood
Of vast primeval solitude,

Thy step his hurried steps pursued,
Thy voice awoke his conscious fears,

For ever sounding in his ears

A father's curse, a brother's blood;

Till life was misery too great to bear,

And torturing thought was lost in sullen dumb despair.'

Mark that poor wretch with clasped hands!

Pale o'er his parent's grave he stands,

The grave by his ingratitude prepared;

Ah then, where'er he rests his head,

On roses pillowed or the softest down,
Though festal wreathes his temples crown,
He well might envy Guatimozin's bed,
With burning coals and sulphur spread,
And with less agony his torturing hour have shared.

For Thou art by to point the keen reproach;
Thou draw'st the curtains of his nightly couch,
Bring'st back the reverend face with tears bedewed,

That o'er his follies yearned ;
The warnings oft in vain renewed,
The looks of anguish and of love,

His stubborn breast that failed to move,

When in the scorner's chair he sat, and wholesome counsel

spurned.

Lives there a man whose laboring breast
Is with some dark and guilty secret prest,
Who hides within its inmost fold
Strange crimes to mortal ear untold ?
In vain to sad Chartreuse he flies,
Midst savage rocks and cloisters dim and drear,
And there to shun thee tries:

In vain untold his crime to mortal ear,
Silence and whispered sounds but make thy voice more
Vol. I. pp. 178-181.

clear.'

Mrs Barbauld's later productions give evidence of the mellow ing influence of time. A few of them certainly make near ap proaches to the pathetic. The following, On the Death of the Princess Charlotte,' is beautiful and touching.

Yes, Britain mourns, as with electric touch,
For youth, for love, for happiness destroyed,
Her universal population melts

In grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved,
And rough unpolished natures learn to feel
For those they envied, levelled in the dust
By Fate's impartial stroke; and pulpits sound
With vanity and woe to earthly goods,
And urge and dry the tear. - Yet one there is
Who midst this general burst of grief remains
In strange tranquillity; whom not the stir
And long drawn murmurs of the gathering crowd,
That by his very windows trail the pomp

Of hearse, and blazoned arms, and long array
Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans
And deep felt anguish of a husband's heart,
Can move to mingle with this flood one tear :
In careless apathy, perhaps in mirth,

He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood,
The very stem on which this blossom grew,
And at his knees she fondled in the charm
And grace spontaneous which alone belongs
To untaught infancy:-Yet, O forbear!
Nor deem him hard of heart; for awful, struck
By Heaven's severest visitation, sad,
Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees,
Lonely he stands; leaves bud, and shoot, and fall;
He holds no sympathy with living nature
Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour,
While pensive thought is busy with the woes
And restless change of poor humanity,
Think then, O think of him, and breathe one prayer,
From the full tide of sorrow spare one tear,

For him who does not weep!

pp. 197, 198.

The Thought on Death,' written at the age of seventyone, we cannot forbear to quote, notwithstanding it has been so often published.

When life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,
And Youth prepares his joys to meet,-
Alas how hard it is to die!

When just is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,-
How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,-
Ah then, how easy 't is to die !

When faith is firm and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And visioned glories half appear,-
'T is joy, 't is triumph then to die.

When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,-
'T is nature's precious boon to die. p. 188.

The second volume contains a selection from the aut private correspondence, and most of her miscellaneous piec prose, published in different forms during her life. Her 1 are easy and natural. They have not the simplicity and cl of Cowper's; they appear less the effusions of the heart tha They have less wit and brilliancy, perhaps, than Lady M gue's; less of passionate sentiment, and less the air of the than those of Madame Sévigné; they are, however, spr and agreeable, and on the whole leave an impression creditable to the author. They are in a familiar strain, sionally interspersed with a little light criticism, but contain notices of contemporary events, and fewer literary anecd the times, than could be wished. Those written durir travels on the continent, contain some pleasing descri though the topics and incidents have little of the attrac novelty. But our readers may be pleased to have an tunity of judging for themselves, of the merits of her epi style. The following is a pretty favorable specimen.

Believe me, my dear Betsy, my heart has some ti proached me for being in your debt. I am much obliged for your kind invitation to Bedford: certainly few things give me more pleasure than conversing with my Betsy; bu not be in my power to reach Bedford this time. I have been so long from home, that they begin to be impatient return, and I would not trespass too far upon their go who, I am sensible, in some measure deny themselves in without me.

Patty and I are now with Mrs K. She and I are grea
ers, and in fine weather often stroll about almost all the m
but we have very little to do with visiting any public pla
cept the playhouses, where we have been three or four
the West Indian, a very pretty play
Last night we
but the characters are so ill cast,

One part, inde

cha