although, perhaps, at the present day, she is surpassed by Mrs. Hemans, the sweetness, delicacy, and rich imagery of her poetical productions make them very delightful reading, and give her no mean rank among contemporary authors. Her prose writings, also, are distinguished for just thoughts, expressed in a style of great animation, and a sort of unaffected brilliancy of manner, which renders them exceedingly engaging. It is too often the case, that the task of selecting and arranging posthumous works, falls into injudicious hands, or, more properly speaking, that no selection whatever is made. The desire of getting up a large book, in order to increase the profit of the publication, or the indiscriminate admiration of friends, frequently give to the world, along with some things perhaps truly valuable, a great deal that cannot be read, and the unauthorized publication of which, in the life-time of the writer, would have been considered by him as an offence hardly to be forgiven. In this present instance, no danger of this sort need be apprehended. The good sense, and cool, steady judgment of Miss Lucy Aikin, who has undertaken the task of selecting the papers to be published, are the best possible pledge that nothing will be included among them which would tend, in the least degree, to impair the literary reputation of her excellent and venerable relation. The following is an extract of a letter from that lady to a gentleman in this city, who had offered to dispose of her History of Charles I., a work she is now preparing for the press, to some American bookseller.

"Mrs. Barbauld left behind her a considerable number of manuscripts, both in verse and prose, and I am now closely occupied in preparing a complete edition of her works. This publication will not, I apprehend, extend beyond two moderate octavos; one verse, the other prose. The verse, to which I shall prefix a short memoir, is already in the press, and will be printed, I hope, by the end of next month. It is still matter of doubt with me, whether the second volume can be brought out during the present London book-season, which does not extend beyond the month of June; for I wish some specimens of her epistolary talent, which was very striking, and some time must elapse before all the contributions of her correspondents can be collected. If we cannot be ready with both volumes at once, the prose must be deferred till November or December. Now, sir, I am so well persuaded that the products of Mrs. Barbauld's genius will be cordially received by your American public, that' I will venture to transmit to you a copy of the first volume, some time before publication, and beg of you the favor to per

form the same kind office which you have so obligingly offered with respect to my intended work. Nearly two thirds of the volume will consist of matter entirely new, and certainly not inferior, in intrinsic merit, to any thing of hers with which the public is acquainted. Old age has no power to quench in her the light of fancy. She wrote several charming little pieces in the course of the last year.

Stoke Newington, March 31, 1825."

THE DYING RAVEN.

Come to these lonely woods to die alone?
Not many days, it seems, since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling unto thy mates-and their clear answers.
The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,

Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us ;-offspring bright
Of earth, a mother, who, with constant care,

Doth feed and clothe them all.-Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,

Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it,--vanity well feigned-
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces.-Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops.
To deck their bosoms.-There, on tall, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in the unseen winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music,
And grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odors to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight-

Brings beauty, life ;-for love is life-hate, death.
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation!
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long,
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,

From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow-

Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days

Shone on the earth, midst thaw and steam, cam'st forth

From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,

To speak of comfort unto lonely man

Didst say to him,-though seemingly alone

'Midst wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground-that 'twas not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair ;-
That Thou, albeit unseen, did'st bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.

More Thou said'st,

Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of Faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
Of Spirits near him, though he saw them not:
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,

And see his solitude all populous :

Thou show'dst him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And did'st him pray to listen to the flow

Of living waters.

Preacher to man's spirit! Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!

Thou faithful one! is this thine end? "Twas Thou, When summer birds were gone, and no form seen In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,

On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!

Thy kingly strength brought down, of storms
Thou Conqueror !

The year's mild, cheering dawn Upon thee shone a momentary light.

The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest amongst thy hopes and promises;
Beautiful flowers, and freshly springing blades,
Gasping thy life out.-Here for Thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds—
To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. No answer give they back.
As I look up to their bright angel faces,
Intelligent and capable of voice

They seem to me. Their silence to my soul
Comes ominous. The same to thee, doom❜d bird,

Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound,

No silence :-near thee stands the shadow, Death,

And now he slowly draws his sable veil

Over thine eyes. Thy senses soft he lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call

Thou'lt hear no longer. Neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,

Thou'lt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death Are on Thee.

Laid thus low by age? Or is't
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end?
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food
Has proved thy snare, and makes thy inward pain!
I needs must mourn for thee. For I, who have
No fields, nor gather into garners-I

Bear Thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.
And, now, farewell! The falling leaves ere long
Will give Thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, which will now'no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes
Like armor of steeled knight of Palestine-
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon

As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him fade
In living man.

Who scoffs these sympathies,
Makes mock of the divinity within ;

Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul
The universal spirit.-Hear it cry,

"How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!

How deaden thee to universal love,

And joy of kindred, with all humble things,—
God's creatures all!"

And surely it is so.

He who the lily clothes in simple glory,

He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,

In signs mysterious, written what alone

Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor Bird.

A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND.

Come, take our boy, and we will go

Before our cabin door;

The winds shall bring us, as they blow,

The murmurs of the shore;

And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him, as he lies,

Songs that were made of yore:
I'll sing, in his delighted ear,
The island lays thou lov'st to hear.

And thou, while stammering I repeat,
Thy country's tongue shalt teach;
"Tis not so soft, but far more sweet,

Than my own native speech.
For thou no other tongue did'st know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,
Upon Tahete's beach,

Y.

Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.

I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise
My eyes, my locks of jet;

Ah! well for me they won thy gaze,—
But thine were fairer yet!
I'm glad to see my infant wear
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,
And when my sight is met

By his white brow and blooming cheek,
I feel a joy I cannot speak.

Come, talk of Europe's maids, with me,
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,
Outshine the beauty of the sea,

White foam and crimson shell.
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress,
And bind like them each jetty tress,
A sight to please thee well;
And for my dusky brow will braid
A bonnet, like an English maid.

Come, for the soft, low sunlight calls,
We lose the pleasant hours;
"Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,-
That seat among the flowers.
And I will learn of thee a prayer,
To Him, who gave a home so fair,

A lot so blest as ours

The God who made, for thee and me,
This sweet lone isle amid the sea.

B.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE NEW-YORK REVIEW.

Gentlemen,

I regret to be obliged to resume the subject of your review of the late "spurious" edition, as you term it, of Alexander Hamilton's Report on Manufactures. The task is unpleasant, but justice to myself requires it-and I have too much reliance on your honor to doubt your willingness to let the public hear the accused, as well as the accusers. Any other supposition would be an impeachment of your candor and impartiality.

I did hope that I had placed the matter in such a point of view, as would have induced you to retract your accusations. But I have been mistaken. They are repeated, and urged in stronger form. As editor of the edition in question, I am expressly charged with an attempt at imposition, by