"Hymns in Prose" are more truly poetical, than her rhymes; because in the former, the heart pours itself out in that true divinity of poetry, the love of Nature, and of Nature's God, unfettered by those rules of verse, which to her mind must, we think, always have proved heavy and irksome. Her prose is written with more freedom and apparent ease than her poetry; and her style is vigorous and elegant. There is a benignity, mingled with sprightliness, in many of her productions, which seems breathed from a happy as well as innocent heart and it adds very much to our pleasure when reading a delightful book, to feel assured that it was written in the same spirit of complacency. This pleasure we always enjoy over the works of Mrs. Barbauld.

She was

The maiden name of this poetess was Aiken. the only daughter of the Rev. John Aiken; and was born at the village of Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, June, 1743.- She exhibited in her earliest infancy an uncommon quickness of apprehension, and though her education was entirely domestic, and her literary advantages in youth quite circumscribed, yet her own industry and talents overcame all these obstacles, and she became an authoress of high repute, before her marriage with the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, which took place in 1774. From that time she devoted the greatest portion of her time and thoughts to the assistance of her husband, who was for many years engaged in superintending the education of a select number of boys, from among the first families. Mrs. Barbauld seems to have had a tender love for children, though she had none of her own; and the aid she rendered her excellent husband in the education of his pupils, was, without doubt, of much service in disciplining and strengthening her own mind. She survived her husband a number of years, devoting her widowhood to deeds of benevolence and her literary pursuits. Her own death occurred March 9th, 1825, in the eighty-second year of her age; and she retained to the last her cheerfulness.

Her personal appearance has been thus described by her niece, Miss Lucy Aiken.—" She was in youth possessed of great beauty, distinct traces of which she retained to the latest period of her life. Her person was slender, her complexion exquisitely fair, with the bloom of perfect health; her features were regular and elegant, and her dark blue eyes beamed with the light of fancy."

We may add that she exhibited through life that most precious of examples, intellectual eminence and Christian humility, united in a lovely and accomplished woman.

TO MR. BARBAULD.

Nov. 4th, 1778.

COME, clear thy studious looks awhile;

'T is arrant treason now

To wear that moping brow,

When I, thy empress, bid thee smile.

What though the fading year

One wreath will not afford

To grace the poet's hair,

Or deck the festal board;

A thousand pretty ways we'll find

To mock old Winter's starving reign;

We'll bid the violets spring again;

Bid rich poetic roses blow,

Peeping above his heaps of snow;

We'll dress his withered cheeks in flowers,

And on his smooth bald head

Fantastic garlands bind;

Garlands, which we will get

From the gay blooms of that immortal year,

Above the turning season, set,

Where young ideas shoot in Fancy's sunny bowers.
A thousand pleasant arts we'll have

To add new feathers to the wings of Time,
And make him smoothly haste away:
We'll use him as our slave,

And when we please we'll bid him stay,

And clip his wings, and make him stop to view

Our studies and our follies too;

How sweet our follies are, how high our fancies climb.

We 'll little care what others do,

And where they go, and what they say ;
Our bliss, all inward and our own,

Would only tarnished be, by being shown,

The talking, restless world shall see,
Spite of the world we'll happy be,

But none shall know

How much we 're so,

Save only Love, and we.

AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

GOD of my life! and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all, — for all are nothing here.

All nature faints beneath the mighty name,

Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;

As by a charm, the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,

And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ;-
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest cry,
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give;
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live:
From each terrestrial bondage set me free;
Still every wish that centres not in thee;
Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.

If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads
By living waters, and through flowery meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene,
O teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware!
With caution let me hear the syren's voice,
And, doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice.

If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray,

Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee;
With equal eye my various lot receive,
Resigned to die, or resolute to live;
Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.

I read his awful name, emblazoned high
With golden letters on the illumined sky;
Nor less the mystic characters I see
Wrought in each flower, inscribed in every tree;
In every leaf that trembles to the breeze

I hear the voice of God among the trees;
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk;
In every creature own thy forming power,
In each event thy providence adore.

Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fears control:
Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.

Then, when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When, trembling, on the doubtful edge of fate
I stand, and stretch my view to either state :
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to thee, in thee to die.