Every one, I think, will agree with me in looking upon this as a country love-idyll exquisite of its kind. It is also a good instance of Mr. Barnes' fine taste in knowing when and where to stop, in discerning how much poetical embroidery a little incident of this kind will bear, so that he may not overwork his subject, or overload it with ornament. The Snowy Night' is a companion picture to the Rose in the Dark,' only somewhat keener and livelier in point of colouring: it carries with it a Christmas sparkle of

December stars, instead of the fragrant gloom of a breathless evening in June. No preliminary instruction is needed, except that you ought to be told the meaning of the Dorsetshire word 'lew'-it means 'screened,'' sheltered.'

A SNOWY NIGHT.

"Twer at night, an' a keen win' did blow
Vrom the east under peäle-twinklèn stars,
All a-zweepèn along the white snow;

On the groun', on the trees, on the bars,
Vrom the hedge where the win' russled droo,
There a light-russlèn snow-doust did vall;
An' noo pleäce were a-vound that wer lew,
But the shed, or the ivy-hung wall.

Then I knock'd at the wold passage door
Wi' the win'-driven snow on my locks;
Till, a-comèn along the cwold vloor,

There my Jenny soon answer'd my knocks.
Then the wind, by the door a-swung wide,
Flung some snow in her clear-bloomèn feäce,

An' she blink'd, wi' her head all a-zide,

An' a-chucklèn, went back to her pleäce.

'An' in there, as we zot roun' the brands,
Though the talkers wer maïnly the men,
Bloomèn Jeäne, wi' her work in her hands,
Did put in a good word now an' then.
An' when I took my leave, though so bleäk
Wer the weather, she went to the door,

Wi' a smile, an' a blush on the cheäk

That the snow had a-smitten avore.'

The last poem with which I shall trouble you is 'The Turnstile.' In this you have only to be tolerant of 'goo' for 'go' and 'overjayed' for 'overjoyed.'

THE TURNSTILE.

Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce

The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,

Wer now a-zingèn all alive

W' t'other bells to meäke the vive.

But up at woone pleäce we come by,

'Twere hard to keep woone's two eyes dry;
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnèn-stile, a-païnted white,
Doo sheen by day an' show by night.

Vor always there, as we did goo

To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreadèn eärms that wheel'd to guide

Us each in turn to t'other zide.

An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took

My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look;

An' then zent on my little maïd,
As skippen onward, overjay'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelèn roun', he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäkèn wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But yesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,

An' then my little maïd in black,
A-walkèn softly on her track ;
An' a'ter he'd a-turn'd ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill

His last white eärms, an' they stood still.'

Now this little poem, as a representation of quiet sadness-sadness not yielding to despair, but nevertheless clouding the common daylight, and tinging each familiar object with the shadow of its own blackness, is, so far as I can judge, unsurpassed in its way. At the same time, I own that I have some difficulty in assigning to such a poem its proper place on the scale of poetic excellence. A pathetic wail, like the one I have just read, like Mrs. Hemans' 'Graves of a Household,' like many others which you will easily recall, is sure of producing its full effect —sure, I may say, of becoming an universal favourite. A critic, no doubt, may find it hard to determine how much of its influence is derived from instincts which are alive in all hearts at all times, from sympathies which tremble at a touch; and how much from the real genius shown by its author; but, whatever he may decide, we may feel sure that he will not be listened to, especially by the young, who have rather a turn for playing with sorrow, as children play with

fire until they have been burnt by it. Accepting, accordingly, their verdict for the present, I think we may fairly claim for The Turnstile' a high place in the very first rank of such charming compositions. I might multiply my quotations from Mr. Barnes indefinitely. Out of his three volumes, in the Dorsetshire dialect, many selections might be made of equal merit with the above; still, I think those which I have cited are characteristic specimens of the poet; so that a just notion may be drawn from them, both of what he usually aims at, and how he has succeeded in his attempts. At the time, moreover, when I began to turn this lecture over in my mind, several laudatory articles referring to him, which have recently appeared, were still unwritten. I do not, however, regret the labour which I have given to the subject; he deserves, unless I deceive myself, all and more than all, the notice which he has obtained; and I am happy to find the conclusions, at which I had arrived in this matter, fortified by the unanimous concurrence of so many able critics. It is surely no light praise for an author, by one and the same work, to render valuable services to philology, and to secure, without requiring a particle of indulgence on any ground of dialect, the renown of a distinguished poet.