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JOANNA BAILLIE.

JOANNA BAILLIE was born in Bothwell, in Scotland, of an honourable family, about the year 1765. She has spent the greater portion of her life at Hampstead, near London, where she now resides. When she began to write, she tells us in the preface to a volume recently published, not one of all the eminent authors of modern times was known, and Miss SEWARD and Mr. HAYLEY were the poets spoken of in society. The brightest stars in the poetical firmament, with very few exceptions, have risen and set since then; the greatest revolutions in empire and in opinion have taken place; but she has lived on as if no echo of the upturnings and overthrows which filled the world reached the quiet of her home; the freshness of her inspirations untarnished; writing from the fulness of a true heart of themes belonging equally to all the ages. Personally she is scarcely known in literary society; but from her first appearance as an author, no woman has commanded more respect and admiration by her works; and the most celebrated of her contemporaries have vied with each other in doing her honour. Scort calls her the Shakspeare of her sex.

"The wild harp silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er,
When SHE, the bold enchantress, came
With fearless band and heart on flame,-
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kindred measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspiring strain

Deem'd their own SHAKSPEARE lived again!"

The most remarkable of her works are her "Plays of the Passions," a series in which each passion is made the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. In the comedies she failed completely; they are pointless tales in dialogue. Her tragedies, however, have great merit, though possessing a singular quality for works of such an aim, in being without the earnestness and abruptness of actual and powerful feeling. By refinement and elaboration she makes the passions sentiments. She fears

to distract attention by multiplying incidents; her catastrophes are approached by the most gentle gradations; her dramas are therefore slow in action and deficient in interest. Her characters possess little individuality; they are mere generalizations of intellectual attributes, theories personified. The very system of her plays has been the subject of critical censure. The chief object of every dramatic work is to please and interest, and this object may be arrived at as well by situation as by character. Character distinguishes one person from another, while by passion nearly all men are alike. A controlling passion perverts character, rather than developes it; and it is therefore in vain to attempt the delineation of a character by unfolding the progress of a passion. It has been well observed too, that unity of passion is impossible, since to give a just relief and energy to any particular passion, it should be presented in opposition to one of a different sort, so as to produce a powerful conflict in the heart.

In dignity and purity of style, Miss BAILLIE has not been surpassed by any of the poets of her sex. Her dialogue is formed on the Shaksperean model, and she has succeeded perhaps better than any other dramatist in imitating the manner of the greatest poet of the world.

"De Montfort" we believe is the only one of Miss BAILLIE's tragedies which has been successfully presented in the theatres. It was performed in London by JOHN KEMBLE, and in New York and Philadelphia by EDMUND KEAN; but no actors of inferior genius have ventured to attempt it, and it will probably never again be brought upon the stage.

Besides her plays Miss BAILLIE has written "A View of the General Tenor of the New Testament regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ," "Metrical Legends of Eminent Characters," "Fugitive Verses," and some less important publications. In 1827 she gave the world a new volume of “Plays on the Passions," and in 1842 Moxon published her " Fugitive Verses."

BIRTHDAY LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE.

DEAR Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with tears,

O'er us have glided almost sixty years

Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen,
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been,
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stoop'd to gather
The slender hair-bell on the purple heather;
No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that cross'd our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew,
And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright
In sheeny gold were each a wondrous sight.
Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,
Minnows or spotted paur with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazzy rings the pool within,
A thrill of gladness through our bosom sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

"T was thou who woo'dst me first to look
Upon the page of printed book,
That thing by me abhorred, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste.
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show, a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I,
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,

Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention,
"What! is this story all thine own invention!"
Then, as advancing through this mortal span,
Our intercourse with the mix'd world began,
Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy,
(A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not concealed) did for the sisters twain,
Where'er we went, the greater favour gain;
While, but for thee, vex'd with its tossing tide,
I from the busy world had shrunk aside.
And how in later years, with better grace
Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place
With those whom nearer neighbourhood has made
The friendly cheerers of our evening shade.
With thee my humours, whether grave or gay,
Or gracious or untoward, have their way.
Silent, if dull-O precious privilege!

I sit by thee; or if, cull'd from the page
Of some huge, ponderous tome which, but thyself,
None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf,
Thou read me curious passages to speed
The winter night, I take but little heed
And thankless say, "I cannot listen now,"
'Tis no offence; albeit, much do I owe
To these, thy nightly offerings of affection,
Drawn from thy ready talent for selection;
For still it seem'd in thee a natural gift
The letter'd grain from letter'd chaff to sift.
By daily use and circumstance endear'd,
Things are of value now that once appear'd.

Of no account, and without notice past,
Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast;
To hear thy morning steps the stair descending,
Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending;
After each stated nightly absence, met

To see thee by the morning table set,
Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream
Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam;
To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand,
On summer morn, with trowel in thy hand
For garden-work prepared; in winter's gloom
From thy cold noon-day walk to see thee come,
In furry garment lapt, with spatter'd feet,
And by the fire resume thy wonted seat; [thrown
Ay, even o'er things like these, soothed age has
A sober charm they did not always own,
As winter hoar-frost makes minutest spray
Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day,
In magnitude and beauty, which bereaved
Of such investment, eye had ne'er perceived.

TO A CHILD.

WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulder round and sleek,
And soft and fair?-thou urchin sly!

What boots it who with sweet caresses

First called thee his,-or squire or hind? Since thou in every wight that passes,

Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall;
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
Is infantine coquetry all.

But far a field thou hast not flown;

With mocks, and threats, half-lisp'd, half-spoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging; To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure: I'd gladly part with worldly pelf

To taste again thy youthful pleasure.

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or horn-book thumbing.

Well; let it be!-through weal and wo,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley, shifting show,
And thou a thing of hope and change.

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

Is there a man, that, from some lofty steep,
Views in his wide survey the boundless deep,
When its vast waters, lined with sun and shade,
Wave beyond wave, in serried distance fade
To the pale sky ;-or views it, dimly seen,
The shifting screens of drifted mist between,
As the huge cloud dilates its sable form,
When grandly curtain'd by the approaching storm,
Who feels not his awed soul with wonder rise
To Him whose power created sea and skies,
Mountains and deserts, giving to the sight
The wonders of the day and of the night?
'But let some fleet be seen in warlike pride,
Whose stately ships the restless billows ride,
While each, with lofty masts and brightening sheen
Of fair spread sails, moves like a vested queen ;—
Or rather, be some distant bark, astray,
Seen like a pilgrim on his lonely way,
Holding its steady course from port and shore,
A form distinct, a speck, and seen no more,-
How doth the pride, the sympathy, the flame,
Of human feeling stir his thrilling frame?
"O Thou! whose mandate dust inert obey'd,
What is this creature man whom thou hast made?"
On Palos' shore, whose crowded strand
Bore priests and nobles of the land,
And rustic hinds and townsmen trim,
And harness'd soldiers stern and grim,
And lowly maids and dames of pride,
And infants by their mother's side,-
The boldest seaman stood that e'er
Did bark or ship through tempest steer;
And wise as bold, and good as wise;
The magnet of a thousand eyes,
That, on his form and features cast,
His noble mien and simple guise,
In wonder seem'd to look their last.

A form which conscious worth is gracing,
A face where hope, the lines effacing
Of thought and care, bestow'd, in truth,
To the quick eyes' imperfect tracing,
The look and air of youth.

Who, in his lofty gait, and high
Expression of the enlighten'd eye,
Had recognised, in that bright hour,
The disappointed suppliant of dull power,
Who had in vain of states and kings desired
The pittance for his vast emprise required ?—
The patient sage, who, by his lamp's faint light,
O'er chart and map spent the long silent night?—
The man who meekly fortune's buffets bore,
Trusting in One alone, whom heaven and earth
adore!

Another world is in his mind,
Peopled with creatures of his kind,

With hearts to feel, with minds to soar,
Thoughts to consider and explore;

Souls who might find, from trespass shriven,
Virtue on earth and joy in heaven.
"That power divine, whom storms obey,"
(Whisper'd his heart,) a leading star,

Will guide him on his blessed way;
Brothers to join by fate divided far.
Vain thoughts! which heaven doth but ordain
In part to be, the rest, alas! how vain!

But hath there lived of mortal mould,
Whose fortunes with his thoughts could hold
An even race! Earth's greatest son
That e'er earn'd fame, or empire won,
Hath but fulfill'd, within a narrow scope,
A stinted portion of his ample hope.
With heavy sigh and look depress'd,
The greatest men will sometimes hear
The story of their acts address'd
To the young stranger's wondering ear,
And check the half-swoln tear.

Is it or modesty or pride

Which may not open praise abide ?
No; read his inward thoughts: they tell,
His deeds of fame he prizes well.
But ah! they in his fancy stand,
As relics of a blighted band,
Who, lost to man's approving sight,
Have perish'd in the gloom of night,
Ere yet the glorious light of day
Had glitter'd on their bright array.
His mightiest feat had once another,
Of high imagination born,-

A loftier and a noble brother,
From dear existence torn;

And she, for those who are not, steeps
Her soul in wo,-like Rachel, weeps.

PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM.

INSENSIBLE to high heroic deeds,

Is there a spirit cloth'd in mortal weeds,
Who at the patriot's moving story,
Devoted to his country's good,

Devoted to his country's glory,

Shedding for freemen's rights his generous blood,-
Listeneth not with deep heaved sigh,
Quivering nerve, and glistening eye,
Feeling within a spark of heavenly flame,
That with the hero's worth may humble kindred
claim?

If such there be, still let him plod

On the dull foggy paths of care,

Nor raise his eyes from the dank sod To view creation fair:

What boots to him the wondrous works of God? His soul with brutal things hath ta'en its earthly lair. Oh! who so base as not to feel

The pride of freedom once enjoy'd,
Though hostile gold or hostile steel
Have long that bliss destroy'd?

The meanest drudge will sometimes vaunt
Of independent sires, who bore
Names known to fame in days of yore,

Spite of the smiling stranger's taunt;
But recent freedom lost-what heart
Can bear the humbling thought-the quickening,
maddening smart?

FROM THE "TRAVELLER BY NIGHT."

-STILL more pleased, through murky air,
He spies the distant bonfire's glare;
And, nearer to the spot advancing,
Black imps and goblins round it dancing;
And nearer still, distinctly traces
The featured disks of happy faces,
Grinning and roaring in their glory,
Like Bacchants wild of ancient story,
And making murgeons to the flame,
As it were playmate in the game.
Full well, I trow, could modern stage
Such acting for the nonce engage,
A crowded audience every night
Would press to see the jovial sight;
And this, from cost and squeezing free,
November's nightly travellers see.
Through village, lane, or hamlet going,
The light from cottage window, showing
Its inmates at their evening fare,
By rousing fire, where earthenware
With pewter trenchers, on the shelf,
Give some display of worldly pelf,
Is transient vision to the eye
Of him our hasty passer by;
Yet much of pleasing import tells,
And cherish'd in his fancy dwells,
Where simple innocence and mirth
Encircle still the cottage hearth.
Across the road a fiery glare

Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare,
Where furnace-blast, and measured din
Of heavy hammers, and within
The brawny mates their labour plying,
From heated bar the red sparks flying,
Some idle neighbours standing by
With open mouth and dazzled eye:
The rough and sooty walls with store
Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er,
And rusty blades and bars between,
All momently are heard and seen.
Yet this short scene of noisy coil
But serves our traveller as a foil,
Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
A charm to pensive quiet, sending
To home and friends, left far behind,
The kindliest musings of his mind;
Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
A dimness o'er the haggard train
A mood and hour like this will throw,
As vex'd and burden'd spirits know.
Night, loneliness, and motion are
Agents of power to distance care;
To distance, not discard; for then
Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
Necessity to act suspended,

The present, past, and future blended,
Like figures of a mazy dance,
Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
Till jolting stone of turnpike gate
Arouse him from the soothing state.

CONSTANCY.

WITH the rough blast heaves the billow,
In the light air waves the willow,
Every thing of moving kind
Varies with the veering wind;
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?

After fretted, pouting sorrow,
Sweet will be thy smile to-morrow;
Changing still, each passing thing
Fairest is upon the wing:
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?

Song of love, and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty;
Every mood and every lay,
Welcome all, but do not stay;
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?

SONG.

THE morning air plays on my face,
And through the gray mist peering
The soften'd sun I sweetly trace,
Wood, muir, and mountain cheering.
Larks aloft are singing,
Hares from covert springing,
And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood
Their early way are winging.

Bright every dewy hawthorn shines,
Sweet every herb is growing,
To him whose willing heart inclines
The way that he is going.

Clearly do I see now

What will shortly be now; I'm patting at her door poor Tray,

Who fawns and welcomes me now.

How slowly moves the rising latch!
How quick my heart is beating!
That worldly dame is on the watch
To frown upon our meeting.

Fly why should I mind her,
See who stands behind her,
Whose eye upon her traveller looks
The sweeter and the kinder.

Oh every bounding step I take,

Each hour the clock is telling,
Bears me o'er mountain, bourn, and brake
Still nearer to her dwelling.
Day is shining brighter,
Limbs are moving lighter,

While every thought to Nora's love,
But binds my love the tighter.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD was born of parents in humble circumstances, at Honington, in Suffolk, on the third of December, 1766. His mother, being left a widow, became the village school-mistress, and gave him the only instruction he ever received. At an early age he was sent to London to learn of an elder brother the business of shoe-making. In his eighteenth year he made his first essay in poetry. It was in a garret, amid the hammering of some half dozen fellow-workmen, that he composed The Farmer's Boy, which, for minute and graphic description, has scarcely been surpassed by any poet who has written in the English language. It was shown to several literary men, but the rude handwriting, and the personal appearance of the author, probably prevented its being properly❘ examined, until it was sent to CAPEL LOFFT, who read it, and by his recommendation in

THE BIRD-BOY.

FAR weightier cares and wider scenes expand; What devastation marks the new-sown land! "From hungry woodland foes go, Giles, and guard The rising wheat; insure its great reward: A future sustenance, a summer's pride, Demand thy vigilance: then be it tried: Exert thy voice, and wield thy shotless gun: Go, tarry there from morn till setting sun." Keen blows the blast, or ceaseless rain descends; The half-stript hedge a sorry shelter lends. Oh for a hovel, e'er so small or low, Whose roof, repelling winds and early snow, Might bring home's comforts fresh before his eyes! No sooner thought, than see the structure rise, In some sequester'd nook, embank'd around, Sod for its walls, and straw in burdens bound: Dried fuel hoarded in his richest store, And circling smoke obscures his little door, Whence creeping forth, to duty's call he yields, And strolls the Crusoe of the lonely fields. On whitethorns towering, and the leafless rose, A frost-nipt feast in bright vermilion glows: Where clustering sloes in glossy order rise, He crops the loaded branch; a cumbrous prize; And o'er the flame the sputtering fruit he rests, Placing green sods to seat his coming guests; His guests by promise; playmates young and gay; But ah! fresh pastimes lure their steps away! He sweeps his hearth, and homeward looks in vain, Till feeling disappointment's cruel pain,

duced Messrs. Verner and Hood to publish it. Its success was immediate and very great, nearly forty thousand copies having been sold during the lifetime of the author. After the appearance of The Farmer's Boy, Bloomfield devoted much of his time to literature, and published several volumes of poems, none of which, however, equalled his first production. The idea of The Farmer's Boy was probably derived from THOMSON'S Seasons, though, as Mr. LoFFT remarks, "There is no other affinity between the two than flowing numbers, feeling piety, poetic imagery and animation, and a true sense of the natural and pathetic.” Mr. BLOOMFIELD was of a generous and affectionate nature, and, notwithstanding the profits from his poems, he was always poor. He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, in August, 1823, in the fifty-seventh year of his age.

His fairy revels are exchanged for rage,
His banquet marr'd, grown dull his hermitage.
The field becomes his prison, till on high
Benighted birds to shades and coverts fly.
Midst air, health, daylight, can he prisoner be?
If fields are prisons, where is liberty?
Here still she dwells, and here her votaries stroll;
But disappointed hope untunes the soul;
Restraints unfelt whilst hours of rapture flow,
When troubles press, to chains and barriers grow.
Look, then, from trivial up to greater woes;
From the poor bird-boy with his roasted sloes,
To where the dungeon'd mourner heaves the sigh;
Where not one cheering sunbeam meets his eye.
Though ineffectual pity thine may be,
No wealth, no power, to set the captive free;
Though only to thy ravish'd sight is given
The radiant path that Howard trod to Heaven;
Thy slights can make the wretched more forlorn,
And deeper drive affliction's barbed thorn.
Say not, "I'll come and cheer thy gloomy cell
With news of dearest friends; how good, how well:
I'll be a joyful herald to thine heart:"
Then fail, and play the worthless trifler's part,
To sip flat pleasures from thy glass's brim,
And waste the precious hour that's due to him.
In mercy spare the base, unmanly blow:
Where can he turn, to whom complain of you?
Back to past joys in vain his thoughts may stray,
Trace and retrace the beaten, worn-out way,
The rankling injury will pierce his breast,
And curses on thee break his midnight rest.

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