TO MARY.

FROM THE NOVEL OF MARY DE CLIFFORD.

WHERE art thou, Mary, pure as fair,
And fragrant as the balmy air,
That, passing, steals upon its wing
The varied perfumes of the spring?
With tender bosom, white as snow;
With auburn locks, that freely flow
Upon thy marble neck; with cheeks
On which the blush of morning breaks;
Eyes, in whose pure and heavenly beams
The radiance of enchantment scems;
A voice, whose melting tones would still
The madness of revenge from ill;
A form of such a graceful mould,
We scarce an earthly shape behold;
A mind of so divine a fire

As angels only could inspire!-
Where art thou, Mary?

For the sod
Is hallow'd where thy feet have trod ;
And every leaf that's touch'd by thee
Is sanctified, sweet maid, to me.
Where dost thou lean thy pensive head?
Thy tears what tender tale can shed?
Where dost thou stretch thy snowy arm?
And with thy plaintive accents charm?
But hold! that image through my frame
Raises a wild tempestuous flame.

HASTINGS' SONNETS.*

I.

OLD Harry Hastings! of thy forest life
How whimsical, how picturesque the charms!
Yet it was sensual! With thy hounds and horn,
How cheerily didst thou salute the morn!
With airy steed didst thou pursue the strife,
Sounding through all the woodland glades alarms.
Sunk not a dell, and not a thicket grew,
But thy skill'd eye and long experience knew.
The herds were thy acquaintance; antler'd deer
Knew where to trust thy voice, and where to fear;

And through the shadowy oaks of giant size, Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear; [rise ; And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would And echoes dancing round repeat their ecstacies.

"Scarce any English reader of biographical anecdotes is unacquainted with the character of HENRY HASTINGS, of Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, given by Lord SHAFTESBURY; which may be seen in the Connoisseur,' in Gilpin's New Forest,' and in the last edition of Coliina' Peerage,' &c. He was son of an Earl of HUNTINGDON; he lived through the reigns of Queen ELIZABETH, JAMES L., and CHARLES I, and died on the verge of a hundred years of age. Like CLAUDIAN's 'Old Man of Verona,' he did not trouble himself with affairs of state, but enjoyed his own country-life amid the woods and fields. His father was GEORGE, fourth earl, who died in 1605; HENRY died 5th October, 1650, aged ninety-nine.. There is something exceedingly picturesque in the account of this HARRY HASTINGS' life; and I am willing to delude myself with the belief, that the following sonnets ot unaptly describe it."

11.

A century did not thy vigour pale,

Nor war and rapine thy enjoyments cloud; And thy halloos were gay, and clear, and loud, To thy last days, through covert, hill, and vale: The keepers heard it on the autumnal gale,

And with responsive horns, in blasts as proud Their labours to the cherish'd service vow'd, Delighted their old merry lord to hail. The forest girls peep'd out, and buxom wives, And in the leaf-strown glades and yellow lanes Each for the kindly salutation strives,

Which to their smiles the gladsome veteran

deigns.

Hark how, on courser mounted, in his vest Of green, the aged sportsman cracks his blithesome jest!

III.

Then comes the rude and hospitable hall:

Mark how abound the trophies of the chase! How thick they mingle on the armour'd wall! What antler'd ornaments the portals grace! There blazon'd shields the proud remembrance call Of many a noble, many a princely race; And many a glorious rise, and many a fall,

As upward they the stream of ages trace. How glad the old man, far from civil brawl, Of a more tranquil being boasts th' embrace! His sleeping hounds, round the hearth gather'd, wake

At the gay burst of his exulting song; And all, his joyous bounty to partake,

Leap to his call, and round his table throng.

IV.

To-morrow will the music of their cries

Pierce through the shadowy solitudes again, As with the dawn he to the covert hies,

And seeks his prey amid the sylvan reign. Behold the merry men chanting in his train, See how the coy stag listens with surprise! In troops they hasten to their depths again; And with big tears his fate the mark'd one eyes. Groans through the forest, echoes from the hills, A mingled day of joy and grief proclaim: A tempest gathers, and the welkin fills,

And for another morning saves the game. Then on the Book of Sports the veteran pores, And deems it wiser spell than learning's lores.

V.

A hundred years to live, and live in joy!
O what a favour'd fate! The blessed air,
In all its purity of leaf and flower;
The woodland peace, the contemplative hour;
The stillness which no city-broils annoy;

Security from envy, malice, care;
The gales that fragrance to the spirit bear; [fair;
The scenes in nature's unstain'd brightness
The lulling murmur of the lonely trees;
The ambient bracing of the buoyant breeze;
The very health on forest-beauty's face;

The form robust in woodland pastures bred;— Wi". what a tranquil and uncumber'd pace

Might thus we reach the slumbers of the dead!

VI.

But is congenial quiet, and of frame

Sound health, sufficient? Does not mind demand Food and exhilaration? Conscience, ever Busy within us, must fulfil its aim!

Around us circles an aërial band,

Which tells us spiritual labours to endeavour; And not alone the senses to employ,

As the pure channels of our earthly joy! There is, within, a deity, whose desires We must sustain and feed by mental fires; The insate mind, but from without supplied, Languishes on a weak imperfect food; If susterance more spiritual be denied, With flame consuming on itself 't will brood!

VII.

But in this rural life, mid nature's forms
Of grandeur and of beauty, why assume
That Harry Hastings had no inward joy
Of sentiment, and conscience-cherish'd thought?
When splendour of internal structure warms
The bosom's lighted mirrors, which allume

The soul's recesses, spirits then employ
Their skill in webs with mingled figures wrought.
Part from within of heavenly elements,

They add to what external sense supplies; Then mind and conscience give their pure assents, And airy shapes start up, and visions rise; And though the fancies pass unspelt away, Perchance they form the sunshine of the day!

VIII.

There is exhilaration in the chase

Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Or having climb'd some misty mountain's height, When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace:

Then worshipping the sun, on silver floods And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents; from the forest-mass

Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly checker'd landscape pass,

And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind.

ON MOOR PARK,

FORMERLY THE SEAT OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE WHOSE HEART WAS BURIED IN THE GARDEN THERE.

To yonder narrow vale, whose high-sloped sides Are hung with airy oaks, and umbrage deepWhere through thick shades the lulling waters creep: And no vile noise the musing mind derides, But silence with calm solitude abidesTemple win joy retired, that he might keep A course of quiet days, and nightly sleep Beneath the covering wings of heavenly guidesVirtue and peace! Here he in sweet repose Sigh'd his last breath! Here Swift, in youth reclined, Pass'd his smooth days.-Oh, had he longer chose Retreats so pure, perchance his nicer mind,

That the world's wildering follies and its woes To madness shook, had ne'er with sorrows pined!

WRITTEN AUGUST 20, 1807. THOUGH in my veins the blood of monarchs flow-. Plantagenet and Tudor-not for these With empty boast my lifted mind I please; But rather that my heart's emotions glow With the pure flame the muse's gifts bestow : Nor would it my aspiring soul appease,

In rank, birth, wealth, to loll at sensual ca 30, And none but folly's stupid flattery know.. But yet when upstart greatness turns an eye Of scorn and insult on my modest fame,

And on descent's pretensions vain would try To build the honours of a nobler name, With pride defensive swelling, I exclaim, [vie!” "Base one, e'en there with me thou dost not

WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 10, 1825. STERN, unexpecting good, unbent by wrong, I travel onward through this gloomy scene, With brow of sorrow, yet erect in mien; Meek to the humble, in defiance strong, To folly's, envy's, hatred's, falsehood's throng: Yet knowing that the birth and grave between There ever will, as ever there have been, Be friendships fickle, warfares deep and long! If I have taught the truths of wisdom's lore,

If I have drawn the secrets of the heart, And raised the glow that mounts o'er grief and i!}~~ In my plain verse though bloom no single flower, And not a ray of wit its lustre dart,

Its naked strength o'er death will triumph still!

WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826. HIGH name of poet!-sought in every age

By thousands-scarcely won by two or three,As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage My bleeding feet are doom'd their war to wage, With awful worship I have bow'd to thee! And yet perchance it is not fate's decree, This mighty boon should be assign'd to me, My heart's consuming fever to assuage.― Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep

Within the bosom's innermost recesses, And rarely burstest forth to human ear, Break out!--and, while profoundly magic sleep With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses Let me the music of thy murmurs hear.

WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10, 182 PRAISE of the wise and good!-it is a meed

For which I would lone years of toil endure; Which many a peril, many a grief would cure As onward I with weary feet proceed, My swelling heart continues still to leed; The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, And never to my prayer to be decreed !--

With anxious ear I listen to the voice That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask ; But yet it comes not,-cr it comes in doubtSlave to the passion of my earliest choice,

From youth to age I ply my daily task, And hope, e'en till the any of life goes out.

JOANNA BAILLIE was born in Bothwell, in Scotland, of an honourable family, about the year 1762. She spent the greater portion of her life at Hampstead, a pleasant suburban place, near London. 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. SCOTT 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 hand 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 the makes the passions sentiments. She fears

to distract attention by n iltiplying incidents; her catastrophes 2:e 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 1812 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,

66

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 it 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,
1 hou 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 streamn
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.