Eliza's name along the camp he calls, O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead, Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds, Poor weeping babe with bloody fingers pressed, Stretched on the ground, a while entranced he lay, [Philanthropy-Mr Howard.] [From the Loves of the Plants.'] And now, philanthropy! thy rays divine Or guides awakened mercy through the gloom, And asked what seraph foot the earth impressed. Sir *Those who have the opportunity may compare this death scene (much to the advantage of the living author) with that of Gertrude of Wyoming, which may have been suggested, very remotely and quite unconsciously, by Darwin's Eliza. Walter Scott excels in painting battle-pieces, as overseen by some interested spectator. Eliza at Minden is circumstanced so nearly like Clara at Flodden, that the mighty Minstrel of the North may possibly have caught the idea of the latter from the Lichfield Botanist; but oh, how has he triumphed Montgomery's Lectures on Poetry. Song to May. [From the same.] Born in yon blaze of orient sky, And tiptoe joys their hands combine; And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. Warm with new life, the glittering throng On quivering fin and rustling wing, Delighted join their votive song, And hail thee Goddess of the Spring! Song to Echo. [From the same.] I. Sweet Echo! sleeps thy vocal shell, II. Here may no clamours harsh intrude, No brawling hound or clarion rude; Here no fell beast of midnight prowl, And teach thy tortured cliffs to howl. III. Be thine to pour these vales along IV. And if, like me, some love-lorn maid Should sing her sorrows to thy shade, Oh! sooth her breast, ye rocks around, With softest sympathy of sound. MRS CHARLOTTE SMITH. This lady (whose admirable prose fictions will afterwards be noticed) was the daughter of Mr Turner of Stoke House, in Surrey, and was born on the 4th of May 1749. She was remarkable for precocity of talents, and for a lively playful humour that showed itself in conversation, and in compositions both in prose and verse. Being early deprived of her mother, she was carelessly though expensively educated, and introduced into society at a very early age. Her father having decided on a second marriage, the friends of the young and admired poetess endeavoured to establish her in life, and she was induced to accept the hand of Mr Smith, the son and partner of a rich West India merchant. husband was twenty-one years of age, and his wife fifteen! This rash union was productive of mutual discontent and misery. Mr Smith was careless and extravagant, business was neglected, and his father dying, left a will so complicated and voluminous that no two lawyers understood it in the same sense. Lawsuits and embarrassments were therefore the portion of this ill-starred pair for all their after-lives. Mr Smith was ultimately forced to sell the greater The GO part of his property, after he had been thrown into prison, and his faithful wife had shared with him the misery and discomfort of his confinement. A numerous family also gathered around them, to add to their solicitude and difficulties. In 1782 Mrs Smith published a volume of sonnets, irregular in structure, but marked by poetical feeling and expression. They were favourably received by the public, and at length passed through no less than eleven editions, besides being translated into French and Italian. After an unhappy union of twentythree years, Mrs Smith separated from her husband, and, taking a cottage near Chichester, applied herself to her literary occupations with cheerful assiduity, supplying to her children the duties of both parents. In eight months she completed her novel of Emmeline, published in 1788. In the following year appeared another novel from her pen, entitled Ethelinde; and in 1791 a third under the name of Celestina. She imbibed the opinions of the French Revolution, and embodied them in a romance entitled Desmond. This work arrayed against her many of her friends and readers, but she regained the public favour by her tale, the Old Manor House, which is the best of her novels. Part of this work was written at Eartham, the residence of Hayley, during the period of Cowper's visit to that poetical retreat. It was delightful,' says Hayley, to hear her read what she had just written, for she read, as she wrote, with simplicity and grace.' Cowper was also astonished at the rapidity and excellence of her composition. Mrs Smith continued her literary labours amidst private and family distress. She wrote a valuable little compendium for children, under the title of Conversations; A History of British Birds; a descriptive poem on Beachy Head, &c. The delays in the settlement of her property, which had been an endless source of vexation and anxiety to one possessing all the susceptibility and ardour of the poetical temperament, were adjusted by a compromise; but Mrs Smith had sunk into ill health. She died at Tilford, near Farnham, on the 28th of October 1806. The poetry of Mrs Smith is elegant and sentimental, and generally of a pathetic cast. She wrote as if melancholy had marked her for her own.' The keen satire and observation evinced in her novels do not appear in her verse, but the same powers of description are displayed. Her sketches of English scenery are true and pleasing. But while we allow,' says Sir Walter Scott, high praise to the sweet and sad effusions of Mrs Smith's muse, we cannot admit that by these alone she could ever have risen to the height of eminence which we are disposed to claim for her as authoress of her prose narratives.' Flora's Horologe. In every copse and sheltered dell, Will mark the periods as they pass, Mingle with leaves Time's feathered wing, And bind with flowers his silent glass. Mark where transparent waters glide, Soft flowing o'er their tranquil bed; Till the bright day-star to the west Of plumy seed and radiate flowers, The goatsbeard spreads its golden rays, But shuts its cautious petals up, Retreating from the noontide blaze. Pale as a pensive cloistered nun, The Bethlem star her face unveils, When o'er the mountain peers the sun, But shades it from the vesper gales. Among the loose and arid sands The humble arenaria creeps; But soon within its calyx sleeps. But shut their plaits against the dew. Lifts her soft eyes serenely blue. The garish noontide's blazing light; Sonnets. On the Departure of the Nightingale. Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu! Farewell soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow and to love! Written at the Close of Spring. The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove; Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, Anemonies that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers; MISS BLAMIRE. MISS SUSANNA BLAMIRE (1747-1794), a Cumberher Scottish poetry, which has all the idiomatic ease land lady, was distinguished for the excellence of and grace of a native minstrel. Miss Blamire was born of a respectable family in Cumberland, at Car So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse. dew Hall, near Carlisle, where she resided till her But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come; Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more! [Recollections of English Scenery.] [From Beachy Head,' a Poem.] To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone Advancing higher still, For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Where woods of ash and beech, That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths, twentieth year, beloved by a circle of friends and acquaintances, with whom she associated in what were called merry neets, or merry evening parties, in her native district. Her sister becoming the wife of Colonel Graham of Duchray, Perthshire, Susanna accompanied the pair to Scotland, where she remained some years, and imbibed that taste for Scottish melody and music which prompted her beautiful lyrics, The Nabob, The Siller Croun, &c. She also wrote some pieces in the Cumbrian dialect, and a descriptive poem of some length, entitled Stocklewath, or the Cumbrian Village. Miss Blamire died unmarried at Carlisle, in her forty-seventh year, and her name had almost faded from remembrance, when, in 1842, her poetical works were collected and published in one volume, with a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell. The Nabob. When silent time, wi' lightly foot, I sought again my native land Wha kens gin the dear friends I left As I drew near my ancient pile, The ivied tower now met my eye, Where minstrels used to blaw; I ran to ilka dear friend's room, I knew where ilk ane used to sit, I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race, Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, 6 And wished my groves away. 'Cut, cut,' they cried, those aged elms, Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, Memorials o' langsyne. To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, They took me to the town; But sair on ilka weel-kenned face I missed the youthfu' bloom. At balls they pointed to a nymph Wham a' declared divine; But sure her mother's blushing checks In vain I sought in music's sound Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Forgie an auld man's spleen, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns When time has passed and seasons fled, What Ails this Heart o' Mine? [This song seems to have been a favourite with the authoress, for I have met with it in various forms among her papers; and the labour bestowed upon it has been well repaid by the popularity it has all along enjoyed.'-Maxwell's Memoir of Miss Blamire.] What ails this heart o' mine? Thou'lt dearer grow to me; When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, And live aneath the tree, I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I'll doat on ilka spot Where I ha'e been wi' thee; As an example of the Cumberland dialect- And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance, In yen that was dark and hard featured leyke me; And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my wit, And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it. But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle, When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame, And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane; MRS BARBAULD. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD, the daughter of Dr John Aikin, was born at Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, in 1743. Her father at this time kept a seminary for the education of boys, and Anna received the same instruction, being early initiated into a knowledge of classical literature. In 1758 Dr Aikin undertaking the office of classical tutor in a dissenting academy at Warrington, his daughter accompanied him, and resided there fifteen years. In 1773 she published a volume of miscellaneous poems, of which four editions were called for in one year, and also a collection of pieces in prose, some of which were written by her brother. In May 1774 she was married to the Rev. Rochenount Barbauld, a French Protestant, who was minister of a dissenting congregation at Palgrave, near Diss, and who had just opened a boarding-school at the neighbouring village of Palgrave, in Suffolk. The poetess participated with her husband in the task of instruction, and to her talents and exertions the seminary was mainly indebted for its success. In 1775 she came forward with a volume of devotional pieces compiled from the psalms, and another volume of Hymns in Prose for children. In 1786, after a tour to the continent, Mr and Mrs Barbauld established themselves at Hampstead, and there several tracts proceeded from the pen of our authoress on the topics of the day, in all which she espoused the principles of the Whigs. She also assisted her father in preparing a series of tales for children, entitled Evenings at Home, and she wrote critical essays on Akenside and Collins, prefixed to editions of their works. In 1802 Mr Barbauld became pastor of the congregation (formerly Dr Price's) at Newington Green, also in the vicinity of London; and quitting Hampstead, they took up their abode in the village of Stoke Newington. In 1803 Mrs Barbauld compiled a selection of essays from the Spectator,' Tatler,' and Guardian,' to which she prefixed a preliminary essay; and in the following year she edited the correspondence of Richardson, and wrote an interesting and elegant life of the novelist. Her husband died in 1808, and Mrs Barbauld has recorded her feelings on this melancholy event in a poetical dirge to his memory, and also in her poem of Eighteen Hundred and Eleven. Seeking relief in literary occupation, she also edited a collection of the British novelists, published in 1810, with an introductory essay, and biographical and critical notices. After a gradual decay, this accomplished and excellent woman died on the 9th of March 1825. Some of the lyrical pieces of Mrs Barbauld are flowing and harmonious, and her Ode to Spring' is a happy imitation of Collins. She wrote also several poems in blank verse, characterised by a serious tenderness and elevation of thought. Her earliest pieces,' says her niece, Mrs Lucy Aikin, as well as her more recent ones, exhibit in their imagery and allusions the fruits of extensive and varied reading. In youth, the power of her imagination was counterbalanced by the activity of her intellect, which exercised itself in rapid but not unprofitable excursions over almost every field of knowledge. In age, when this activity abated, imagination appeared to exert over her an undiminished sway.' Charles James Fox is said to have been a great admirer of Mrs Barbauld's songs, but they are by no means the best of her compositions, being generally artificial, and unimpassioned in their character. Ode to Spring. Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, From the green islands of eternal youth (Crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade), Turn, hither turn thy step, O thou, whose powerful voice More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds, Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await And vales and dewy lawns, With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets That prompts their whispered sigh. Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers The milky ear's green stem, And feed the flowering osier's carly shoots; And call those winds, which through the whispering boughs With warm and pleasant breath Salute the blowing flowers. Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms. O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead, through the cool moist air Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade, Protects thy modest blooms From his severer blaze. To a Lady, with some Painted Flowers. Flowers to the fair: to you these flowers I bring, And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. Flowers sweet, and gay, and delicate like you; Emblems of innocence, and beauty too. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew, In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew. To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned; The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind, The tougher yew repels invading foes, And the tall pine for future navies grows: But this soft family to cares unknown, Were born for pleasure and delight alone. Gay without toil, and lovely without art, They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart. Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these; Your best, your sweetest empire is-to please. Hymn to Content. -natura beatos Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.-Claudian. O thou, the nymph with placid eye! Receive my temperate vow: And smooth the unaltered brow. To bless my longing sight; And chaste subdued delight. To find thy hermit cell; Simplicity in Attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye; A vista to the sky. There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even-tide, That rarely ebb or flow; And Patience there, thy sister meck, Iler influence taught the Phrygian sage With settled smiles to wait: O say what soft propitious hour |