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Into invisibility, while forth
Of justice, temperance, and the life to come,
Who healeth all thy diseases : who redeemeth thy life
These eyes, that were half-closed in death, A hymn, low-breathed; a hymn of sorrow, blent
Now dare the noontide blaze; With hope ; when, in the midst, sudden he stood;
My voice, that scarce could speak my wants, The awe-struck circle backward shrink; he looks Now hymns Jehovah's praise. Around with a benignant smile of love, And says, Peace be unto you : Faith and joy
How pleasant to my feet unused, Spread o’er each face, amazed ; as when the moon,
To tread the daisied ground! Pavilion'd in dark clouds, mildly comes forth,
How sweet to my unwonted ear
The streamlet's lulling sound.
That on my temples play'd !
How sweet the woodland evening song,
Full floating down the glade!
But sweeter far the lark that soars
Through morning's blushing ray ; Behold his dauntless outstretch'd arm, bis face For then unseen, unheard, I join Illumed of heaven :-be knoweth not the fear
His lonely heavenward lay. Of man, of principalities, of powers.
And sweeter still that infant voice, The stoic's moveless frown; the vacant stare
With all its artless charms ;Of Epicurus' herd; the scowl and gnash malign
'Twas such as he that Jesus took, Of superstition, stopping both her ears ;
And cherish'd in his arms.
I to thy mercy owe;
For thou hast raised me from the couch
Of sickness, pain, and wo.
My sinking soul redeem'd;
A calming radiance beam'd.
ON VISITING MELROSE,
AFTER AN ABSENCE OF SIXTEEN YEARS. GOVERNOR OF JUDEA,
Yon setting sun, that slowly disappears, The judge ascended to the judgment-seat ; Gleams a memento of departed years : Amid a gleam of spears th'apostle stood.
Ay, many a year is gone, and many a friend, Dauntless he forward came, and look'd around, Since here I saw the autumn sun descend. And raised his voice, at first in accents low, Ah! one is gone, whose hand was lock'd in mine, Yet clear; a whisper spread among the throng :- In this, that traces now the sorrowing line: So when the thunder mutters, still the breeze And now alone I scan the mouldering tombs, Is heard, at times, to sigh ; but when the peal Alone I wander through the vaulted glooms, Tremendous, louder rolls, a silence dead
And list, as if the echoes might retain Succeeds each pause,-moveless the aspen leaf. One lingering cadence of her varied strain. Thus fix'd and motionless, the listening band Alas! I heard that melting voice decay, Of soldiers forward lean'd, as from the man Heard seraph tones in whispers die away; Inspired of God, truth's awful thunders roll’d. I mark'd the tear presageful fill her eye, No more he feels, upon his high-raised arm, And quivering speak,-I am resign'd to die. The ponderous chain, than does the playful child Ye stars that through the fretted windows shed The bracelet, form’d of many a flowery link. A glimmering beam athwart the mighty dead, Heedless of self, forgetful that his life
Say to what sphere her sainted spirit few, Is now to be defended by his words,
That thither I may turn my longing view, He only thinks of doing good to them
And wish, and hope, some tedious seasons o'er, Who seek his life ; and while he reasons high To join a long lost friend, to part no more
THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD. EPITAPH ON A BLACKBIRD KILLED BY A
WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd the Held in the concave of th’inverted sky,–
glade; In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
The blackbird's note among the wild woods rung: Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails Ah, short-lived note ! the songster now is laid Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood !
Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung. Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent, The water-lily neath the plumy prows,
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay; Dips, reappearing in their dimpled track.
A primrosed turf is all thy monument, Yet, e'en amid that scene of peace, the noise
And for thy dirge the redbreast lends his lay.
THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
Yon motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale To lure the foe, and lead him from their young ;
Of wo; the husband, parent, is no more.
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw,
The younger's plaint,--languid he raised his head,
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend! FROM snowy plains, and icy sprays,
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand Welcome, poor bird ! I'll cherish thee;
(Poor helpless chill!) just reaches to the pall. I love thee, for thou trustest me.
And now they pass into the field of graves, Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
And now around the narrow house they stand, Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:
And view the plain black board sink from the sight. How quick thy little beart is beating!
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds, As if its brother flutterer greeting.
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould, Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
The turf is spread ; uncover'd is each head, No: freely flutter round my room ;
A last farewell: all turn their several ways. Perch on my lute's remaining string,
Wo's me! those tear-dimm'l eyes, that sobbing And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
breast! That note, that summer note, I know;
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand It wakes at once, and soothes my wo;
That wont to lead thee home : No more that hand I see those woods, I see that stream,
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek. Still with thy song those scenes renew,
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps ;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page, -
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone, While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Of wo profound. Haste to the widow'd arms; Thou’lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice, Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief. Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice; And when (our short collation o’er) Some favourite volume I explore, Be't work of poet or of sage,
THE THANKSGIVING OFF CAPE TRASafe thou shalt hop across the page;
FALGAR. Uncheck’d, shall fit o'er Virgil's groves,
Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave, Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
The floating tomb that heaves above the brave, Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous soar'd, Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past; Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword. And when the primrose tells 'tis spring, And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls And when the thrush begins to sing,
The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, Soon as I hear the woodland song,
And from the ramparts, while their comrades fell, Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread, Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
To think I still survived within his heart;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child; Twice has the sun commenced his annual round, How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn, Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground, To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn; Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear, To teach religion, unallied to strife, Ry faltering out the name to fathers dear.
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. ( ! nature's language, with her looks combined, But far and farther still my view I bend, More precious far than periods thrice refined ! And now I see a child thy steps attend ;0! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile, To yonder churchyard wall thou takest thy way, I prize you more than beauty's magic smile: While round thee, pleased, thou seest the infant play; Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm Then lifting him, while tears sutsuse thine eyes, I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Pointing, thou tellist him, There thy grandsire lia.
JOANNA BAILLIE, sister of the celebrated Dr. passions. Her plays, however, have not the tranMatthew Baillie, was born at Bothwell, in Scotland, scendent dramatic merit which has been claimed about the year 1765. We have been unable to for them by some of her admirers. She is by no collect any particulars of her life, but she is well means a Shakspeare. One of her most recent pubknown to the public as one of the most successful lications is, A View of the general Tenor of the New female writers of the present age. Her most | Testament, regarding the Nature and Dignity of celebrated production is her Plays of the Passions ; Jesus Christ. She is also the author of The Family a series in which each passion is made the subject Legend, a tragedy ; Metrical Legends, or Exalted of a tragedy and a comedy. These procured her Characters; two dramas, entitled, respectively, great reputation, particularly her tragedies, which | The Martyr, and The Bride ; and a volume of evince strong conceptions of character, vivid dramas, very recently published. imagery, and a masterly delineation of the various
Old Man. Bears she such offerings to St. Francis'
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says?
-Twill drain the treasury !
Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp, returns COUNT BASIL, a general in the emperor's service. Her public thanks to the good patron saint, COUNT ROSINBERG, his friend.
Who from his sick-bed hath restored her father, DUKE OF MANTUA.
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands? GAURICEIO, his minister
She loves magnificence-
}Tro officers of Basil's troops. (Discovering among the crowd old Geoffry,) Geoffry,
an old soldier very much maimed Ha! art thou here, old remnant of the wars? in the wars.
Thou art not come to see this courtly show, MIRANDO, a lillle boy, favourite to Victoria. Which sets the young agape ?
Geof. I come not for the show; and yet, methinks, VICTORIA, daughler to the Duke of Mantua.
It were a better jest upon me still,
a lady atlending upon Victoria. Cit. I prithee say. Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, gʻc. Geof.
What, must I tell it thee? *** The scene is in Mantua and its environs. Time As o'er my evening fire I musing sat, supposed to be the sixteenth century, when Charles the Some few days since, my mind's eye backward turn'd Fifth defeated Francis the First, at the battle of Pavia.
Upon the various changes I have pass’d
How in my youth, with gay attire allured,
And all the grand accoutrements of war,
Then all the after chances of the war:
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was, First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the When with an arm (I speak not of it oft) grand procession ?
Which now (pointing to his empty slpeve) thou (it. I left it passing by the northern gate.
seest is no arm of mine, Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes in a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes, at last.
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge ; Foung Man. And does the princess look so won- For which good service, in his tented court, drous fair
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me; As fame reports ?
Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side, Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train, - The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld, Yet all the fairest beauties of the court
Gave me what more than all besides I prizedAre in her train.
Methinks I see her stilla gracious smile 39
2 c 2
'Twas a heart-kindling smile,-a smile of praise- (Music is heard again, and nearer. Geoffry walks Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past,
up and down with a military triumphant step.) A neighbour drew the latchet of my door,
Cit. What moves thee thus ? And full of news from town, in many words
Geof. I've march'd to this same tune in glorious Big with rich names, told of this grand procession;
days. E'en as he spoke a fancy seized my soul
My very limbs catch motion from the sound, To see the princess pass, if in her looks
As they were young again. I yet might trace some semblance of her mother. Sec. Cit
But here they come. This is the simple truth; laugh as thou wilt. Enter Count Basit, officers and soldiers in procession, came not for the show,
with colours flying, and martial music. When they Enter an OFFICER,
have marched halsway over the stage, an officer of the
duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks to BASIL, Officer to Geof. Make way that the procession upon which he gives a sign with his hand, and the may have room :
martial music ceases ; soft music is heard at a little Stand you aside, and let this man have place. distance, and VICTORIA, with a long procession of ladies, (Pushing Geof, and endeavouring to put another
enters from the opposite side. General, &c. pay obei.
sance to her, as she passes ; she stops to return it, and in his place.)
then goes off with her train. After which, the military Geof. But that thou art the prince's officer, procession moves on, and exeunt. I'd give thee hack thy push with better blows.
Cit. to Geof. What think'st thou of the princess? Officer. What, wilt thou not give place ? the
She is fair, prince is near:
But not so fair as her good mother was. [EXEUNT, I will complain to him, and have thee caged. Geof. Yes, do complain, I pray; and when thou SCENE II.— A PUBLIC WALK ON THE RAMPARTS OF
dost, Say that the private of the tenth brigade, Who saved his array on the Danube's bank,
Enter Count ROSINBERG, VALTOMER, and FREDERICK.-
VALTOMER enters by the opposite side of the stage, and And since that time a private hath remain'd,
meets them. Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain
Valt. O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers ! Against thy insolence. Go tell him this,
Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, And ask him then what dungeon of his tower
From every house salutes you as you pass : He'll have me thrust into.
Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye ; Cit. to Officer. This is old Geoffry of the tenth Music and merriment in every street; brigade.
Whilst pretty damsels, in their best attire, Offi. I kuew him not: you should have told me Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind,
[Exit, looking much ashamed. To spy the fools a gazing after them. Martial music heard at a distance.
Fred. But short will be the season of our ease, Cit. Hark, this is music of a warlike kind.
For Basil is of flinty matter made,
And cannot be alluredTo Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good friend, Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us. which this way Lear?
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble, Sec. Cit. The brave Count Basil is upon his march, Some years his elder too-How has it been To join the emperor with some chosen troups, That he should be preferr’d? I see not why. And as an ally doth through Mantua pass.
Ros. Ah! but I see it, and allow it well; Geof. I've heard a good report of this young soldier. He is too much my pride to wake my envy.
Sec. Cit. 'Tis said he disciplines his men severely, Fred. Nay, count, it is thy foolish admiration And over-much the old commander is,
Which raises him to such superior height; Which seems ungracious in so young a man. And truly thou hast so infected us,
Geof. I know he loves not ease and revelry; That I at times have felt me awed before him, He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate
I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this. Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think, Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he. That e'en the very meanest simple craft
Ros. Our talents of a different nature are; Cannot without due diligence be learn'd,
Mine for the daily intercourse of life, And yet the noble art of soldiership
And his for higher things. May be attain'd by loitering in the sun ?
Fred. Well, praise him as thou wilt; I see it not; Some men are born to feast, and not to fight; I'm sure I am as brave a man as he. Whose sloggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field, Ros. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern Still on their dinner turn
bravery, Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home, And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well, And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword. Give and receive as deep a wound as he. In times of easy service, true it is,
When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords ; An easy, careless chief all soldiers love ;
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind, But 0! how gladly in the day of battle
O’erwatching all the changes of the field, Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert, Calm and inventive midst the battle's storm, And follow such a leader as Count Basil!
Which makes his soldiers bold.So gathering herds, at pressing danger's call, There have been those, in early manhood slain, Confess the master deer.
Whose great heroic souls have yet inspired