At balls they pointed to a nymph Wham a' declared divine;

But sure her mother's blushing cheeks
Were fairer far langsyne!

In vain I sought in music's sound
To find that magic art,
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Has thrilled through a' my heart.
The sang had mony an artfu' turn;
My ear confessed 'twas fine;
But missed the simple melody
I listened to langsyne.

Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,
Forgie an auld man's spleen,

Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns
The days he ance has seen.

When time has passed and seasons fled,
Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne!

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?
What ails this watery ee?
What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa',

Thou'lt dearer grow to me;

But change o' place and change o❞folk
May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,
I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower

That thou wi' roses tied,
And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove myself to hide.

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I ha'e been wi' thee;
And ca' to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree.

As an example of the Cumberland dialect

Auld Robin Forbes.

And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance,
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance;
I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen,
And skipp'd wi' the best upon Forbes's green.
Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer,
It brings that that's by-past and sets it down here;
I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace,
When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.
The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see
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,
And whea was mair happy thro' aw his lang leyfe?
It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane,
That he offen said-nea pleace was leyke his awn
heame!

I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle,
Where Willy was deyken, the time to beguile,
He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast,
And I hammered my noddle to mek out a jest.
But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell
There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel;
And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack
When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.
When the clock had struck eight I expected him
heame,

And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;
Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me,
But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee.
O Willy! dear Willy! it never can be
That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me!
For that spot on earth that's aye dearest to me,
Is the turf that has covered my Willie frae me.

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,
Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned;

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,
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favoured youth

That prompts their whispered sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flowering osier's early 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 woo8

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.

Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For O! not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,

Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.

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!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth the unaltered brow.
O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,

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 meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offered blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to wait:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bowed his meek submissive head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.
But thou, oh nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.

When eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.

Washing Day.

The Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on,
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or droning flies, or shoes lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face-
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded washing day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs,
Nor comfort; ere the first gray streak of dawn,
The red-armed washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
Ere visited that day; the very cat,

From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast meal is soon despatched,
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the louring sky, if sky should lour.
From that last evil, oh preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short, and linen horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.

Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,
And Montezuma smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing day.
But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who call'st thyself, perchance, the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual 'tendance; ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus; nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious. Should'st thou try
The 'customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse-checked apron, with impatient hand
Twitched off when showers impend; or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Wo to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites;
Looks blank at best, and stinted courtesy
Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savoury pie,
Or tart or pudding; pudding he nor tart

That day shall eat; nor, though the husband try-
Mending what can't be helped-to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest

In silence dines, and early slinks away.

I well remember, when a child, the awe

This day struck into me; for then the maids,

When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost, or witch, or murder. So I went
And sheltered me beside the parlour fire;
There my dear grandmother, eldest of all forms,
Tended the little ones, and watched from harm;
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins

Drawn from her ravelled stocking might have soured
One less indulgent.

At intervals my mother's voice was heard
Urging despatch; briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
Or fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.

Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were; sometimes through hollow hole
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles; little dreaming then
To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball

Ride buoyant through the clouds, so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them-this most of all.

MISS SEWARD-MRS HUNTER-MRS OPIE-MRS
GRANT MRS TIGHE.

Several other poetesses of this period are deserving of notice, though their works are now almost faded from remembrance. With much that is delicate in sentiment and feeling, and with considerable powers of poetical fancy and expression, their leading defect is a want of energy or of genuine passion, and of that originality which can alone forcibly arrest the public attention. One of the most conspicuous of these was MISS ANNA SEWARD (17471809), the daughter of the Rev. Mr Seward, canonresidentiary of Lichfield, himself a poet, and one of the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher. This lady was early trained to a taste for poetry, and, before she was nine years of age, she could repeat the three first books of Paradise Lost. Even at this time, she says, she was charmed with the numbers of Milton. Miss Seward wrote several elegiac poems-an Elegy to the Memory of Captain Cook, a Monody on the Death of Major André, &c.—which, from the popular nature of the subjects, and the animated though inflated style of the composition, enjoyed great celebrity. Darwin complimented her as the inventress of epic elegy; and she was known by the name of the Swan of Lichfield. A poetical novel, entitled Louisa, was published by Miss Seward in 1782, and passed through several editions. After bandying compliments with the poets of one generation, Miss Seward engaged Sir Walter Scott in a literary correspondence, and bequeathed to him for publication three volumes of her poetry, which he pronounced execrable. At the same time she left her correspondence to Constable, and that publisher gave to the world six volumes of her letters. Both collections were unsuccessful. The applauses of Miss Seward's early admirers were only calculated to excite ridicule, and the vanity and affectation which were her besetting sins, destroyed equally her poetry and prose. Some of her letters, however, are written with spirit and discrimination. In contrast to Miss Seward was MRS JOHN Hunter (1742-1821), a retired but highly accomplished lady, sister of Sir Everard Home, and wife of John Hunter, the celebrated

them;

Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgences; jelly or creams,
Relique of costly suppers, and set by

For me their petted one; or buttered toast,

which were extensively circulated, and some songs that even Haydn had married to immortal music, Mrs Hunter was induced, in 1806, to collect her pieces and commit them to the press. In 1802, MRS AMELIA OPIE, whose pathetic and interesting Tales

Where sat its honoured mistress, and with smile
Of love indulgent, from a floral pile
The gayest glory of the summer bower
Culled for the new-arrived-the human flower,
A lovely infant-girl, who pensive stood
Close to her knees, and charmed us as we viewed.
O! hast thou marked the summer's budded rose,
When 'mid the veiling moss its crimson glows?
So bloomed the beauty of that fairy form,
So her dark locks, with golden tinges warm,
Played round the timid curve of that white neck,
And sweetly shaded half her blushing cheek.
O! hast thou seen the star of eve on high,
Through the soft dusk of summer's balmy sky
Shed its green light, and in the glassy stream
Eye the mild reflex of its trembling beam?
So looked on us with tender, bashful gaze,
The destined charmer of our youthful days;
Whose soul its native elevation joined
To the gay wildness of the infant mind;
Esteem and sacred confidence impressed,
While our fond arms the beauteous child caressed.

Song.

[From Mrs Hunter's Poems.]

The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,

Which time can ne'er restore?

O days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you indeed for ever past?
The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;

In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace:
But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!

Song.

[From the same.]

O tuneful voice! I still deplore

Those accents which, though heard no more,
Still vibrate on my heart;

In echo's cave I long to dwell,
And still would hear the sad farewell,
When we were doomed to part.
Bright eyes, O that the task were mine
To guard the liquid fires that shine,

And round your orbits play;
To watch them with a vestal's care,
And feed with smiles a light so fair,
That it may ne'er decay!

The Death Song, Written for, and Adapted to, an
Original Indian Air.

[From the same.]

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.
Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the
pain?

No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast; you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

1 The lustre of the brightest of the stars (says Miss Seward,

in a note on her ninety-third sonnet) always appeared to me of a green hue; and they are so described by Ossian.

I go to the land where my father is gone,
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son;
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain;
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to complain.

To my Daughter, on being Separated from her on her
Marriage.

[From the same.]

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream
Which animates this mortal clay,
For thee I court the waking dream,

And deck with smiles the future day;
And thus beguile the present pain
With hopes that we shall meet again.
Yet, will it be as when the past
Twined every joy, and care, and thought,
And o'er our minds one mantle cast

Of kind affections finely wrought?
Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,
For so we ne'er can meet again!
May he who claims thy tender heart
Deserve its love, as I have done!
For, kind and gentle as thou art,

If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won.
Bright may the sacred torch remain,
And cheer thee till we meet again!

The Lot of Thousands.

[From the same.]
When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

"Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast

Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.
But nature waits her guests to greet,

Where disappointment cannot come;
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

The Orphan Boy's Tale.
[From Mrs Opie's Poems.]

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale,
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,
"Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.
Poor foolish child! how pleased was I

When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy; For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud,

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; 'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears. 'Why are you crying thus,' said I, 'While others laugh and shout with joy!' She kissed me--and with such a sigh!

She called me her poor orphan boy.