TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES, AND dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, What though the spirits of the north, that swept ΤΟ AH! little thought she, when, with mild delight, She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. To thee, how changed! comes as she ever came WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. THERE, in that bed so closely curtain'd round, Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, A father sleeps! O hush'd be every sound! Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! He stirs yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise; Till through the shutter'd pane the morning streams And on the hearth the glimmering rushlight dies. In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Julius II., it was long the favourite study of those great men to whom we owe the revival of the arts, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and the Carracci. † Once in the possession of Praxiteles, If we may believe an ancient epigram on the Guidian Venus.-Analecta Vet Poetarum, III. 200. On the death of her sister. THE BOY OF EGREMOND.* "SAY, what remains when hope is fled ? She answer'd," Endless weeping!" For in the herdsman's eye she read Who in his shroud lay sleeping. At Embsay rung the matin-bell, The stag was roused on Barden fell The mingled sounds were swelling, dying And down the Wharfe a hern was flying; When near the cabin in the wood, In tartan clad and forest green, With hound in leash and hawk in hood, The Boy of Egremond was seen, Blithe was his song, a song of yore; But where the rock is rent in two, And the river rushes through, His voice was heard no more! 'Twas but a step! the gulf he pass'd But that step-it was his last! As through the mist he wing'd his way, (A cloud that hovers night and day,) The hound hung back, and back he drew The master and his merlin too. That narrow place of noise and strife Received their little all of life! There now the matin-bell is rung; The "Miserere!" duly sung ; And holy men in cowl and hood Are wandering up and down the wood. But what avail they? Ruthless lord, Thou didst not shudder when the sword Here on the young its fury spent, The helpless and the innocent. Sit now and answer groan for groan, The child before thee is thy own. And she who wildly wanders there The mother in her long despair, Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping, Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping; Of those who would not be consoled When red with blood the river roll'd. TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. ON thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. As on she moves with hesitating grace, She wins assurance from his soothing voice; And, with a look the pencil could not trace, Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice. In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterward established there by his uncle, David, King of Scotland. He was the last of the race; his son, commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying: efore him in the manner here related; when a priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the first stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale.-See Whittaker's Hist. of Craven. Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame! At each response the sacred rite requires O'er her fair face what wild emotions play! Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought! TO THE YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY **** Aн, why with tell-tale tongue reveal For this presumption, soon or late, THE ALPS AT DAYBREAK. The goats wind slow their wonted way, IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET. LOVE, under friendship's vesture white, Laughs, his little limbs concealing; And oft in sport, and oft in spite, Like pity meets the dazzled sight, smiles through his tears revealing. But now as rage the god appears! He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !-Frowning, or smiling, or in tears, 'Tis love; and love is still the same. AN EPITAPH† ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST. TREAD lightly here; for here, 'tis said, TO THE GNAT. WHEN by the greenwood side, at summer cve, Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring The village church, among the trees, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, 1786. WHILE inrough the broken pane the tempest sighs, And my step falters on the faithless floor, Shades of departed joys around me rise, With many a face that smiles on me no more; With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave! AN ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange groves and myrtle bowers, AN INSCRIPTION. SHEPHERD, or huntsman, or worn mariner, See an anecdote related by Pausanias, iii. 20. That birds may come and drink upon his grave, Making it holy !* WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOT- BLUE was the loch, the clouds were gone Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees, The fairy isles fled far away; Night fell; and dark and darker grew Glad sign, and sure; for now we hail A Turkish superstition. + A famous outlaw. Signifying, in the Erse language, an isthmus. § Loch Long. || A phenomenon described by many navigators. O blest retreat, and sacred too! Sacred as when the bell of prayer And crosses deck'd thy summits blue. A FAREWELL. ONCE more, enchanting maid, adieu ! Yet give me, give me, ere I go, O say-but no, it must not be. INSCRIPTION FOR A TEMPLE. DEDICATED TO THE GRACES." APPROACH with reverence. There are those within Whose dwelling-place is heaven. Daughters of Jove, From them flow all the decencies of life; TO THE BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy, wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy! -Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day! At Woburn Abbey. WRITTEN IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. WHOE'ER thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, O say, of him now rests there but a name; What though with war the madding nations rung, When in retreat he laid his thunder by, For letter'd ease and calm philosophy, Blest were his hours within the silent grove, Where still his godlike spirit deigns to rove; Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, For many a deed, long done in secret there. There shone his lamp on Homer's hallow'd page; There, listening, sate the hero and the sage And they, by virtue and by blood allied, Whom most he loved, and in whose arms he died. Friend of all human kind! not here alone (The voice that speaks, was not to thee unknown) Wilt thou be miss'd. O'er every land and sea, Long, long shall England be revered in thee! And, when the storm is hush'd-in distant yearsFoes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears! * After the funeral of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. + Venez voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur etc.-Bossuet. Oraison funèbre de Louis de Bourbon. Et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces honneurs, que celui à qui on les rend.-Ibid. § Alluding particularly to his speech on moving a new writ for the borough of Tavistock, March 16, 1802. See that admirable delineation of his character by Sir James Mackintosh, which first appeared in the Bombay Courier, January 17, 1807. JOANNA BAILLIE. JOANNA BAILLIE was a native of Bothwell, in Lanarkshire, Scotland. The date of her birth is stated variously, from 1762 to 1765. Her father was a Presbyterian clergyman, and she enjoyed considerable advantages for education. Her literary abilities showed themselves at an early age; but otherwise her life was quite uneventful. While still a young woman she went to reside with her brother Matthew, a physician, in London, where she spent the remainder of her life. Her most elaborate work was "Plays on the Passions," of which the first volume appeared in 1798 and was immediately successful. One passion is made the theme of each drama, and the hero is represented as being entirely controlled by that. Of course such plays could not be otherwise than unnatural; yet they were popular in their day, and "De Monfort," the best of them, was kept on the stage for eleven nights, with Kemble acting the hero. In 1804 she published "Miscellaneous Plays," and in 1836 three volumes of dramatic poetry. Many of the songs which were introduced in her plays are very fine. The one be ginning "Oh swiftly glides the bonny boat " has been an especial favorite. Miss Baillie was very much beloved by her personal friends and very highly esteemed by contemporary writers. She died in London on the 23d of February 1851. TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, What boots it who, with sweet caresses, Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, But far afield thou hast not flown, Of right good-will thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle too, Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, And new-cropped 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, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. Is there a man, that from some lofty steep, 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, |