Until the hasting day
Has run,

But to the even song,

And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain,

Or, as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

THE NIGHT-PIECE.-TO JULIA.

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No will-o'-th'-wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake, nor slow-worm bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber,
What though the moon doth slumber?

The stars of the night,

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear without number.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What were ye born to be
An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile they glide

Into the grave.

The want in these graceful and delicate lyrics is thew and sinew. And yet they are what they pretend to be-airy petals of the cherry-blossom, hinting of fruit, bees fluttering and musical, giving token of honey.

The Muse fares ill in civil contentions. As Herrick fled before the Roundheads, so was George Wither oppressed by the Cavaliers. The following noble praise of poetry was written in a prison; in a prison the poor poet passed many of his latter years, and it is still a question whether he actually died in confinement, or perished of want and misery after his release.

But, alas! my muse is slow;
For thy pace she flags too low.

But though for her sake I'm curst,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble,
Ten times more than ten times double;
I would love and keep her too

Spite of all the world could do.

For though banished from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night;
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,

And those sweets the spring-tide yields;
Though I may not see those groves,

Where the shepherds chant their loves,

And the lasses more excel

Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;

Though of all those pleasures past

Nothing now remains at last,

But remembrance, poor relief

That more makes than mends my grief;

XIII.

FEMALE POETS.

JOANNA BAILLIE*- —CATHERINE FANSHAWE.

BELOVED, admired, appreciated by the best spirits of her time, it is with no little triumph that I, who plead guilty to some of that esprit de corps, which may be translated into "pride of sex," write the name of our great female dramatist-of the first woman who won high and undisputed honors in the highest class of English poetry. The pleasure of rendering her a faint and imperfect justice is all the greater that I have the honor of claiming acquaintance with this most gifted person, and that she is, in her domestic relations, the very pattern of what a literary lady should be-quiet, unpretending, generous, kind, admirable in her writings, excellent in her life.

And yet of Mrs. Joanna Baillie, the praised of Scott, and of all whose praise is best worth having for half a century, what can I say, but that many an age to come will echo back their applause!

Her tragedies have a boldness and grasp of mind, a firmness of hand, and a resonance of cadence, that scarcely seem within the reach of a female writer; while the tenderness and sweetness of her heroines—the grace of the love-scenes—and the trembling outgushings of sensibility, as in Orra, for instance, in the fine tragedy on Fear-would seem exclusively feminine, if we did not know that a true dramatist-as Shakspeare or

* Since writing this paper, this gifted authoress and admirable woman has passed from this world to the higher and happier state which was ever in her thoughts. A letter from her to a mutual friend, written a very few days before her death, expresses her satisfaction in having received the sacrament with her sister the Sunday previous. In this letter, for the first time during a long correspondence, she breaks off somewhat suddenly, complaining of bodily fatigue, although no one then thought her ill.

Fletcher-has the wonderful power of throwing himself, mind and body, into the character that he portrays. That Mrs. Joanna is a true dramatist, as well as a great poet, I, for one, can never doubt, although it has been the fashion to say that her plays do

not act.

It must be above fifty years ago that I, then a girl of thirteen, in company with my old and dear friend, Mr. Harness, the bosom friend of Thomas Hope, the friend and correspondent of Lord Byron (and, be it observed, of all his correspondents, the one who seems to have impressed the daring poet with the most sincere respect), then a boy considerably younger than myself, witnessed the representation of "De Montfort," by John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Forty years after, we had the pleasure of talking over that representation with the authoress, in Lady Dacre's drawing-room, a place where poets "most do congregate," and we both agreed that the impression which the performance had made upon us had remained indelible. Now, the qualities in an acted play that fixed themselves upon the minds of children so young, must have been purely dramatic. Purely dramatic, too, are many of the finer traits that strike us in reading, as, when De Montfort, with his ear quickened by hatred, announces the approach of Rezenvelt, and Freberg exclaims:

and

"How quick an ear thou hast for distant sound!

I hear him not-"

many others scattered through the tragedies.

I concede, however, very willingly, that Mrs. Joanna is a most charming lyrical poetess; as witness the beautiful Morning Song in the " Beacon," which breathes the very spirit of hope.

Up! quit thy bower; late wears the hour;

Long have the rooks cawed round thy tower;
On flower and tree loud hums the bee;

The wilding kid sports merrily:
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear,
Showeth when good fortune's near.

Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And bathe thee in the breezy air;

The rolling stream that soothed thy dream

Is dancing in the sunny beam;

And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay,

Will waft good fortune on its way.

Up! time will tell; the friar's bell
Its service sound hath chimed well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
And reapers to the fields are gone;
The active day, so fair and bright,

May bring good fortune ere the night.

There is a remarkable freedom in the diction and versification of the following beautiful song; the more remarkable that it is written for a Welsh air.

THE BLACK COCK.

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath so wildly shy!
I see thee slowly cowering, through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to light of day
Look shortly forth and break away.

One fleeting moment of delight
I warmed me in her cheering sight,
And short, I ween, the time will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.

Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day;
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay;

The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;

Thou art already on the wing.

This song is distinguished by the same delicious freedom, and was also written to music. Truly, the Muse can dance in fetters.

O welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by!