the best sonnet in the language; and Mr. SOUTHEY said, that he knew not any poem in any language more beautifully imaginative. The two last lines finely imitate to the ear the thronging echoes which they describe. "The Winds," and the lines "Written on the Approach of cold Weather," are scarcely inferior; and the sonnets, "To Evening," and "To Autumn," are constructed with consummate skill. The sonnets on HARRY HASTINGS are a series of cabinet pictures, which deserve careful study. They are in a style of art, to which, with the saving of a very few of Mr. WORDSWORTH'S sonnets, the literature of this age is a stranger. In respect to finish, tone, and the magical effect by which a single image is made to flash the whole scene upon the mind, they remind us of the rural elegies of TIBULLUS. The life of the old sportsman is revived before us, with astonishing completeness. The name of the author of those sonnets will not die. ECHO AND SILENCE. Ix eddying course when leaves began to fly, And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo, Thro' glens untrod, and woods that frown'd on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy! And, lo, she's gone!-In robe of dark-green hue 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky! In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Not so her sister.-Hark! for onward still, With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill! THE APPROACH OF COLD WEATHER. With buskin❜d legs, and quiver 'cross her flung, With hounds and horn she seeks the wood and vale, And Echo listens to her forest song. At eve, she flies to hear her poet's tale, [among. And AUTUMN's" name resounds his shades THE WINDS. SUBLIME the pleasure, meditating song, Lull'd by the piping of the winds to lie, And shake with full Eolian notes the sky. Methinks I hear the shrieking spirits oft Groan in the blast, and flying tempests lead: While some aerial beings sighing soft [plead; Round once-loved maids their guardian wishes Spirits of torment shrilly speak aloft, And warn the wretch, who rolls in guilt, to heed. ΤΟ EVENING. SWEET Eve, of softest voice and gentlest beam, Say, since the pensive strains thou once didst hear Of him," the bard sublime of Arun's stream, Will aught beside delight thy nicer ear? Me wilt thou give to praise thy shadowy gleam, Thy fragrant breath, and dying murmurs dear; The mists, that o'er thee from thy valleys steam, And elfin shapes that round thy car appear; The music that attends thy state; the bell Of distant fold; the gently warbling wind And watch-dog's hollow voice from cottaged dell? For these to purest pleasure wake the mind; Lull each tumultuous passion to its cell; And leave soft, soothing images behind. TO A LADY IN ILLNESS. NEW to the world, when all was fairy ground, The sighing voice, wan looks, and plaintive air, TO AUTUMN, NEAR HER DEPARTURE. Thy looks resign'd, that smiles of patience wear, While Winter's blasts thy scatter'd tresses tear; Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest! Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight That dazzling Summer shall of her be born, Let Summer blaze; and Winter's stormy train Breathe awful music in the ear of Night; Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn, And from thy glance will catch th' inspired strain. TO MARY. FROM THE NOVEL OF MARY DE CLIFFORD. WHERE art thou, Mary, pure as fair, HASTINGS' SONNETS.* I. OLD Harry Hastings! of thy forest life Sunk not a dell, and not a thicket grew, And through the shadowy oaks of giant size, Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear; [rise; And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would And echoes dancing round repeat their ecstacies. *"Scarce any English reader of biographical anecdotes is unacquainted with the character of HENRY HASTINGS, of Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, given by Lord SHAFTESBURY; which may be seen in the 'Connoisseur,' in Gilpin's 'New Forest,' and in the last edition of 'Collins' Peerage,' &c. He was son of an Earl of HUNTINGDON; he lived through the reigns of Queen ELIZABETH, JAMES I., and CHARLES I., and died on the verge of a hundred years of age. Like CLAUDIAN'S 'Old Man of Verona,' he did not trouble himself with affairs of state, but enjoyed his own country-life amid the woods and fields. His father was GEORGE, fourth earl, who died in 1605; HENRY died 5th October, 1650, aged ninety-nine. There is something exceedingly picturesque in the account of this HARRY HASTINGS' life; and I am willing to delude myself with the belief, that the following sonnets not unaptly describe it." II. A century did not thy vigour pale, Nor war and rapine thy enjoyments cloud; And thy halloos were gay, and clear, and loud, To thy last days, through covert, hill, and vale: The keepers heard it on the autumnal gale, And with responsive horns, in blasts as proud, Their labours to the cherish'd service vow'd, Delighted their old merry lord to hail. The forest girls peep'd out, and buxom wives, And in the leaf-strown glades and yellow lanes Each for the kindly salutation strives, Which to their smiles the gladsome veteran deigns. Hark how, on courser mounted, in his vest Of green, the aged sportsman cracks his blithesome jest! III. Then comes the rude and hospitable hall: Mark how abound the trophies of the chase! How thick they mingle on the armour'd wall! What antler'd ornaments the portals grace! There blazon'd shields the proud remembrance call Of many a noble, many a princely race; And many a glorious rise, and many a fall, As upward they the stream of ages trace. How glad the old man, far from civil brawl, Of a more tranquil being boasts th' embrace! His sleeping hounds, round the hearth gather'd, wake At the gay burst of his exulting song; And all, his joyous bounty to partake, Leap to his call, and round his table throng. IV. To-morrow will the music of their cries Pierce through the shadowy solitudes again, As with the dawn he to the covert hies, And seeks his prey amid the sylvan reign. Behold the merry men chanting in his train, See how the coy stag listens with surprise! In troops they hasten to their depths again; And with big tears his fate the mark'd one eyes. Groans through the forest, echoes from the hills, A mingled day of joy and grief proclaim : A tempest gathers, and the welkin fills, And for another morning saves the game. Then on the Book of Sports the veteran pores, And deems it wiser spell than learning's lores. V. A hundred years to live, and live in joy! Security from envy, malice, care; The form robust in woodland pastures bred ;With what a tranquil and uncumber'd pace Might thus we reach the slumbers of the dead! VI. But is congenial quiet, and of frame Around us circles an aërial band, Which tells us spiritual labours to endeavour; And not alone the senses to employ, As the pure channels of our earthly joy! There is, within, a deity, whose desires We must sustain and feed by mental fires; The insate mind, but from without supplied, Languishes on a weak imperfect food; If sustenance more spiritual be denied, With flame consuming on itself 't will brood! VII. But in this rural life, mid nature's forms They add to what external sense supplies; VIII. There is exhilaration in the chase Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Or having climb'd some misty mountain's height, When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace : Then worshipping the sun, on silver floods And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents; from the forest-mass Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly checker'd landscape pass, And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind. ON MOOR PARK, FORMERLY THE SEAT OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, WHOSE HEART WAS BURIED IN THE GARDEN THERE. To yonder narrow vale, whose high-sloped sides Are hung with airy oaks, and umbrage deepWhere through thick shades the lulling waters creep: And no vile noise the musing mind derides, But silence with calm solitude abides— Temple with joy retired, that he might keep A course of quiet days, and nightly sleep Beneath the covering wings of heavenly guidesVirtue and peace! Here he in sweet repose Sigh'd his last breath! Here Swift, in youth reclined, Pass'd his smooth days.-Oh, had he longer chose Retreats so pure, perchance his nicer mind, That the world's wildering follies and its woes To madness shook, had ne'er with sorrows pined! WRITTEN AUGUST 20, 1807. THOUGH in my veins the blood of monarchs flowPlantagenet and Tudor-not for these With empty boast my lifted mind I please; But rather that my heart's emotions glow With the pure flame the muse's gifts bestow: Nor would it my aspiring soul appease, In rank, birth, wealth, to loll at sensual ease, And none but folly's stupid flattery know. But yet when upstart greatness turns an eye Of scorn and insult on my modest fame, And on descent's pretensions vain would try To build the honours of a nobler name, With pride defensive swelling, I exclaim, [vie!" "Base one, e'en there with me thou dost not WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 10, 1825. STERN, unexpecting good, unbent by wrong, I travel onward through this gloomy scene, With brow of sorrow, yet erect in mien; Meek to the humble, in defiance strong, To folly's, envy's, hatred's, falsehood's throng: Yet knowing that the birth and grave between There ever will, as ever there have been, Be friendships fickle, warfares deep and long! If I have taught the truths of wisdom's lore, If I have drawn the secrets of the heart, And raised the glow that mounts o'er grief and ill— In my plain verse though bloom no single flower, And not a ray of wit its lustre dart, Its naked strength o'er death will triumph still! WRITTEN AT PARIS, MAY 11, 1826. HIGH name of poet!-sought in every age By thousands-scarcely won by two or three,As with the thorns of this sad pilgrimage My bleeding feet are doom'd their war to wage, With awful worship I have bow'd to thee! And yet perchance it is not fate's decree, This mighty boon should be assign'd to me, My heart's consuming fever to assuage. Fountain of Poesy! that liest deep Within the bosom's innermost recesses, And rarely burstest forth to human ear, Break out!--and, while profoundly magic sleep With pierceless veil all outward form oppresses, Let me the music of thy murmurs hear. WRITTEN AT LEE PRIORY, AUGUST 10, 1826. PRAISE of the wise and good!—it is a meed For which I would lone years of toil endure; Which many a peril, many a grief would cure! As onward I with weary feet proceed, My swelling heart continues still to bleed; The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, And never to my prayer to be decreed !— With anxious ear I listen to the voice That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask; But yet it comes not,-or it comes in doubtSlave to the passion of my earliest choice, From youth to age I ply my daily task, And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out. JOANNA BAILLIE. JOANNA BAILLIE was born in Bothwell, in Scotland, of an honourable family, about the year 1765. She has spent the greater portion of her life at Hampstead, near London, where she now resides. When she began to write, she tells us in the preface to a volume recently published, not one of all the eminent authors of modern times was known, and Miss SEWARD and Mr. HAYLEY were the poets spoken of in society. The brightest stars in the poetical firmament, with very few exceptions, have risen and set since then; the greatest revolutions in empire and in opinion have taken place; but she has lived on as if no echo of the upturnings and overthrows which filled the world reached the quiet of her home; the freshness of her inspirations untarnished; writing from the fulness of a true heart of themes belonging equally to all the ages. Personally she is scarcely known in literary society; but from her first appearance as an author, no woman has commanded more respect and admiration by her works; and the most celebrated of her contemporaries have vied with each other in doing her honour. SCOTT calls her the Shakspeare of her sex. 66 "The wild harp silent bung Deem'd their own SHAKSPEARE lived again!"' The most remarkable of her works are her Plays of the Passions," a series in which each passion is made the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. In the comedies she failed completely; they are pointless tales in dialogue. Her tragedies, however, have great merit, though possessing a singular quality for works of such an aim, in being without the earnestness and abruptness of actual and powerful feeling. By refinement and elaboration she makes the passions sentiments. She fears to distract attention by multiplying incidents; her catastrophes are approached by the most gentle gradations; her dramas are therefore slow in action and deficient in interest. Her characters possess little individuality; they are mere generalizations of intellectual attributes, theories personified. The very system of her plays has been the subject of critical censure. The chief object of every dramatic work is to please and interest, and this object may be arrived at as well by situation as by character. Character distinguishes one person from another, while by passion nearly all men are alike. A controlling passion perverts character, rather than developes it; and it is therefore in vain to attempt the delineation of a character by unfolding the progress of a passion. It has been well observed too, that unity of passion is impossible, since to give a just relief and energy to any particular passion, it should be presented in opposition to one of a different sort, so as to produce a powerful conflict in the heart. In dignity and purity of style, Miss BAILLIE has not been surpassed by any of the poets of her sex. Her dialogue is formed on the Shaksperean model, and she has succeeded perhaps better than any other dramatist in imitating the manner of the greatest poet of the world. "De Montfort" we believe is the only one of Miss BAILLIE's tragedies which has been successfully presented in the theatres. It was performed in London by JOHN KEMBLE, and in New York and Philadelphia by EDMUND KEAN; but no actors of inferior genius have ventured to attempt it, and it will probably the never again be brought upon stage. Besides her plays Miss BAILLIE has written "A View of the General Tenor of the New Testament regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ," "Metrical Legends of Eminent Characters," "Fugitive Verses," and some less important publications. she gave the world a new volume of " on the Passions," and in 1842 Moxon published her "Fugitive Verses." In 1827 Plays BIRTHDAY LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE. DEAR Agnes, gleam'd with joy and dash'd with tears, O'er us have glided almost sixty years Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen, Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention, Of some huge, ponderous tome which, but thyself, Of no account, and without notice past, To see thee by the morning table set, TO A CHILD. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, What boots it who with sweet caresses First called thee his, or squire or hind? Since thou in every wight that passes, Dost now a friendly playmate find. Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning, But far a field thou hast not flown; With mocks, and threats, half-lisp'd, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown, Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh and wrestle too, A mimic warfare with me waging; To make, as wily lovers do, Thy after kindness more engaging. The wilding rose, sweet as thyself, 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, |