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A bird for curiosity well known,

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say:
With head awry,

Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?'
And cunning eye,

“Yes, please your majesty,' in humble notes Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

The brewer answered— Also, sire, of oats; And now his curious majesty did stoop

Another thing my horses, too, maintains,

And that, an 't please your majesty, are grains.'
To count the nails on every hoop;
And lo! no single thing came in his way,

Grains, grains,' said majesty, 'to fill their crops ? That, full of deep research, he did not say,

Grains, grains ?--that comes from hops-yes, hops, • What's this ? hae hae? What's that? What's this? hops, hops ?' What's that?'

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at faultSo quick the words too, when he deigned to speak, 'Sire,' cried the humble brewer, 'give me leave As if each syllable would break its neck.

Your sacred majesty to undeceive; Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl,

Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt.' Our soy'reign peeps into the world of small:

"True,' said the cautious monarch with a smile, Thus microscopic geniuses explore

From malt, malt, malt-I meant malt all the while." Things that too oft provoke the public scorn ;

'Yes, with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer, Yet swell of useful knowledges the store,

An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure.' By finding systems in a peppercorn.

Yes, answered majesty, with quick reply, Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare,

'I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.'... To make the majesty of England stare, That he had butts enough, he knew,

Now did the king admire the bell so fine, Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew;

That daily asks the draymen all to dine ; On which the king with wonder swiftly cried :

On which the bell rung out-how very proper ! What, if they reach to Kew, then, side by side,

To shew it was a bell, and had a clapper. What would they do, what, what, placed end to

And now before their sovereign's curious eyeend?' To whom, with knitted calculating brow,

Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs, The man of beer most solemnly did vow,

All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their styAlmost to Windsor that they would extend :

Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs ; On which the king, with wondering mien,

On which the observant man who fills a throne, Repeated it unto the wondering queen;

Declared the pigs were vastly like his own ;

On which the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
On which, quick turning round his haltered head,
The brewer's horse, with face astonished, neighed;

Fear and astonishment in both his eyes,
The brewer's dog, too, poured a note of thunder,

His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal, Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Exclaimed : 'O heavens ! and can my swine

Be deemed by majesty so fine ? Now did the king for other beers inquire,

Heavens ! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal ?' For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire ;

To which the king assented with a nod ; And after talking of these different beers,

On which the brewer bowed, and said : Good God !" Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs ?

Then winked significant on Miss,

Significant of wonder and of bliss, This was a puzzling disagreeing question,

Who, bridling in her chin divine, Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion ;

Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid, A kind of question to the man of Cask

And then her lowest curtsy made That not even Solomon himself would ask.

For such high honour done her father's swine. Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took

Now did his majesty, so gracious, say A very pretty memorandum-book,

To Mister Whitbread in his flying way : With giided leaves of ass's-skin só white,

Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? And in it legibly began to write

Hae, Whitbread, when d’ye think to leave off trade?

Hae? what? Miss Whitbread 's still a maid, a maid ? Memorandum.

What, what's the matter with the men ?
A charming place beneath the grates
For roasting chestnuts or potates.

D'ye hunt ?-hae, hunt? No no, you are too old ; Mem.

You 'll be lord-mayor--lord-mayor one day; 'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer,

Yes, yes, I've heard so ; yes, yes, so I'm told; Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay; Quere.

I'll prick you every year, man, I declare ; Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell ?

Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord-mayor. Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well ?

Whitbread, d' ye keep a coach, or job one, pray? Mom.

Job, job, that 's cheapest ; yes, that's best, that's To try it soon on our small beer

best. 'Twill save us several pounds a year.

You put your liveries on the draymen—hae ? Mem.

Hae, Whitbread? You have feathered well your To remember to forget to ask

nest. Old Whitbread to my house one day.

What, what's the price now, hae, of all your stock ? Mem.

But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what 's o'clock?' Not to forget to take of beer the cask, The brewer offered me, away.

Now Whitbread inward said : May I be cursed

If I know what to answer first.' Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd,

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye ; Sharp as the point, indeed, of a new pin,

But ere the man of malt an answer found, His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,

Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round, And then put up his ass's-skin.

Skipped off, and balked the honour of reply.



But art nor strength avail her--on she drives,
Lord Gregory.

In storm and darkness to the fatal coast;

And there 'mong rocks and high o'erhanging cliffs Burns admired this ballad of Wolcot's, and wrote another on the Dashed piteously, with all her precious freight, same subject.

Was lost, by Neptune's wild and foamy jaws
"Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door,

Swallowed up quick! The richest-laden ship
A midnight wanderer sighs;

Of spicy Ternate, or that annual sent
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,

To the Philippines o'er the southern main
And lightnings cleave the skies.'

From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,

Were poor to this ; freighted with hopeful youth, “Who comes with woe at this drear night,

And beauty and high courage undismayed
A pilgrim of the gloom?

By mortal terrors, and paternal love,
If she whose love did once delight,

Strong and unconquerable even in death
My cot shall yield her room.'

Alas, they perished all, all in one hour ! *
* Alas! thou heardst a pilgrim mourn

The Miseries of War.
That once was prized by thee :
Think of the ring by yonder burn

From 'Verses intended to have been spoken in the Theatre of
Thou gav'st to love and me.

Oxford, on the Installation of the Duke of Portland as Chap

cellor of the University.'
‘But shouldst thou not poor Marion know,

If the stroke of war
I'll turn my feet and part;

Fell certain on the guilty head, none else;
And think the storms that round me blow,

If they that make the cause might taste th' effect,
Far kinder than thy heart.'

And drink themselves the bitter cup they mix;
Then might the bard, though child of peace, delight

Totwine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow;
Epigram on Sleep.

Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell Thomas Warton wrote the following Latin epigram to be placed The trumpet's martial sound, and bid them on under the statue of Somnus, in the garden of Harris, the philol Whom justice arms for vengeance. But alas ! ogist, and Wolcot translated it with a beauty and felicity worthy of the original.

That undistinguishing and deathful storm

Beats heavier on th' exposed innocent ; Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago

And they that stir its fury, while it raves Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori ;

Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth
Alma quies, optata, veni, nam sic sine vitâ

Unto the mortal ministers that wait
Vivere quam suave est ; sic sine morte mori. To do their bidding.---Oh, who then regards

The widow's tears, the friendless orphan's cry,
Come, gentle sleep! attend thy votary's prayer, And famine, and the ghastly train of woes
And, though death's image, to my couch repair ; That follow at the dogged heels of war?
How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie, They, in the pomp and pride of victory
And, without dying, O how sweet to die !

Rejoicing o'er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,

And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,

Sing their mad hymns of triumph—hymns to God, WILLIAM CROWE (circa 1746-1829) was the

O'er the destruction of his gracious works !

Hymns to the Father o'er his slaughtered sons ! son of a carpenter at Winchester, and was admitted upon the foundation as a poor scholar. He was transferred to New College, Oxford, and was elected

CHARLOTTE SMITH. Fellow in 1773. He rose to be Professor of Poetry and Public Orator, holding at the same time the Several ladies cultivated poetry with success at valuable rectory of Alton Barnes. Crowe was this time. Among these was MRS CHARLOTTE author of Lewesdon Hill (1786), a descriptive poem SMITH (whose admirable prose fictions will afterin blank verse, and of various other pieces. Several wards be noticed). She was the daughter of Mr editions of his Poems have been published, the Turner of Stoke House, in Surrey, and born on latest in 1827. There is poetry of a very high the 4th of May 1749. She was remarkable for order in the works of Crowe, though it has never precocity of talents, and for a lively playful been popular.

humour that shewed itself in conversation, and in

compositions both in prose and verse. Being Wreck of the 'Halsewell,' East Indiaman.

early deprived of her mother, she was carelessly

though expensively educated, and introduced into See how the sun, here clouded, afar off

society at a very early age. Her father having Pours down the golden radiance of his light Upon the enridged sea ; where the black ship

decided on a second marriage, the friends of the Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,

young and admired poetess endeavoured to estabBut falsely flattering, was yon surface calm,

lish her in life, and she was induced to accept the When forth for India sailed, in evil time,

hand of Mr Smith, the son and partner of a rich That vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,

West India merchant. The husband was twentyFilled every breast with horror, and each eye one years of age, and his wife fifteen! This rash With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss.

union was productive of mutual discontent and Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm misery. Mr Smith was careless and extravagant, Shattered and driven along past yonder isle, She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,

The Halsewell, Captain Pierce, was wrecked in January 1786, To gain the port within it, or at worst,

having struck on the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of Pur To shun that harbourless and hollow coast

beck, between Peverel Point and St Alban's Head. All the From Portland eastward to the promontory

passengers perished; but out of 240 souls on board, 74 were saved.

Seven interesting and accomplished young ladies (two of them Where still St Alban's bigh-built chapel stands. daughters of the captain) were among the drowned.

business was neglected, and his father dying, left Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; a will so complicated and voluminous that no two Ah! why has happiness no second Spring ? lawyers understood it in the same sense.


Should the lone wanderer, sainting on his way, suits and embarrassments were therefore the

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, portion of this ill-starred pair for all their after

And, though his path through thorns and roughness lives. Mr Smith was ultimately forced to sell the


Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers ; greater part of his property, after he had been thrown into prison, and his faithful wife had

Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,

The sense of sorrow he a while may lose ; shared with him the misery and discomfort of his

So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! confinement. After an unhappy union of twenty So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse. three years, Mrs Smith separated from her hus But darker now grows life's unhappy day, band, and, taking a cottage near Chichester, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come; applied herself to her literary occupations with Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, cheerful assiduity, supplying to her children the And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, duties of both parents. In eight months she And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, completed her novel of Emmeline, published in

Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more! 1788. In the following year appeared another novel from her pen, entitled Ethelinde; and in Recollections of English Scenery.— From · Beachy Head? 1791, a third under the name of Celestina. She imbibed the opinions of the French Revolution,

Haunts of my youth ! and embodied them in a romance entitled Des

Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet! mond. This work arrayed against her many of

Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes, her friends and readers, but she regained the

To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft public favour by her tale, the Old Manor-house,

By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore which is the best of her novels. Part of this work

Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb,

There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : was written at Eartham, the residence of Hayley,

And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, during the period of Cowper's visit to that poetical To look beneath upon the hollow way, retreat. It was delightful,' says Hayley, to hear While heavily upward moved the labouring wain, her read what she had just written, for she read, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, as she wrote, with simplicity and grace.' Cowper To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone was also astonished at the rapidity and excellence The grating wheel. of her composition. Mrs Smith continued her

Advancing higher still, literary labours amidst private and family distress. The prospect widens, and the village church She wrote a valuable little compendium for chil But little o'er the lowly roofs around dren, under the title of Conversations; A History

Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane ; of British Birds; a descriptive poem on Beachy

Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed Head, &c. She died at Tilford, near Farnham,

By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;

When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom on the 28th of October 1806. The poetry of Mrs

Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. Smith is elegant and sentimental, and generally For even those orchards round the Norman farms, of a pathetic cast.

Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit,

Console them, for the vineyards of the south

Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash and beech, On the Departure of the Nightingale.

And partial copses fringe the green hill-foot, Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu !

The upland shepherd rears his modest home; Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year !

There wanders by a little nameless stream Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,

That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.

Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, Whether on spring thy wandering flights await,

But still refreshing in its shallow course Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,

The cottage garden ; most for use designed, The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate,

Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine And still protect the song she loves so well.

Mantles the little casement ; yet the brier With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;

And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide

Grow among balm and rosemary and rue ; The gentle bird who sings of pity best :

There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow For still thy voice shall soft affections move,

Almost uncultured ; some with dark-green leaves And still be dear to sorrow and to love !

Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state

Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss
Written at the Close of Spring.

Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove;

The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew, With fond regret I recollect e'en now Anemones that spangled every grove,

In spring and summer, what delight I felt The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.

Among these cottage gardens, and how much No more shall violets linger in the dell,

Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush Or purple orchis variegate the plain,

By village housewife or her ruddy maid, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,

Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleased. And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. An early worshipper at nature's shrine, Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,

I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths, Are the fond visions of thy early day,

And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care

And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!

Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.


To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts,

They took me to the town;

But sair on ilka weel-kenned face
Miss SUSANNA BLAMIRE (1747-1794), a Cumn-

I missed the youthfu' bloom. berland lady, was distinguished for the excellence At balls they pointed to a nymph of her Scottish poetry, which has all the idio

Wham a declared divine;

But sure her mother's blushing cheeks matic ease and grace of a native minstrel. Miss

Were fairer far langsyne ! Blamire was born. of a respectable family in Cumberland, at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, where she In vain I sought in music's sound. resided till her twentieth year, beloved by a circle

To find that magic art, of friends and acquaintance, with whom she asso Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays ciated in what were called merry neets, or merry

Has thrilled through a' my heart. evening-parties, in her native district. Her sister The song had mony an artfu' turn; becoming the wife of Colonel Graham of Duchray,

My ear confessed 'twas fine ; Perthshire, Susanna accompanied the pair to

But missed the simple melody Scotland, where she remained some years, and

I listened to langsyne. imbibed that taste for Scottish melody and music Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, which prompted her beautiful lyrics, The Nabob, Forgie an auld man's spleen, The Siller Croun, &c. She also wrote some Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns pieces in the Cumbrian dialect, and a descriptive The days he ance has seen. poem of some length, entitled Stocklewath, or the When time has passed and seasons fled, Cumbrian Village. Miss Blamire died unmarried Your hearts will feel like mine ; at Carlisle, in her forty-seventh year, and her

And aye the sang will maist delight name had almost faded from remembrance, when,

That minds ye o' langsyne ! in 1842, her poetical works were collected and published in one volume, with a preface, memoir,

What Ails this Heart o' Mine? and notes by Patrick Maxwell.

*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 The Nabob.

has all along enjoyed.'-Maxwell's Memoir of Miss Blamire. When silent time, wi' lightly foot,

What ails this heart o' mine?
Had trod on thirty years,

What ails this watery ee?
I sought again my native land

What gars me a'turn pale as death
Wi' mony hopes and fears.

When I take leave othee?
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left

When thou art far awa',
May still continue mine?

Thou ’lt dearer grow to me;
Or gin I e'er again shall taste

But change o' place and change o' folk
The joys I left langsyne ?

May gar thy fancy jee.
As I drew near my ancient pile

When I gae out at e'en,
My heart beat a' the way;

Or walk at morning air,
Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak

Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
O some dear former day ;

I used to meet thee there.
Those days that followed me afar,

Then I'll sit down and cry,
Those happy days o'mine,

And live aneath the tree,
Whilk made me think the present joys

And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,
A' naething to langsyne !

I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I 'll bie me to the bower
The ivied tower now met my eye,

That thou wi' roses tied,
Where minstrels used to blaw;

And where wi' mony a blushing bud
Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand,

I strove myself to hide.
Nae weel-kenned face I saw;

I'll doat on ilka spot
Till Donald tottered to the door,

Where I hae been wi' thee;
Wham I left in his prime,

And ca' to mind some kindly word
And grat to see the lad return

By ilka burn and tree.
He bore about langsyne.
I ran to ilka dear friend's room,

As an example of the Cumberland dialect :
As if to find them there,
I knew where ilk ane used to sit,

Auld Robin Forbes.
And hang o'er mony a chair ;

And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance,
Till soft remembrance threw a veil

I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ;
Across these een o' mine,

I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen,
I closed the door, and sobbed aloud,

And skipped wi' the best upon Forbes's green.
To think on auld langsyne.

Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer,

It brings that that 's bypast and sets it down here ;
Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race

I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace,
Wad next their welcome pay,

When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.
Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's,
And wished my groves away.

The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see "Cut, cut,' they cried, 'those aged elms;

In yen that was dark and hard-teatured leyke me; Lay low yon mournfu' pine.'

And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my Na! na ! our fathers' names grow there,

wit, Memorials o' langsyne.

And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it. 30

But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe, A Memoir of Mrs Barbauld, including Notices
And whea was mair happy thro' aw his lang leyfe? of her Family and Friends, was published in 1874
It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane,
That he offen said-nea pleace was leyke his awn

by her grand-niece, Anna le Breton.

The following stanza in a poem entitled Life,

was much admired by Wordsworth and Rogers : I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle, Where Willy was deyken, the time to beguile,

Life ! we've been long together, He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; And I hammered my noddle to mek out a jest.

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear ;

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ;
But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell
There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time,
And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack
When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.

Say not ‘Good-night,' but in some brighter clime

Bid me 'Good-morning.'
When the clock had struck eight, I expected him

Ode to Spring
And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;
Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me,

Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee.

Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightsul Spring! O Willy ! dear Willy ! it never can be

Whose unshorn locks with leaves
That age, time, or death can divide thee and me!

And swelling buds are crowned ;
For that spot on earth that 's aye dearest to me,
Is the turf that has covered my Willie frae me.

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,
ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD, the daughter of Dr More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed
John Aikin, was born at Kibworth Harcourt, in Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,
Leicestershire, in 1743. Her father at this time And through the stormy deep
kept a seminary for the education of boys, and Breathe thy own tender calm.
Anna received the same instruction, being early
initiated into a knowledge of classical literature. In

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await 1758, Dr Aikin undertaking the office of classical

With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove tutor in a dissenting academy at Warrington, his

Thy blooming wilds among, daughter accompanied him, and resided there

And vales and dewy lawns, fifteen years. In 1773, she published a volume With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets of miscellaneous poems, of which four editions

To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow were called for in one year. In May 1774, she Of him, the favoured youth was married to the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, a That prompts their whispered sigh. French Protestant, who was minister of a dissenting, congregation at Palgrave, near Diss, and who

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers had just opened a boarding-school at the neigh

That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,

And silent dews that swell bouring village of Palgrave, in Suffolk. The

The milky ear's green stem, poetess participated with her husband in the task of instruction. In 1775, she came forward with a

And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ; volume of devotional pieces compiled from the And call those winds, which through the whispering Psalms, and another volume of Hymns in Prose

boughs for children. In 1786, Mr and Mrs Barbauld With

warm and pleasant breath established themselves at Hampstead, and there Salute the blowing flowers. several tracts proceeded from the pen of our authoress on the topics of the day, in all which Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, she espoused the principles of the Whigs. She And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;

And watch with patient eye also assisted her father in preparing a series of tales for children, entitled Evenings at Home, and

Thy fair unfolding charms. she wrote critical essays on Akenside and Collins,

O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate Sun prefixed to editions of their works. In 1803, Mrs

With bashful forehead, through the cool moist air Barbauld compiled a selection of essays from the Throws his young maiden beams, Spectator, Tailer, and Guardian, to which she

And with chaste kisses woos prefixed a preliminary essay; and in the following year she edited the correspondence of Richardson, The Earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil and wrote a life of the novelist. She afterwards Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade edited a collection of the British novelists, pub

Protects thy modest blooms
lished in 1810, with an introductory essay, and From his severer blaze.
biographical and critical notices. Mrs Barbauld
died on the oth of March 1825. Some of her

Sweet is thy reign, but short : the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's

scythe lyrical pieces are flowing and harmonious, and

Thy greens, thy flowerets all, her Ode to Spring is a happy imitation of Collins.

Remorseless shall destroy. Charles James Fox is said to have been a great admirer of Mrs Barbauld's songs, but they are by Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ; no means the best of her compositions, being For oh! not all that Autumn's lap contains, generally artificial, and unimpassioned in their Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits, character.

Can aught for thee atone,


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