She glances on, in her glory proud; Simpleton man! why, who would have thought JOANNA BAILLIE. MISS BAILLIE (1762–1851) was the daughter of a Scottish minister, and was born in the manse or parsonage of Bothwell, county of Lanark. In this manse, repression of all emotions, even the gentlest, and those most honourable to human nature, seems to have been the constant lesson.' Joanna's sister, Agnes, told Lucy Aiken that their father was an excellent parent: when she had once been bitten by a dog thought to be mad, he had sucked the wound, at the hazard, as was supposed, of his own life, but that he had never given her a kiss. Joanna spoke of her yearning to be caressed when a child. She would sometimes venture to clasp her little arms about her mother's knees, who would seem to chide her, but the child knew she liked it.'* Her latter years were spent in comparative retirement at Hempstead, where she died February 23, 1851. Besides her dramas (afterwards noticed), Miss Baillie wrote some admirable Scottish songs and other poetical pieces, which were collected and published under the title of Fugitive Verses.' In society, as in literature, this lady was regarded with affectionate respect and veneration, enjoying the friendship of most of her distinguished contemporaries. Lockhart, in his 'Life of Scott,' states that Miss Baillie and her brother, Dr. Matthew Baillie, were among the friends to whose intercourse Sir Walter looked forward with the greatest pleasure, when about to visit the metropolis. From Wanton droll, whose harmless play The Kitten.' And maid, whose cheek outblooms the As bright the blazing fagot glows, Backward coiled, and crouching low, As oft beyond thy curving side Memoirs of Lucy Aikin. London, 1864. And loudly sings thy busy pur, Who in the still, but cheerless shade The learned sage, whose thoughts ex- Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, plore The widest range of human lore, In lonely tower or prison pent, From Address to Miss Agnes Baillie on her Birthday.'* Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen By those whose eyes long closed in death have been- A long perspective to my mind appears, Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play, *The author and her sister lived to an advanced age, constantly in each other's society. Miss Agnes Baillie died April 27, 1861, aged 100. The manse of Bothwell was at some considerable distance from the Clyde, but the two little girls were sometimes sent there in summer to bathe and wade about. Joanna said she rambled over the heaths and plashed in the brook most of the day.' One day she said to Lucy Aikin. I could not read well till nine years old.' O Joanna,' cried her sister, not till eleven.'-Memoirs of Lucy Aikin. Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by. To think what now thou art and long to me hast been. 'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book, That thing by me abhorred, and with address Then, as advancing through this mortal span, With those whom nearer neighbourhood have made As partners linked, long have we, side by side, By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft If thou art taken first, who can to me Like sister, friend, and home-companion be? Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn, Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn? And if I should be fated first to leave This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve, And he above them all, so truly proved A friend and brother, long and justly loved, There is no living wight, of woman born, Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn. Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring- An unadorned, but not a careless lay. Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid From tardy love proceeds, though long delayed The The gowan glitters on the sward, Oh, no! sad an' slow! My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, Oh, no! sad an' slow! I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clackin' din; Oh, no! sad an' slow! Shepherd's Song. I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam, And promised when our trystin' cam', Oh, no! sad an' slow! Oh now I see her on the way. Oh, no! 'tis na so! The shadow of that hawthorn bush My book of grace I'll try to read, Oh, no! sad an' slow! WILLIAM KNOX-THOMAS PRINGLE. WILLIAM KNOX, a young poet of considerable talent, who died in Edinburgh in 1821, aged thirty-six, was author of "The Lonely Hearth,' 'Songs of Israel,' 'The Harp of Zion,' &c. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions Knox in his diary: His father was a respectable yeoman, and he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged into dissipation and ruin.' His talent then shewed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry. Knox thus concludes his 'Songs of Israel:' My song hath closed, the holy dream That raised my thoughts o'er all below, Hath faded like the lunar beam, And left me 'mid a night of woeTo look and long, and sigh in vain For friends I ne'er shall meet again. And yet the earth is green and gay, And yet the skies are pure and bright; But, 'mid each gleam of pleasure gay, Some cloud of sorrow dims my sight: For weak is now the tenderest tongue That might my simple songs have sung. And like to Gilead's drops of balm, They for a moment soothed my breast; With those that loved me, and have died. They died-and this a world of woe, Of anxious doubt and chilling fear; With scarce a hope to linger here: The friends beloved, that once were mine. THOMAS PRINGLE was born in Roxburghshire in 1788. He was concerned in the establishment of 'Blackwood's Magazine,' and was author of 'Scenes of Teviotdale,' Ephemerides,' and other poems, all of which display fine feeling and a cultivated taste. Although, from lameness, ill fitted for a life of roughness or hardships, Mr. Pringle, with his father and several brothers, emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope in the year 1820, and there established a little township or settlement named Glen Lynden. The poet afterwards removed to Cape Town, the capital; but wearied with his Kaffirland exile, and disagreeing with the governor, he returned to England, and subsisted by his pen. He was sometime editor of the literary annual entitled 'Friendship's Offering.' His services were also engaged by the African Society, as secretary to that body, a situation which he con. tinued to hold until within a few months of his death. In the discharge of its duties he evinced a spirit of active humanity, and an ardent love of the cause to which he was devoted. His last work was a series of African Sketches,' containing an interesting personal narrative, interspersed with verses. Mr. Pringle died on the 5th of December, 1834, The following piece was much admired by Coleridge: Afar in the Desert. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; The home of my childhood-the haunts of my prime; And I, a lone exile, remembered of none, My high aims abandoned, and good acts undone- With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife; Afar in the Desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champion steed, |