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against her many of her friends and readers, but she regained the public favour by her tale, the ‘Old Manor-house,' which is the best of her novels. Part of this work was written at Eartham, the residence of Hayley, during the period of Cowper's visit to that poetical retreat. * It was delightful,' says Hayley, 'to hear her read what she had just written, for she read, as she wrote, with simplicity and grace.' Cowper was also astonished at the rapidity and excellence of her composition. Mrs Smith continued her literary labours amidst private and family distress. She wrote a valuable little compendium for children, under the title of • Conversations; A History of British Birds;' a descriptive poem on ‘Beachy Head,' &c. She died at Tilford, near Farnham, on the 28th of October 1806. The poetry of Mrs. Smith is elegant and sentimental, and generally of a pathetic cast.

Sonnets.On the Departure of the Nightingale.
Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu !

Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,

And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.
Whether on spring thy wandering flights await,

Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate,

And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide

Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide

The gentle bird who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow and to love!

Written at the Close of Spring.
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove;

Each simple flower, which she had nursed in dew,
Anemones that spangled every grove,

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,

Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.
Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair,

Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care

Bid all thy fairy colours fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring:
Ah! why has happiness no second Spring ?
Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,

Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay,

Pluck the wild rose or woodbine’s gadding flowers;
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,

The sense of sorrow he a while may lose;
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy!

So charmed my way with friendship and the Muse.
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,

Dark'with new clouds of evil yet to come;

Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,

And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb,
And points my wishes to that tranquil shore,

Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more! Recollections of English Scenery. From ' Beachy Head.

Haunts of my youth !
Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet!
Where 'twas so pleasant by the northern slopes,
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore
Small woo tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb,
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun:
And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way,
While heavily upward moved the labouring wain,
And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,
To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone
The grating wheel.

Advancing higher still,
The prospect widens, and the village church.
But little o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;
When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the south
Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash and beach,
And partial copses fringe the green hill-foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream
That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage garden; most for use designed,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks,
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses hlow,
Almost uncultured; some with dark-green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e’en now
'r spring and summer, what delight I felt
2 mong these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at nature's shrine,
I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses

and the clasping woodbine.

MISS BLAMIRE. Miss SUSANNA BLAMIRE (1747–1794), a Cumberland lady, was distinguished for the excellence of her Scottish poetry, which has all the idiomatic ease and grace of a native minstrel. Miss Blamire was born of a respectable family in Cumberland, at Cardew Hall, near Carlisle, where she resided till her twentieth year, beloved by a circle of friends and acquaintance, with whom she associated in what were called merry neets, or merry evening-parties, in her native district. Her sister becoming the wife of Colonel Graham of Duchray, Perthshire, Susanna accompanied the pair to Scotland, where she remained some years, and imbibed that taste for Scottish melody and music which prompted her beautiful lyrics, The Nabob,' • The. Siller Croun,' &c. She also wrote some pieces in the Cumbrian dialect, and a descriptive poem of some length, entitled 'Stocklewath, or the Cumbrian Village. Miss Blamire died unmarried at Carlisle, in her forty-seventh year, and her name had almost faded from remembrance, when, in 1842, her poetical works were collected and published in one volume, with a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell.

The Nabob. When silent time, wi’ lightly foot,

Some penny chiels, a new-sprung race Had trod on thirty years,

Wad next their welcome pay, I sought again my native land

Wha shuddered at my Gothic wa's, Wi' mony hopes and fears.

And wished my groves away. Wha kens gin the dear friends I left Cut, cut,' they cried, 'those aged elms; May still continue mine?

Lay low yon mournfu' pine.' Or gin I e'er again shall taste

Na! na! our fathers' names grow there, The joys I left langsyne ?

Memorials o' langsyne. As I drew near my ancient pile

To wean me frae these waefu' thoughts, My heart beat a' the way;

They took me to the town; Ilk place I passed seemed

yet to speak

But sair on ilka weel-kenned face

I missed the youthfu' bloom. l'hose days that followed me afar,

At balls they pointed to a nymph Those happy days o' mine,

Wham a' declared divine; Whilk nade me thilik the present joys But sure her mother's blushing cheeks A’ naething to langsynel

Were fairer far langsyne ! The ivied tower now met my eye,

In vain I sought in music's sound
Where minstrels used to blaw;

To find that magic art,
Nae friend stepped forth wi’ open hand, Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Nae weel-kenned face I saw;

Has thrilled through a' my heart.
Till Donald tottered to the door,

The song had mony an artfu' turn; Wham I left in his prime,

My ear confessed 'twas fine; And grat to see the lad return

But missed the simple melody He bore about langsyne.

I listened to langsyne. I ran to ilka dear friend's room,

Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, As if to find them there,

Forgie an auld man's spleen, (mourns I knew where ilk ane used to sit,

Whamidst your gayest scenes still And hang o'er mony a chair;

The days he ance has seen.
Till soft remembrance threw a veil When time has passed and seasons fled,
Across these een o' mine,

Your hearts will feel like mine;
I closed the door, and sobbed aloud, And aye the sang will maist delight
To think on auld langsyne.

That minds ye o' langsyne!

What Ails this Heart o' Mine ? * 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 has all along enjoyed.—Maxwell's Memoir of Miss Blamire. What ails this heart o' mine?

Then I'll sit down and cry, What ails this watery ee?

And live aneath the tree,
What gars me a' turn pale as death And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,
When I take leave othee?

I'll ca't a word frae thee.
When thou art far awa',
Thu'lt dearer grow to me;

I'll hie me to the bower
But change o' place and change o' folk That thou wi' roses tied,
May gar thy fancy jee.

And where wi' mony a blushing bud

I strove myself to hide. When I gae out at e'en,

I'll doat on iska spot Or walk at morning air,

Where I hae been wi' thee; Ilk rustling bush will seem to say

And ca’ to mind some kindly word I used to meet thee there.

By ilka burn and tree,
As an example of the Cumberland dialect:

Auld Robin Forbes.
And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance,
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ;
I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen,
And skipped wi' the best upon Forbes's green.
Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer,
It brings that that's bypast and sets it down here;
I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace,
When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.

The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see
In yen that was dark and hard-featured leyke me;
And they wondered ay mair when they talked o' my wit,
And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it.
But Willy he laughed, and he meade me his weyfe,
And whea was mair happy thro' aw his lang leyse?
It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane,
That he offen said-nea pleace was leyke his awn heame!

I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle,
Where Willy was deyken, the time to beguile,
He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast,
And I hammered my noddle to mek out a jest.
But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell
There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel;
And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack
When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.

When the clock had struck eight, I expected him heame,
And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;
Of aw hours it telt, eight was dearest to me,
But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee.
O Willy! dear Willy ! it never can be
That age, time, or death can divide thee and me!
For that spot on earth that's aye dearest to me,
Is the turf that has covered my Willy frae ma


ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD, the daughter of Dr. John Aikin, was born at Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, in 1743. Her father at this time kept a seminary for the education of boys, and Anna received the same instruction, being early initiated into a knowledge of classical literature. In 1758, Dr. Aikin undertaking the office of classical tutor in a dissenting academy at Warrington, his daughter accompanied him, and resided there fifteen years. In 1773, she published a volume of miscellaneous poems, of which four editions were called for in one year. In May 1774, she was married to the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, a French Protestant, who was minister to a dissenting congregation at Palgrave, near Diss, and who had just opened a boarding-school at the

neighbouring village of Palgrave, in Suffolk. The poetess participated with her husband in the task of instruction. In 1775 she came forward with a volume of devotional pieces compiled from the Psalms, and another volume of ‘Hymns in Prose' for children. In 1786, Mr. and Mrs. Barbauld established themselves at Hampstead, and there several tracts proceeded from the pen of our authoress on the topics of the day, in all which she espoused the principles of the Whigs. She also assisted her father in preparing a series of tales for children, entitled Evenings at Home,' and she wrote critical essays on Akenside and Collins, prefixed to editions of their works. În 1803, Mrs. Barbauld compiled a selection of essays from the Spectator,' "Tatler,' and 'Guardian,' to which she prefixed a preliminary essay; and in the following year she edited the correspondence of Richardson, and wrote a life of the novelist. She afterwards edited a collection of the British novelists, published in 1810, with an introductory essay, and biographical and critical notices. Mrs. Barbauld died on the 9th of March 1825. Some of her lyrical pieces are flowing and harmonious, and her “Ode to Spring' is a happy imitation of Collins. Charles James Fox is said to have been a great admirer of Mrs. Barbauld's songs, but they are by no means the best of her compositions, being generally artificial, and unimpassioned in their character.

A Memoir of Mrs. Barbauld, including Notices of her Family and Friends, was published in 1874 by her grand-niece, Anna Le Breton.

The following stanza in a poem entitled 'Life,' was much admired by Wordsworth and Rogers :

Life! we've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time,
Say not 'Good-night,' but in some brighter clime

Bid me 'Good-morning.'

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