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"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,

Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
The little maiden did reply,

"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

man,

JOANNA BAILLIE, 1762-1851.

THIS distinguished female poet, whose literary life stretches back into the last century, and whose early recollections were of the days of Burke, Johnson, Goldsmith, and Reynolds, was the daughter of a Scottish clergyand was born at Bothwell, on the banks of the Clyde, in the year 1762. She always lived in retirement, and latterly in strict seclusion, in her retreat at Hampstead. The literary fame which she had acquired by her own works, aided in no small degree by the long and loudly expressed admiration of Sir Walter Scott,' who always visited her when in London, never succeeded in drawing her into general society.

During the greater part of her life, she lived with a maiden sister, Agnes--also a poetess-to whom she addressed her beautiful "Birthday" poem. She early removed with her sister to London, where their brother, the late Sir Matthew Baillie, was settled as a physician, and there her

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earliest poetical works appeared anonymously. Her first dramatic efforts were published in 1798, under the title of "A Series of Plays: in which it is attempted to Delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." To the volume was prefixed a long and interesting "Introductory Discourse," in which the authoress discusses the subject of the drama in all its bearings, and asserts the supremacy of simple nature over all decoration and refinement. "Let one simple trait of the human heart," says she, "one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature, be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." This theory the accomplished dramatist illustrated in her plays, the merits of which were so quickly recognized that a second edition was called for in a few months. Miss Baillie was then in her thirty-fourth year. A second volume was published in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she gave the world a volume of miscellaneous dramas, in 1804, and the "Family Legend" in 1810, a tragedy founded on Highland tradition, and which, principally through the efforts of Sir Walter Scott, was brought out at the Edinburgh Theatre. The only "Play of the Passions" ever represented on the stage was "De Montfort," which was brought out by the celebrated actor John Kemble, and played for eleven nights. In fact, like all the dramatic efforts of our authoress, it was a poem-a poem full of genius and the true spirit of poetry-but not a play. Though the best of her dramatic productions, it is deficient in those lifelike, stirring scenes, and in 'that variety and fulness of passion, the "form and pressure" of everyday life, which are so essential to success on the stage.

In 1823, our authoress published a long-promised collection of "Poetic Miscellanies," and in 1836 three more volumes of plays. Besides these poetic productions, she is the author of "A View of the General Tenor of the New Testament regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ." She also published "Metrical Legends of Eminent Characters," " Fugitive Verses," and some less important publications. She died on the 23d of February, 1851.1

The following is a portion of the account, in "Chambers' Journal," of her interview with Lord Jeffrey, of the "Edinburgh Review." "It was in the autumn of 1820 that Miss Baillie paid her last visit to Scotland, and passed those delightful days with Sir Walter Scott, at Abbotsford, the second of which is so pleasantly given in Mr. Lockhart's life of the bard. Her friends again perceived a change in her manners. They had become blander and much more cordial. She had probably been now too long admired and reverently looked up to, not to understand her own position, and the encouragement which, essentially unassuming as she was, would be necessary from her to reassure the timid and satisfy the proud. She had magnanimously forgiven and lived down the unjust severity of her Edinburgh critic, and now no longer refused to be made personally known to him. He was presented to her by their mutual friend, the amiable Dr. Moorehead. They had much earnest and interesting talk together, and from that hour to the end of their lives entertained for each other a mutual and cordial esteem. After this, Jeffrey seldom visited London without indulging himself in a friendly pilgrimage to the shrine of the secluded poetess; and it is pleasing to find him writing of her in the

Though Miss Baillie laid out her chief strength upon her dramas, her lyric and miscellaneous poetry takes a very high rank among similar productions of the present century. To great simplicity and womanly tenderness of feeling, she unites at times a conciseness and vigor of expression which are not often surpassed. A good idea of her various styles may be gathered from the following pieces:

TO A CHILD.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulder round and sleek,
And soft and fair?-thou urchin sly!

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,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall;
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
Is infantine coquetry all.

But far afield 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,

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure:
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf

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.

following cordial way in later years: London, April 28, 1840.-I forgot to tell you that we have been twice out to Hampstead, to hunt out Joanna Baillie, and found her the other day as fresh, natural, and amiable as ever-and as little like a Tragic Muse. Since old Mrs. Brougham's death, I do not know so nice an old woman.' And again, in January 7, 1842: We went to Hampstead, and paid a very pleasant visit to Joanna Baillie, who is marvellous in health and spirits, and youthful freshness and simplicity of feeling, and not a bit deaf, blind, or torpid.

Well; let it be !-through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley, shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change.

A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT.

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye,
Thy curled nose and lip awry,
Uphoisted arms and noddling head,
And little chin with crystal spread,
Poor helpless thing! what do I see
That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come,
Which can but rub thy toothless gum:
Small understanding boasts thy face;
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace:
A few short words thy feats may tell;
And yet I love thee well.

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek,
And redder swells thy little cheek;
When rattled keys thy woes beguile,
And through thy eyelids gleams the smile :
Still for thy weakly self is spent
Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress,
Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'ertheless;
Nor with kind sympathy be smitten,
Though all are sad but thee and kitten;
Yet, puny varlet that thou art,
Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm;
Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm;

Thy silken locks that scantly peep,

With gold-tipp'd ends, where circles deep
Around thy neck in harmless grace
So soft and sleekly hold their place,

Might harder hearts with kindness fill,

And gain our right good will.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing,
Thy mouth is worn with old wives' kissing:
E'en lighter looks the gloomy eye

Of surly sense when thou art by;
And yet, I think, whoe'er they be,
They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a few

Short months to thee, thou'lt love me too;

And after that, through life's long way,
Become my sure and cheering stay;
Wilt care for me and be my hold,
When I am weak and old.

THE KITTEN.

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coiled, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,

As oft beyond thy curving side

Its jetty tip is seen to glide;

Till, from thy centre starting fair,

Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay:
For then beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,

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