"But let untender thoughts afar be driven; Does virtue, happiness, and Heaven convey; And happiness of virtue; nor can they Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray. Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent, "Hail, sacred Polity, by Freedom rear'd! In Albion may your influence, unprofan'd, 46 "Twas from Philosophy man learn'd to tame And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head, And prompt the sage's lore, and fire the poet's lays! To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale But now let other themes our care engage. For lo, with modest yet majestic grace, To curb Imagination's lawless rage, And from within the cherish'd heart tp brace, And Hope and Courage brighten in their stead, Then waken from long lethargy to life The seeds of happiness, and powers of thought; And Reason now through number, time and space, Such glory bear?-for lo! the shadows fly What cannot Art and Industry perform, And order charms the eye, and harmony the ears! Deep-vers'd in man the philosophic sage But she who set on fire his infant heart, Enamour'd, consecrates to never-dying fame. Of late, with cumbersome, though pompous show, Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains) And how his lyre, though rude her first essays, I fain would sing :-but ah! I strive in vain. Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound, With trembling step, to join yon weeping train, I haste, where gleams funereal glare around, And mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound. Adieu, ye lays, that Fancy's flowers adorn, Art thou, my GREGORY, for ever fled! THE HERMIT. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with Nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man: "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But, if.pity inspire thee, renew the sad layMourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn! Oh soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away! Full quickly they pass-but they never return. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. ANNA LETITIA AIKIN was born at Kilworth Harcourt, Leicestershire, June 20, 1743. Her father, Dr. John Aikin, superintendent of the dissenting academy at Warrington, taught her Latin and Greek, and through her acquaintance with Drs. Priestley and Enfield her education was carried beyond the usual limits of learned women of her day. In 1773 she published a volume of poems, which went through four editions in a year. In 1774 she married Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, a dissenting minister, and went to live at Palgrave, Suffolk, where they opened a boarding-school. In 1775 she published a compilation of devotional pieces, in 1778 "Lessons for Children," and in 1781 "Hymns in Prose, for Children." The two latter were translated into French. In 1785, the school being given up, Mrs. Barbauld travelled with her husband on the Continent, and on their return they resided at Hampstead. There she wrote various political pamphlets. In 1802 they removed to Stoke Newington. In 1804 she published selections from the Spectator," "Tatler," ," "Guardian," and "Freeholder," with a critical introductory essay. In 1808 Mr. Barbauld died. In 1810 Mrs. Barbauld published an edition of the British novelists, with biographical and critical notices, and in the following year a collection called "The Female Spectator," and her last poem, entitled "Eighteen Hundred and Eleven." She died on March 9, 1825, and in that year her works were published in two octavo volumes, with a memoir by Lucy Aikin. All that liberal Autumn pours Yet should rising whirlwinds tear Should the vine put forth no more, Should thine altered hand restrain Yet to thee my soul should raise TO-MORROW. SEE where the falling day In silence steals away, Behind the western hills withdrawn: Another morning soon shall rise, HYMN. PRAISE to God, immortal praise, For the blessings of the field, Flocks that whiten all the plain, All that Spring with bounteous hand Scatters o'er the smiling land; LIFE. LIFE, I know not what thou art, I own to me 's a secret yet. 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. |