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A YEAR'S SPINNING.
He listened at the porch that day
To hear the wheel go on, and on, And then it stopped-ran back away
While through the door he brought the sun: But now my spinning is all done.
He sat beside me, with an oath
My mother cursed me that I heard
A young man's wooing as I spun. Thanks, cruel mother, for that word, For I have since a harder known! And now my spinning is all done.
I thought-O God!-my first-born's cry
It was the silence made me groan!
Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave,
Who cursed me on her death-bed lone,
A stone upon my heart and head,
And let the door ajar remain,
In case he should pass by anon;
THE MUSIC OF HEAVEN.
"The imaginative Irish of the lower orders believe and assert that music from Heaven is often heard by a peculiarly virtuous person when expiring."
The Death Flag.-By MISS CRUMP.
THE days of his life are well nigh spent.
He lieth in patient meekness;
And God hath his holy angels sent
To comfort him in his weakness:
He doth not the mournful wailings hear
Voices, sweet voices, in choral lay,
Are of loved and lost ones telling, Who passed from a world of care away To live in a brighter dwelling;
He knows that they wait his entrance there, They are eager to greet and love him, And the pangs of death he well may bear With the music of Heaven above him!
Oh! if we hope in the hour of death
To the weeping friends who love us,
WATCH!-watch where daylight's glow expires,
Lest lawless hands should compass wrong,
But oh! watch most the heart within;
WHEN we think of the women, who-not possessing a tithe of Joanna Baillie's creative fancy, nor a hundredth part of her power over the passions,-have appealed to their imaginations and to their sensibilities, in excuse for the flagrant and frantic errors in which they have rioted, we turn to the simple and pure life of the Scottish poetess, adorned by the practice of every duty, without the slightest accompaniment of self-assertion—as to a noble and holy vindication of Genius: an answer to those pretenders, who, possessing few of the gifts, claim, nevertheless, all the license. The word "womanly," is repulsive if it be cited as a plea for inconsistency, as an excuse for frivolity, as a make-shift to gloss over disproportions, as a door to admit weaknesses. But the word has a speciality and a significance, if it be used to characterize something more gracious, and less gross, than is often possible to man-of necessity worn coarse in his intercourse with life, or his experience of trial. If we point to Joanna Baillie as a type of womanly genius, it neither means that she was weak nor imitative; but gentle, firm, and pure. As such, her name should be eminently dear to all women. That it has been cordially honoured by men, we had only the other day a new proof in the following sonnet, published among