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Born 1743.

Mrs Barbauld.

Died 1825.

ANN LETITIA AIKEN was born in Leicestershire, in 1743. Her father, Dr Aikin, was classical tutor in an academy. In 1773 she published a volume of miscellaneous poems which met with great success. In 1774 she married a French Protestant clergyman, the Rev. R. Barbauld, who had opened a boarding-school in Suffolk. In 1802 Mr Barbauld became pastor at Stoke-Newington, where he laboured till his death in 1808. Mrs Barbauld is the author of many poetical and prose works. Her lyrical pieces are sweet and harmonious; and her "Evenings at Home," and other prose works have been circulated in tens of thousands. She died in 1825.

HYMN TO CONTENT.

О THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:

Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth the unaltered brow.
O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even-tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offered blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to wait:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bowed his meek submissive head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.

When eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.

SONG.

Sylvia. Leave me, simple shepherd, leave me,
Drag no more a hopeless chain,

I cannot like, nor would deceive thee;
Love the maid that loves again.

Corin. Tho' more gentle nymphs surround me,
Kindly pitying what I feel,

Only you have power to wound me,
Sylvia, only you can heal.

Sylvia. Corin, cease thy idle teasing,

Love that's forced is harsh and sour;
If the lover be displeasing,
To persist disgusts the more.

Corin. 'Tis in vain, in vain to fly me,
Sylvia, I will still pursue,

Twenty thousand times deny me,
I will kneel and weep anew.
Sylvia. Cupid ne'er shall make me languish,
I was born averse to love;

Lovers' sighs, and tears, and anguish,
Mirth and pastime to me prove.

Corin. Still I vow with patient duty,
Thus to meet your proudest scorn;
You for unrelenting beauty,

I for constant love was born.
But the fates had not consented,
Since they both did fickle prove;
Of her scorn the maid repented,

And the shepherd of his love.

U

Michael Bruce.

Born 1746.

Died 1767.

A SCOTTISH poet, whose early promise was cut short by a premature death. He was born at Portmoak, in Kinross-shire.

ELEGY-WRITTEN IN SPRING.

'Tis past the iron North has spent his rage;
Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day;
The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play.
Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From southern climes, beneath another sky,
The sun, returning, wheels his golden course :
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly.
Far to the north grim Winter draws his train,
To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore;
Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign;
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar.
Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green,
Again puts forth her flowers; and all around
Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen.
Behold! the trees new deck their withered boughs;
Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane,
The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose;

The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene.

The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen,

Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun ;
The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun.

Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings;
And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers ;
Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings.

Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road,
Along the lovely paths of spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's God.

Hector M'Neill.

Born 1746.

Died 1818.

A SCOTTISH poet, author of "The Harp," "Scotland's Skaith," "The Links of Forth," and some beautiful lyrics.

MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

"SAW ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea-

Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,

Where could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree :
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me."

"It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree :
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature,
She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee :
Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee."
"It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary,
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me."
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:
"Ye'seruesair this morning your boasts and your scorning;
Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie."

"Away wi' beguiling," cried the youth smilingOff went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?"

“O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me ; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee."

Miss Susan Blamire.

Born 1747.

Died 1794.

A CUMBERLAND lady, who during a short residence in Scotland acquired a thoroughly idiomatic acquaintance with the Scottish language, and wrote some exquisite songs. She also wrote a poem in the Cumbrian dialect.

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?

What ails this watery e'e?

What gars me a' turn pale as death

When I take leave o' thee?

When thou art far awa',

Thou'lt dearer grow to me;

But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there.
Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,

I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower,

That thou wi' roses tied,

And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove myself to hide;

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I ha'e been wi' thee,

And ca' to mind some kindly word

By ilka burn and tree.

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