Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings- the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.—"Alas!" she cried,

"Alas! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me;
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me;
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace where thou wert playing So late, along the mountains, at my side?

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

"And oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turn'd from its door away?

While through its chambers wandering weary-hearted,
I languish for thy voice, which past me still,
Went like a singing rill.

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn;

Nor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet me,
As 'midst the silence of the stars I wake,
And watch for thy dear sake,

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,
A cry which none shall hear ?

"What have I said, my child? - Will He not hear thee, Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

Shall he not guard thy rest,

And in the hush of holy midnight near thee,

-

Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy? —
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy.

"I give thee to thy God- - the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!
And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell! I go, my soul may fail As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, Yearning for thy sweet looks,

me,

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me ;
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell,
The Rock of Strength. - Farewell!

SABBATH SONNET.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending
Through England's primrose meadow-paths their way
Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!

The halls, from old heroic ages gray,

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a free vernal stream. - I may not tread
With them those pathways, to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound; - yet oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. *

NOBLY thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him as a mantle cast,
And cherubim to waft his flying seat.
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet,

With trumpet voice thy spirit called aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud;
But far more gloriously to earth made known,
By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone,
Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll;
Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire,
Nature's vast realms forever to inspire,

With the deep worship of a living soul.

Dublin, April, 1835.

*This and the preceding, are the two last strains, the dying strains of this sweet Poetess. Truly her mind seemed breathing inspired notes, while her pure spirit was stealing gently away to join the angelic choir in that "better land," where "sorrow and death may not enter."

JOANNA BAILLIE.*

If the genius of Mrs. Hemans is best characterized by the "Glorious Rose," this "sister of Shakspeare," as she has been significantly styled, may be likened to the splendid Aloe flower, that opens but once in a century; so rare, indeed, that it is regarded rather as a wonder, than a blessing.

The power of Miss Baillie's genius seems concentrated in one burning ray - the knowledge of the human heart. She has illustrated this knowledge, with the cool judgment of the philosopher, and the pure warm feelings of the woman, in her celebrated Plays on the Passions. We have sometimes doubted, whether, in selecting the Drama as her path of literature, she judged wisely; we have thought. that as an essayist or a novelist she might have made her great talents more effective in that improvement of society which she seems to have had so deeply at heart, and have won for herself, if not so bright a wreath of fame, a more extensive and more popular influence.

In dramatic composition, however, Joanna Baillie is unrivalled by any female writer; and she is the only woman

There is an American edition of the "complete poetical works of Miss Baillie," published at Philadelphia, in one large elegant volume. This, however, does not comprise her last "Plays on the Passions."

whose genius, as displayed in her works, appears competent to the production of an Epic poem. Would that she had attempted this.

In the portraiture of female characters, and the exhibition of feminine virtues, she is very happy; and we regret that in the limited space to which our selections must be confined, we cannot introduce those beautiful creations of her fancy, Jane de Montfort, Valeria and Helen.

Miss Baillie began her literary career in early life, and has pursued it with unremitted ardor. She bestows great care on the revision of her productions, thus setting an excellent example of patience and industry to her sex. She is now no longer young, but is still actively engaged in her literary pursuits. During the past year, she has given to the world another volume of "Plays on the Passions," which is highly commended by the English critics.

Respecting the private character of this extraordinary woman, we have but few incidents to communicate. The sacred cabinet of domestic life may not be opened, till death has sealed the record completed. She is sister of the celebrated Dr. Baillie, and has passed much of her time in his family. Her personal appearance is thus described by an American gentleman, who visited her in, '27:

"Joanna Baillie is a small woman, very erect, easy and natural, with a remarkable fine face. In manner she is self-possessed, and very gentle; you never think of her age, and only wonder, after you have come away, how it should happen that you did not think of it. I was told by those who knew her that she was over seventy — yet I could hardly believe them. She appeared about 55 or 60. Her gray hair was parted carefully and smoothly over her forehead, and her general air was that of something very intelligent, tranquil, spiritualized and quakerish. I thought her very amiable, and in the overflowing of her affectionate veneration for her brother, Dr. Baillie, I detected the germ of that extraordinary tragedy, de Montfort."