THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD.
How calm that little lake! no breath of wind
Sighs through the reeds; a clear abyss it seems,
Held in the concave of th' inverted sky,-
In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails
Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood!
Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
The water-lily neath the plumy prows,
Dips, reappearing in their dimpled track.
Yet, e'en amid that scene of peace, the noise
Of war, unequal, dastard war, intrudes.
Yon revel rout of men, and boys, and dogs,
Boisterous approach; the spaniel dashes in;
Quick he descries the prey; and faster swims,
And eager barks; the harmless flock dismay'd,
Hasten to gain the thickest grove of reeds.
All but the parent pair; they, floating, wait
To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
But soon themselves are forced to seek the shore.
Vain then the buoyant wing; the leaden storm
Arrests their flight; they, fluttering, bleeding, fall,
And tinge the troubled bosom of the lake.
EPITAPH ON A BLACKBIRD KILLED BY A
HAWK.
WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd the
glade;
The blackbird's note among the wild woods rung:
Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid
Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung.
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,
And for thy dirge the redbreast lends his lay.
THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
YON motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of wo; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he labour'd long,
By penury compell'd; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw,
Heart-broken quite, his children's looks of want
Veil'd in a clouded smile; alas! he heard
The elder lispingly attempt to still
The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head,
TO A REDBREAST, THAT FLEW IN AT MY And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:-
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No: freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes at once, and soothes my wo;
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with thy song those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view.
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page;
Uncheck'd, shall flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend!
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould.
The turf is spread; uncover'd is each head,—
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.
Wo's me! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: No more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,-
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of wo profound. Haste to the widow'd arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.
THE THANKSGIVING OFF CAPE TRA
UPON the high, yet gently rolling wave,
The floating tomb that heaves above the brave,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roar'd,
Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword.
And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls
The victor bands to mount their wooden walls,
And from the ramparts, while their comrades fell,
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread,
And crowd the engines, whence the lightnings sped:
The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends:
Hush'd is each voice, attention leaning bends;
Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,
Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
Heaven fills each heart; yet home will oft intrude,
And tears of love celestial joys exclude.
The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain,
Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;
While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,
On hallelujahs wing their heavenward way.
TWICE has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground,
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
O! nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than beauty's magic smile:
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
Athwart my fancy, uttering fateful cries.
Almighty Power! his harmless life defend,
And if we part, 'gainst me the mandate send.
And yet a wish will rise,-would I might live,
Till added years his memory firmness give!
For, O! it would a joy in death impart,
To think I still survived within his heart;
To think he'll cast, midway the vale of years,
A retrospective look, bedimm'd with tears;
And tell, regretful, how I look'd and spoke;
What walks I loved; where grew my favourite oak;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
How gently use the accent of command;
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child;
How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn,
To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn;
To teach religion, unallied to strife,
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life.
But far and farther still my view I bend,—
And now I see a child thy steps attend ;-
To yonder churchyard wall thou takest thy way,
While round thee, pleased, thou seest the infant play;
Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes,
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire lies.
JOANNA BAILLIE, sister of the celebrated Dr. | passions. Her plays, however, have not the tranMatthew Baillie, was born at Bothwell, in Scotland, scendent dramatic merit which has been claimed about the year 1765. We have been unable to collect any particulars of her life, but she is well known to the public as one of the most successful female writers of the present age. Her most celebrated production is her Plays of the Passions; a series in which each passion is made the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. These procured her great reputation, particularly her tragedies, which evince strong conceptions of character, vivid imagery, and a masterly delineation of the various
for them by some of her admirers. She is by no means a Shakspeare. One of her most recent publications is, A View of the general Tenor of the New Testament, regarding the Nature and Dignity of Jesus Christ. She is also the author of The Family Legend, a tragedy; Metrical Legends, or Exalted Characters; two dramas, entitled, respectively,The Martyr, and The Bride; and a volume of dramas, very recently published.
COUNT BASIL,
COUNT ROSINBERG,
DUKE OF MANTUA.
Old Man. Bears she such offerings to St. Francis'
shrine,
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says?
-Twill drain the treasury!
Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp, returns
a general in the emperor's service. Her public thanks to the good patron saint,
Two officers of Basil's troops.
S an old soldier very much maimed
in the wars.
a little boy, favourite to Victoria.
VICTORIA,
daughter to the Duke of Mantua.
COUNTESS OF ALBINI, friend and governess to Victoria.
ISABELLA,
a lady attending upon Victoria.
Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, &c.
The scene is in Mantua and its environs. Time supposed to be the sixteenth century, when Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the First, at the battle of Pavia.
SCENE I.—AN OPEN STREET, CROWDED WITH PEOPLE
WHO SEEM TO BE WAITING IN EXPECTATION OF
Who from his sick-bed hath restored her father,
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands?
She loves magnificence-
(Discovering among the crowd old Geoffry,)
Ha! art thou here, old remnant of the wars?
Thou art not come to see this courtly show,
Which sets the young agape?
Geof. I come not for the show; and yet, methinks,
It were a better jest upon me still,
If thou didst truly know mine errand here.
Cit. I prithee say.
Geof.
What, must I tell it thee?
As o'er my evening fire I musing sat,
Some few days since, my mind's eye backward turn'd
Upon the various changes I have pass'd-
How in my youth, with gay attire allured,
And all the grand accoutrements of war,
I left my peaceful home: Then my first battles,
When clashing arms and sights of blood were new:
Then all the after chances of the war:
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was,
First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the When with an arm (I speak not of it oft)
Cit. I left it passing by the northern gate.
Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes at last.
Which now (pointing to his empty sleeve) thou
seest is no arm of mine,
In a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes,
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge;
Young Man. And does the princess look so won- For which good service, in his tented court,
drous fair
As fame reports?
Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train,-
Yet all the fairest beauties of the court
Are in her train.
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me ;
Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side,
The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld,
Gave me what more than all besides I prized-
Methinks I see her still-a gracious smile-
305
'Twas a heart-kindling smile,—a smile of praise-
Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past,
A neighbour drew the latchet of my door,
And full of news from town, in many words
Big with rich names, told of this grand procession;
E'en as he spoke a fancy seized my soul
To see the princess pass, if in her looks
I yet might trace some semblance of her mother.
This is the simple truth; laugh as thou wilt.
I came not for the show.
Officer to Geof. Make way that the procession may have room:
Stand you aside, and let this man have place. (Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put another in his place.)
Geof. But that thou art the prince's officer, I'd give thee back thy push with better blows. Officer. What, wilt thou not give place? the prince is near:
I will complain to him, and have thee caged. Geof. Yes, do complain, I pray; and when thou dost,
Say that the private of the tenth brigade,
Who saved his army on the Danube's bank,
And since that time a private hath remain❜d,
Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain
Against thy insolence. Go tell him this,
And ask him then what dungeon of his tower
He'll have me thrust into.
Cit. to Officer. This is old Geoffry of the tenth brigade.
Offi. I knew him not: you should have told me sooner. [EXIT, looking much ashamed. Martial music heard at a distance.
Cit. Hark, this is music of a warlike kind.
(Music is heard again, and nearer. Geoffry walks up and down with a military triumphant step.) Cit. What moves thee thus ?
Geof. I've march'd to this same tune in glorious days.
My very limbs catch motion from the sound, As they were young again. Sec. Cil Enter Count BASIL, officers and soldiers in procession, with colours flying, and martial music. When they have marched halfway over the stage, an officer of the duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks to BASIL, upon which he gives a sign with his hand, and the martial music ceases; soft music is heard at a little distance, and VICTORIA, with a long procession of ladies, enters from the opposite side. General, &c. pay obeisance to her, as she passes; she stops to return it, and then goes off with her train. After which, the military procession moves on, and exeunt.
Cit. to Geof. What think'st thou of the princess? Geof. She is fair, But not so fair as her good mother was. [EXEUNT. SCENE II.—A PUBLIC WALK ON THE RAMPAKTS OF
Enter COUNT ROsinberg, VALTOMER, and FREDERICK.— VALTOMER enters by the opposite side of the stage, and meets them.
Valt. O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers! Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare, From every house salutes you as you pass: Music and merriment in every street; Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye; Whilst pretty damsels, in their best attire, Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind, To spy the fools a gazing after them.
Fred. But short will be the season of our ease, For Basil is of flinty matter made,
To Sec. Cit. What sounds are these, good friend, | 'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us.
Sec. Cit. The brave Count Basil is upon his march, To join the emperor with some chosen troops, And as an ally doth through Mantua pass.
Geof. I've heard a good report of this young soldier. Sec. Cit. "Tis said he disciplines his men severely, And over-much the old commander is, Which seems ungracious in so young a man.
Geof. I know he loves not ease and revelry;
He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble, Some years his elder too-How has it been That he should be preferr'd? I see not why.
Ros. Ah! but I see it, and allow it well; He is too much my pride to wake my envy.
Fred. Nay, count, it is thy foolish admiration Which raises him to such superior height; And truly thou hast so infected us,
That I at times have felt me awed before him, I knew not why. "Tis cursed folly this.
Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think, Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he.
That e'en the very meanest simple craft
Cannot without due diligence be learn'd,
And yet the noble art of soldiership
May be attain'd by loitering in the sun?
Some men are born to feast, and not to fight;
Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field,
Still on their dinner turn-
Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home,
And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword.
In times of easy service, true it is,
An easy, careless chief all soldiers love;
But O! how gladly in the day of battle
Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert,
And follow such a leader as Count Basil!
So gathering herds, at pressing danger's call,
Confess the master deer.
Ros. Our talents of a different nature are; Mine for the daily intercourse of life,
And his for higher things.
Fred. Well, praise him as thou wilt; I see it not; I'm sure I am as brave a man as he.
Ros. Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern
And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well,
Give and receive as deep a wound as he.
When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords;
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind,
O'erwatching all the changes of the field,
Calm and inventive midst the battle's storm,
Which makes his soldiers bold.-
There have been those, in early manhood slain,
Whose great heroic souls have yet inspired
With such a noble zeal their generous troops, That to their latest day of bearing arms,
Their gray-hair'd soldiers have all dangers braved
Of desperate service, claim'd with boastful pride,
As those who fought beneath them in their youth.
Such men have been; of whom it may be said,
Their spirits conquer'd when their clay was cold.
Valt. Yes, I have seen in the eventful field,
When new occasion mock'd all rules of art,
E'en old commanders hold experience cheap,
And look to Basil ere his chin was dark.
Ros. One fault he has; I know but only one; His too great love of military fame
Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear Unsocial and severe.
Fred. Well, feel I not undaunted in the field?
As much enthusiastic love of glory?
Why am I not as good a man as he?
Ros. It is a fair one, though you mark'd it not. Valt. I wish some painter's eye had view'd the group,
As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd;
He would have found wherewith t' enrich his art.
Ros. I wish so too; for oft their fancied beauties
Have so much cold perfection in their parts,
'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood.
This is not truth, and doth not please so well
As the varieties of liberal nature,
Where every kind of beauty charms the eye;
Large and small featured, flat and prominent,
Ay, by the mass! and snub-nosed beauties too.
'Faith, every woman hath some witching charm,
If that she be not proud, or captious.
Valt. Demure, or over-wise, or given to freaks. Ros. Or given to freaks! hold, hold, good Valtomer!
Ros. He's form'd for great occasions, thou for Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heaven.
Valt. But small occasions in the path of life
Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd.
Ros. By which you would infer that men like
Frederick
Should on the whole a better figure make,
Than men of higher parts. It is not so;
For some show well, and fair applauses gain,
Where want of skill in other men is graceful.
Pray do not frown, good Frederick, no offence:
Thou canst not make a great man of thyself;
Yet wisely deign to use thy native powers,
And prove an honour'd courtly gentleman.
But hush! no more of this; here Basil comes.
Enter BASIL, who returns their salute without speaking.
Ros. What think'st thou, Valtomer, of Mantua's
Ros. I have repented me, I will not go; They will be too long absent.-(Pauses, and looks at Basil, who remains still musing without seeing him.)
What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend? Bas. O it is admirable!
Ros. How runs thy fancy? what is admirable? Bas. Her form, her face, her motion, every thing! Ros. The princess? yes, have we not praised her much?
Bas. I know you praised her, and her offerings too!
Valt. Fame praised her much, but hath not She might have given the treasures of the cast,
Is it not so, my lord To Basil, who only bows
Nay, she demeans herself with so much grace,
Such easy state, such gay magnificence,
She should be queen of revelry and show.
Fred. She's charming as the goddess of delight.
Valt. But after her, she most attracted me
Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last;
For though Victoria is a lovely woman-
Fred. Nay, it is treason but to call her woman;
She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd.
But on my life, since now we talk of worship,
She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts!
They sparkled so with gold and precious gems-
Their value must be great; some thousand crowns.
Ros. I would not rate them at a price so mean;
The cup alone, with precious stones beset,
Would fetch a sum as great. That olive branch
The princess bore herself, of fretted gold,
Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more,
Because she held it in so white a hand.
O! didst thou mark her when she first appear'd?
Still distant, slowly moving with her train;
Her robe and tresses floating on the wind,
Like some light figure in a morning cloud?
Then, as she onward to the eye became
The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew!
That graceful bearing of her slender form;
Her roundly spreading breast, her towering neck,
Her face tinged sweetly with the bloom of youth-
But when approaching near, she towards us turn'd,
Kind mercy! what a countenance was there!
And when to our salute she gently bow'd,
Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips?
Soft swell'd her glowing cheek, her eyes smiled
too :
O how they smiled! 'twas like the beams of heaven!
I felt my roused soul within me start,
Like something waked from sleep.
Ros. The beams of heaven do many slumberers wake
Bas. There's something grave and solemn in your voice
Bas. (in a quick voice.) Mark'd you her hand? As you pronounce these words. What dost thou
And yet she waved it twice.
Thou wouldst not sound my knell ?
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