Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as joy clings-the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swelled 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, even 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

Turned 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 me, As the hart panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks,

-

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

The Rock of Strength.-Farewell!

How many

SABBATH SONNET.

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 filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.*

NOBLY thy song, O minstrel! rushed 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,

*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."

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.

JOANNA BAILLIE.*

Ir 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.

A distinguished writer has well observed, that "the celebrity of Joanna Baillie has been of a most peculiar nature; her fame has had about it a peculiar purity. It has been the unparticipated treasure of the world of taste and intellect." Her name is indeed much better known than her works-the commendations of the critics have established her reputation, yet her writings have never been popular. We wish to awaken in our readers a curiosity respecting the productions of one of the most gifted minds which has been enshrined in woman's form, and therefore propose giving a slight sketch (our limits will allow nothing more) of these and their estimable author. Miss Baillie is a native of Scotland, and sister of the celebrated Dr. Baillie. She has for many years resided in London, or at Hampstead, in the neighborhood of the metropolis. The social sphere in which she moved was peculiarly suited to her character and genius; it was one in which taste and literature and the highest moral endowments were understood and appreciated.

*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."