In mixed and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel
Upon the dense horizon hangs the sun,
In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel;

The snows wheel down through twilight, thick and dun; Now tremble, men of blood, the judgment has begun!

The trumpet of the northern winds has blown,
And it is answered by the dying roar

Of armies on that boundless field o'erthrown:
Now in the awful gusts the desert hoar
Is tempested, a sea without a shore,
Lifting its feathery waves. The legions fly;
Volley on volley down the hailstones pour ;
Blind, famished, frozen, mad, the wanderers die,
And dying, hear the storm but wilder thunder by.

Satan; from a Picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence.

'Satan dilated stood.'-MILTON.

Prince of the fallen! around thee sweep
The billows of the burning deep;
Above thee lowers the sullen fire,
Beneath thee bursts the flaming spire;
And on thy sleepless vision rise
Hell's living clouds of agonies.
But thou dost like a mountain stand,
The spear unlifted in thy hand;
Thy gorgeous eye-a comet shorn,
Calm into utter darkness borne ;

A naked giant, stern, sublime,
Armed in despair, and scorning Time.
On thy curled lip is throned disdain,
That may revenge, but not complain :
Thy mighty cheek is firm, though pale,
There smote the blast of fiery hail.

Yet wan, wild beauty lingers there,
The wreck of an archangel's sphere.

Thy forehead wears no diadem.
The king is in thy eyeball's beam;
Thy form is grandeur unsubdued,
Sole Chief of Hell's dark multitude.

Thou prisoned, ruined, unforgiven !
Yet fit to master all but Heaven.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

This lady was generally known as 'L. E. L.,' in consequence of having first published with her initials only. Her earliest compositions were Poetical Sketches, which appeared in the Literary Gazette: afterwards (1824) she published The Improvisatrice, which was followed by two more volumes, of poetry. She also contributed largely to magazines and annuals, and was the authoress of a novel entitled Romance and Reality. She was born at Hans Place, Chelsea, in 1802, the daughter of Mr Landon, a partner in the house of Adair, army-agent. Lively, susceptible, and romantic, she early commenced writing poetry. Her father died, and she not only maintained herself, but assisted her relations by her literary labours. In 1838 she was married to Mr George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle, and shortly afterwards sailed for Cape Coast with her husband. She landed there in August, and was resuming her literary engagements in her solitary African home, when one morning, after writing the previous night some cheerful and affectionate letters to her friends in England, she was (October 16) found dead in her room, lying close to the door, having in her hand a bottle which had contained prussic acid, a portion of which she had taken. From

the investigation which took place into the circumstances of this melancholy event, it was conjectured that she had undesigningly taken an overdose of the fatal medicine, as a relief from spasms.

Change.

I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,
For the departing colour of thy flowers-

The green leaves early falling from thy boughs-
Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs-

Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers;
But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost,

To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs
To former beauty; and the desolate
Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls
It was not always desolate,

When those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear now,

When care shall have shadowed that beautiful brow;
When thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead,
And thy heart turns back, pining, to days that are fled—'
Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass
Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain on glass;
O maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee,
How rose-touched the page of thy future must be !
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there
But blossoms that flourish, but hopes that are fair;
And what is thy present? a southern sky's spring,
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the wing.
As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave
Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave;

So the heart sheds its colour on life's early hour;
But the heart has its fading as well as the flower.
The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone,
And life, like the fountain, floats colourless on.
Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was fled,
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like the dead!
Oh, long ere one shadow shall darken that brow,
Wilt thou weep like a mourner o'er all thou lov'st now;
When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their
mark;

Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more dark:
When thy feelings lie fettered like waters in frost,
Or, scattered too freely, are wasted and lost :
For aye cometh sorrow, when youth hath passed by-
Ah! what saith the proverb? Its memory's a sigh.

Last Verses of L. E. L.

Alluding to the Pole Star, which, in her voyage to Africa, she had nightly watched till it sunk below the horizon.

A star has left the kindling sky-
A lovely northern light;
How many planets are on high,
But that has left the night.

I miss its bright familiar face,
It was a friend to me;
Associate with my native place,
And those beyond the sea.

It rose upon our English sky,

Shone o'er our English land,
And brought back many a loving eye,
And many a gentle hand.

It seemed to answer to my thought,
It called the past to mind,
And with its welcome presence brought
All I had left behind.

The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore;
How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more?

Fresh from the pain it was to part-
How could I bear the pain?
Yet strong the omen in my heart
That says-We meet again.
Meet with a deeper, dearer love;
For absence shews the worth
Of all from which we then remove,
Friends, home, and native earth.
Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes
Still turned the first on thee,
Till I have felt a sad surprise,

That none looked up with me.
But thou hast sunk upon the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown;
I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone.

Farewell! ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light!
What words upon our English heaven
Thy loving rays should write!

Kind messages of love and hope
Upon thy rays should be ;

Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.

Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,

And little needed too;

My friends! I need not look beyond
My heart to look for you.

JANE TAYLOR-ANN TAYLOR (MRS GILBERT). JANE and ANN TAYLOR were members of an English Nonconformist family of the middle rank of life, distinguished through four generations for their attainments in literature and art, and no less distinguished for persevering industry and genuine piety. The grandfather of the sisters, the first of four Isaac Taylors, was an engraver. He had a brother Charles, who edited Calmet's Dictionary of the Bible, and another brother, Josiah, who became eminent as a publisher of architectural works. Isaac, the second son, father of Ann and Jane, besides his engraving business, took a warm interest in the affairs of the 'meetinghouse,' and ultimately became pastor of an Independent congregation at Ongar in Essex. The wife of Mr Taylor (née Ann Martin) was also of literary tastes, and published Maternal Solicitude (1814), The Family Mansion (1819), and other tales, and instructive educational works. The daughters, Ann (1782-1866) and Jane (1783-1824) were born in London, but brought up chiefly at Lavenham in Suffolk, whither their father had, for the sake of economy, taken up his residence. His daughters assisted in the engraving, working steadily at their tasks from their thirteenth or fourteenth year, and paying their share of the family expenses. They began their literary career by contributing to a cheap annual, The Minor's Pocket-Book, the publishers of which, Darton and Harvey, induced them to undertake a volume of verses for children. In 1803 appeared Original Poems for Infant Minds, which were followed by Rhymes for the Nursery (1806), Hymns for Infant Minds, Rural Scenes, City Scenes, &c. The hymns were highly popular, and are still well known. The two little poems, My Mother, and Twinkle, Twinkle little Star, can never become obsolete in the nursery. Jane Taylor was authoress of a tale

entitled Display (1815), and of Essays in Rhyme (1816), and Contributions of Q. 2. Ann married a Dissenting clergyman, the Rev. Josiah Gilbert, author of a treatise on the Atonement, who died in 1852, and a memoir of whom was written by his widow. When she also was removed, her son, Josiah Gilbert, an accomplished artist, and author of The Dolomite Mountains; Cadore, or Titian's Country, &c., published in 1874, Autobiography and other Memorials of Mrs Gilbert (Ann Taylor). A brother of the accomplished sisters, Isaac Taylor of Stanford Rivers, became still more distinguished as a theological writer, and will be noticed in a subsequent part of this volume.

The Squire's Pew.-By JANE TAYLOR.

A slanting ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane;
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again :

The window's Gothic framework falls
In oblique shadow on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,
How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Has come and passed away! How many a setting sun hath made That curious lattice-work of shade? Crumbled beneath the hillock green The cunning hand must be, That carved this fretted door, I weenAcorn and fleur-de-lis;

And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel's art.

In days of yore-that now we call-
When James the First was king,
The courtly knight from yonder hall
His train did hither bring;
All seated round in order due,
With broidered suit and buckled shoe.
On damask-cushions, set in fringe,
All reverently they knelt :
Prayer-book with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,
Each holding in a lily hand,
Responsive at the priest's command.
Now streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam, long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile

Of their inscription stone;
And there, in marble hard and cold,
The knight and all his train behold.
Outstretched together are expressed
He and my lady fair,
With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer;
Long-visaged, clad in armour, he;
With ruffled arm and bodice, she.
Set forth in order as they died,
The numerous offspring bend;
Devoutly kneeling side by side,
As though they did intend
For past omissions to atone
By saying endless prayers in stone.
Those mellow days are past and dim,
But generations new,
In regular descent from him,

Have filled the stately pew;
And in the same succession go
To occupy the vault below.

And now the polished, modern squire,
And his gay train appear,
Who duly to the hall retire,

A season every year—

And fill the seats with belle and beau, As 'twas so many years ago.

Perchance, all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor

Of that dark house of kindred dead
Which shall, as heretofore,
In turn, receive to silent rest
Another and another guest-

The feathered hearse and sable train,
In all its wonted state

Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate;

Brought many a distant county through
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away All to their dusty beds,

Still shall the mellow evening ray Shine gaily o'er their heads: Whilst other faces, fresh and new, Shall occupy the squire's pew.

Till at length, his shattered sail was furled,
Mid the golden sands of a western world!
Still centuries passed with their measured tread,
While winged by the winds the nations sped;
And still did the moon, as she watched that deep,
Her triple task o'er the voyagers keep;
And sore farewells, as they hove from land,
Spake of absence long, on a distant strand.

She starts-wild winds at her bosom rage,
She laughs in her speed at the war they wage;
In queenly pomp on the surf she treads,
Scarce waking the sea-things from their beds;
Fleet as the lightning tracks the cloud,
She glances on, in her glory proud;

A few bright suns, and at rest she lies,
Glittering to transatlantic skies! . . .

Simpleton man! why, who would have thought To this, the song of a tea-kettle brought !

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Since first began my ominous song,

Slowly have passed the ages long.

Slow was the world my worth to glean,

My visible secret long unseen!

Surly, apart the nations dwelt,

Nor yet the magical impulse felt ;

Nor deemed that charity, science, art,
All that doth honour or wealth impart,
Spell-bound, till mind should set them free,
Slumbered, and sung in their sleep-in me!
At length the day in its glory rose,
And off on its spell-the Engine goes!
On whom first fell the amazing dream?
WATT woke to fetter the giant Steam,
His fury to crush to mortal rule,
And wield Leviathan as his tool!
The monster, breathing disaster wild,

Is tamed and checked by a tutored child;
Ponderous and blind, of rudest force,
A pin or a whisper guides its course;
Around its sinews of iron play

The viewless bonds of a mental sway,
And triumphs the soul in the mighty dower,
To knowledge, the plighted boon-is Power!

Hark! 'tis the din of a thousand wheels
At play with the fences of England's fields;
From its bed upraised, 'tis the flood that pours
To fill little cisterns at cottage doors;

'Tis the many-fingered, intricate, bright machine, With it flowery film of lace, I ween!

And see where it rushes, with silvery wreath,
The span of yon arched cove beneath;
Stupendous, vital, fiery, bright,
Trailing its length in a country's sight;
Riven are the rocks, the hills give way,
The dim valley rises to unfelt day;

And man, fitly crowned with brow sublime,
Conqueror of distance reigns, and time.

Lone was the shore where the hero mused,
His soul through the unknown leagues transfused;
His perilous bark on the ocean strayed,

And moon after moon, since its anchor weighed,
On the solitude strange and drear, did shine
The untracked ways of that restless brine;

once been bitten by a dog thought to be mad, he had sucked the wound, at the hazard, as was supposed, of his own life, but that he had never given her a kiss. Joanna spoke of her yearning to be caressed when a child. She would sometimes venture to clasp her little arms about her mother's knees, who would seem to chide her, but the child knew she liked it.'* Her latter years were spent in comparative retirement at Hampstead, where she died February 23, 1851. Besides her dramas (afterwards noticed), Miss Baillie wrote some admirable Scottish songs and other poetical pieces, which were collected and published under the title of Fugitive Verses. In society, as in literature, this lady was regarded with affectionate respect and veneration, enjoying the friendship of most of her distinguished contemporaries. Lockhart, in his Life of Scott, states that Miss Baillie and her brother, Dr Matthew Baillie, were among the friends to whose intercourse Sir Walter looked forward with the greatest pleasure, when about to visit the metropolis.

From The Kitten?

Wanton droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,
As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;

Come, shew thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coiled, and crouching low,
With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;

* Memoirs of Lucy Aikin. London, 1864.

Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting fair,

Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,

...

Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
The featest tumbler, stage-bedight,
To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who every limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains;
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopped the while thy wanton play,
Applauses, too, thy feats repay:
For then beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur,
As, timing well the equal sound,

Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,

And all their harmless claws disclose,

Like prickles of an early rose ;

While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage-fire

Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with altered air
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slippered toe.
The widowed dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper-ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravelled skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

From 'Address to Miss Agnes Baillie on her Birthday.'*
Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears
O'er us have glided almost sixty years,
Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen
By those whose eyes long closed in death have been-
Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather
The slender harebell on the purple heather;

The author and her sister lived to an advanced age constantly in each other's society. Miss Agnes Baillie died April 27, 1861, aged 100.

No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery gem.
Then every butterfly that crossed our view
With joyful shout was greeted as it flew ;
And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright,
In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight.
Then, as we paddled barefoot, side by side,
Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde,*
Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin,
Swimming in mazy rings the pool within.
A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,
Seen in the power of early wonderment.

A long perspective to my mind appears,
Looking behind me to that line of years;
And yet through every stage I still can trace
Thy visioned form, from childhood's morning grace
To woman's early bloom-changing, how soon!
To the expressive glow of woman's noon;
And now to what thou art, in comely age,
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
Thy present moment-whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle or legend rare explore,
Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty steps some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor-
Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by.
Though oft of patience brief, and temper keen,
Well may it please me, in life's latter scene,

To think what now thou art and long to me hast been.

'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book,

That thing by me abhorred, and with address
Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness,
When all too old become with bootless haste
In fitful sports the precious time to waste,
Thy love of tale and story was the stroke
At which my dormant fancy first awoke,
And ghosts and witches in my busy brain
Arose in sombre show a motley train.
This new-found path attempting, proud was I
Lurking approval on thy face to spy,

Or hear thee say, as grew thy roused attention,
'What! is this story all thine own invention?'

Then, as advancing through this mortal span, Our intercourse with the mixed world began; Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesyA truth that from my youthful vanity Lay not concealed-did for the sisters twain, Where'er we went, the greater favour gain; While, but for thee, vexed with its tossing tide, I from the busy world had shrunk aside. And now, in later years, with better grace, Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place With those whom nearer neighbourhood have made The friendly cheerers of our evening shade. The change of good and evil to abide, As partners linked, long have we, side by side, Our earthly journey held; and who can say How near the end of our united way? By nature's course not distant; sad and 'reft Will she remain-the lonely pilgrim left. If thou art taken first, who can to me Like sister, friend, and home-companion be?

The manse of Bothwell was at some considerable distance from the Clyde, but the two little girls were sometimes sent there in summer to bathe and wade about. Joanna said she 'rambled over the heaths and plashed in the brook most of the day.' One day she said to Lucy Aikin, 'I could not read well till nine years old.' 'O Joanna,' cried her sister, not till eleven.'-Memoirs of Lucy Aikin.

Or who, of wonted daily kindness shorn,
Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall mourn?
And if I should be fated first to leave

This earthly house, though gentle friends may grieve,
And he above them all, so truly proved
A friend and brother, long and justly loved,
There is no living wight, of woman born,

Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit! quickly feeling
The touch of sympathy, and kindly dealing
With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing

The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow caring-
Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal-day,
An unadorned, but not a careless lay.
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid
From tardy love proceeds, though long delayed.
Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed,
The latest spoken still are deemed the best:

Few are the measured rhymes I now may write ;
These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite.

The Shepherd's Song.

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,

And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh, no! sad an' slow!
I hear nae welcome sound;
The shadow of our trystin' bush,
It wears sae slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Oh, no! sad an' slow!
The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clackin' din;
And Lucky scoldin' frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.

Oh, no! sad an' slow!
These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trystin' bush,
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam,
A snood of bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trystin' cam',
To tie it round her brow.

Oh, no! sad an' slow!
The time it winna pass;
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tethered on the grass.

Oh now I see her on the way,

She's past the witches' knowe; She's climbin' up the brownie's braeMy heart is in a lowe.

Oh, no! 'tis na so!
'Tis glaumrie I hae seen :

The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book of grace I'll try to read, Though conned wi' little skill; When Collie barks I'll raise my head, And find her on the hill.

Oh, no! sad an' slow! The time will ne'er be gane; The shadow of the trystin' bush Is fixed like ony stane.

64

WILLIAM KNOX-THOMAS PRINGLE.

talent, who died in Edinburgh in 1825, aged thirtyWILLIAM KNOX, a young poet of considerable six, was author of The Lonely Hearth, Songs of Israel, The Harp of Zion, &c. Sir Walter Scott thus mentions Knox in his diary: His father was a respectable yeoman, and he himself succeeding to good farms under the Duke of Buccleuch, became too soon his own master, and plunged into dissipation and ruin. His talent then shewed itself in a fine strain of pensive poetry.' Knox thus concludes his Songs of Israel :

My song hath closed, the holy dream
That raised my thoughts o'er all below,
Hath faded like the lunar beam,

And left me 'mid a night of woe-
To look and long, and sigh in vain
For friends I ne'er shall meet again.
And yet the earth is green and gay;

And yet the skies are pure and bright ;
But, 'mid each gleam of pleasure gay,

Some cloud of sorrow dims my sight:
For weak is now the tenderest tongue
That might my simple songs have sung.
And like to Gilead's drops of balm,

They for a moment soothed my breast;
But earth hath not a power to calm

My spirit in forgetful rest,
Until I lay me side by side

With those that loved me, and have died.
They died—and this a world of woe,

Of anxious doubt and chilling fear;

I wander onward to the tomb,

With scarce a hope to linger here:
But with a prospect to rejoin

The friends beloved, that once were mine.

THOMAS PRINGLE was born in Roxburghshire in 1788. He was concerned in the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, and was author of Scenes of Teviotdale, Ephemerides, and other poems, all of which display fine feeling and a cultivated taste. Although, from lameness, ill fitted for a life of roughness or hardships, Mr Pringle, with his father and several brothers, emigrated to the Cape of Good Hope in the year 1820, and there established a little township or settlement named Glen Lynden. The poet afterwards removed to Cape Town, the capital; but wearied with his Kaffirland exile, and disagreeing with the governor, he returned to England, and subsisted by his pen. He was sometime editor of the literary annual entitled Friendship's Offering. His services were also engaged by the African Society, as secretary to that body, a situation which he continued to hold until within a few months of his death. In the discharge of its duties he evinced a spirit of active humanity, and an ardent love of the cause to which he was devoted. His last work was a series of African Sketches, containing an interesting personal narrative, interspersed with verses. Mr Pringle died on the 5th of December 1834. The following piece was much admired by Coleridge :