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When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar,
The storm came on thicker and faster,
As black just as pitch was the sky; When truly a doleful disaster Befel three poor sailors and I: Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, By a blast that came furious and hard, Just while we were furling the mainsail, Were every soul swept from the yard.
Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried Peccavi ;
After thus we at sea had miscarried,
Tom Bow LIN G.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
His form was of the manliest beauty,
Faithful below he did his duty,
Tom never from his word departed,
His friends were many, and true-hearted,
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,
Thus death, who kings and tars dispatches,
For though his body's under hatches,
Sweet is the ship that under sail
Sweet, oh sweet's the flowing can ;
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man:
Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan.
The needle, faithful to the north,
When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
I love my duty, love my friend,
BLOw HIGH, BLOw Low.
Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear
Aloft, while mountains high we go,
The whistling winds that scud along, And the surge roaring from below,
Shall my signal be
To think on thee,
Blow high, blow low, &c. And on that night, when all the crew
The mem'ry of their former lives
I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee;
Blow high, blow low, &c.
Or ventures on the yard ;
Believes his lot is hard.
Casts anchor, heaves the log,
And drinks his can of grog.
The vessel rudely bear,
Bold Jack, with smiles, &c. When waves 'gainst rocks and quicksands roar,
You ne'er hear him repine; Freezing near Greenland's icy shore, Or burning near the line:
Bold Jack, with smiles, &c. If to engage they give the word,
To quarters all repair ;
Bold Jack, with smiles, &c.
JoANNA BA1 Lll E is a native of Scotland, and of noble Scottish descent; but the greater part of her life has been spent in London. She resides at Hampstead; and has remained unmarried. No living writer has received from contemporaries higher tokens of admiration and respect: and her genius has been largely and generally appreciated by the public. As a lyric Poet, she cannot be said to occupy a prominent station; but she has achieved that which must be considered the loftiest effort of the mind:—her “Tragedies” will be classed among the most admirable in the English language. Mr. Hazlitt, in some MS. notes upon the productions of Miss Baillie, of which we shall make liberal use, objects to her “Plays of the Passions,” on the ground that they have not been acted, and may not be acted: “they are only,” he adds, “chef-d'oeuvres for the closet.” They are elegant, classical, stately, with occasional touches (and some of them fine ones) of nature and passion; but her tragedy, with every advantage of taste and study, has the port and flexure of female genius. She has not UN's Ex ED the Muse! There is excessive decorum, refinement, skill: we have a graceful and expanded coinmentary on nature; not the naked, unadorned, and rugged text itself. The bosom is seldom probed, the brain rarely maddened. There is so much methodical preparation for the catastrophe, with so many softening gradations interposed, “so much temperance assumed to give smoothness,’ to the effect, that we scarce feel the struggle when it comes; there is so much good sense, and calm reflection, and elegant declamation put into the mouths of the speakers, that passion is swallowed up in sentiment, and we begin to be as philosophical as themselves: instead of the lightning and the dread thunderstroke issuing from the dark cloud, we perceive only a soft, glittering vapour of words; and are, as it were, suspended on the edge of a precipice, instead of being hurled down it,-in a word, tragedy here utters chiefly muffled sounds, has her agonised features thinly but gracefully veiled, and, for the bleeding wounds and mangled fibres of the heart, we are shown the learned prescriptions and gauze bandages that have been applied with a skilful and tender hand to assuage and heal them. The authoress of a ‘Series of Plays,’ assumes the part of a charitable or guardian angel, that foresees disasters, suggests reflections, and proposes remedies,<not that of the destroying demon, that tears off every disguise of evil, cuts off hope, drives passion to frenzy, and makes this world a hell, from which there is no resource but in the silent grave. Her style is a little effeminate; her plan is somewhat pedantic. When you expect her to touch the goal of perfection (and she is frequently near it), she suddenly falters, and turns aside from want of resolution to seize the golden prize; some trifling scruple impedes her course—some idle ornament diverts her attention ; she expands a simple interjection into a lecture, or tacks a system to a common incident, till, between the grandeur of the design and the littleness of the means, she almost unavoidably fails of natural and striking effect. “Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or, rather, woman its pretty self,” may be said to ruin the tragic Poet. So far from precipitating the tide of passion, and letting it boil and rage in the troubled gulph below, she dallies, she tampers with it, tries to keep it back, and make it play in gentle eddies, or strains it through artificial sluices to form fairy cascades and jetsd'eaux, to display the rainbow hues of fancy, or drains it to overflow the neighbouring plains and fertilize the fields of reflection. This is but natural. Women in their writings are beset with doubts, and hampered with difficulties, and dare not take a decisive step, any more than in real life. Neither are women taught to give way to, or express, their passions, but to do all they can to suppress and conceal them. A tragic author must speak out;-a woman is sworn to secresy and silence. Action and passion (both of them forbidden ground) being then the chief ingredients of tragedy, a female author in attempting it must be hard beset. Nay, farther, women are generally taught not only not to harbour or give utterance to the fiercer passions in their own breasts, but not to witness the outward signs of them, or sympathise with their inward workings in others. They turn from the subject with shrinking sensitiveness, and consider whatever shocks their delicacy as a crime. This reserve and caution is an excellent discipline of manners and virtue, but a bad school for imagination and passion. Is it to be wondered at that we find in these plays, by one inured from her childhood to the severest lessons of prudence and propriety, instances of refinement verging on imbecility, and of casuistry substituted for the unvarnished