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BAILLIE.
to a child.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair, thou urchin sly

What boots it, who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, or squire or hind 2

For thou in every wight that passes,

111 o'clue eutlies, or out 1111s it uniouk in 11 lovaa. “Avve -- ~~---------., ------------- d'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 then. 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 BAILLIE.

TO A CHILD.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate, and merry eye,

And arm and shoulders round and sleek, And soft and fair, thou urchin sly P

What boots it, who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his, or squire or hind 2

For thou in every wight that passes,

[graphic]

Thy downcast glances,-grave, but cunning,

As fringed eyelids rise and fall;
Thy shyness swiftly from me running,

'Tis infantine coquetry all!
But far a-field thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats, half lisped, half spoken ; I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good will thy simple token. And thou must laugh, and wrestle too,

A mimic warfare with me waging! To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging! The wilding rose-sweet as thyself

And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ; I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,

To taste again thy youthful pleasure. But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,

The weary spell or hornbook thumbing. Well, let it be! Through weal and woe,

Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change.

THE KITTEN.

Wanton drole, 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 faggot 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,

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;
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 far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail 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.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?
Ah no ! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern Muse
Expression technical to use,)
These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.
The nimblest 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 takest 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,

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