THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY was born near Bath, October 13, 1797-on the same day with Motherwell. He studied at Oxford, intending to take orders; but by the death of his father, a solicitor, he inherited a fortune, and he gave up his purpose of entering the church. He had a talent for song-writing, and became a favorite in fashionable society. After the loss of his fortune in 1831 this talent was used as a means of support; but adversity was not so favorable to the production of his summer-day songs as prosperity had been, and he became disheartened, and died, April 22, 1839. He was the author of several novels of no great merit, thirty-six dramas, and hundreds of songs. Many of the latter-notably "I'd be a Butterfly," "Oh no, we never mention Her," "Isle of Beauty, Fare Thee Well," and "We met, 'twas in a Crowd"— enjoyed an immense popularity. Some of them were set to music by himself, and some by Sir Henry Bishop. He published "Melodies of Various Nations," "Parliamentary Letters and other Poems," and "Deeds of Witchery," which was also a volume of poems. After his death his widow published a collected edition of his poems, in two volumes, with a biographical sketch. He was a genial, amiable man, rather delicate physically, with no great force of character. She will not frown, for frowns would say That she had watched for his return; She will not smile-it would betray She saw him not with unconcern. Oh! should he ever come, no trace No blush shall mantle on her cheek, And thinking thus, she proudly leans Against the marble balustrade: Come when he may, she never means To raise her eyes, or turn her head! Lady, most beautiful thou art, And pride becomes thee 'mid the crowd: But oh with him who wins thy heart, Thou'rt fond-weak-any thing but proud. Resentment when he leaves her side, Betrays the depth of woman's love; And when she prattles of her pride, What but her weakness does she prove? Why starts she now? why turns her head With such a glance of gay delight? Alas! forgetting all she said, She smiles the moment he's in sight! The weary watcher can command No word to wound, no frown to chill; The silent pressure of her hand Assures him he is welcome still. THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE. I DARE thee to forget me! Go wander where thou wilt; Thy hand upon the vessel's helm, Away! thou'rt free! o'er land and sea But oh, thou canst not fly from thought! Thy curse will be-to think! Remember me! remember all, Thy curse shall be-to think! Then go ! that thought will render thee That thought, when thou art tempest-tossed, In some wild dungeon mayst thou lie, Thy curse shall be-to think! Go seek the merry banquet-hail, The thought of me shall make thee there That thought shall turn the festive cup To poison while you drink, And while false smiles are on thy cheek, Forget me, false one! hope it not ! Will gall thee while they sing: Forget me! No, that shall not be! And when thou wak'st in wild dismay, THE PILOT. Он, pilot! 'tis a fearful night, Go down the sailor cried, go down, |