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I ran to 1ka dear friend's room,
As if to see them there;
And hung o'er mony a chair ;
Across these een o'mine
To think on auld langsyne.
Some pensy chiels, a new sprung race,
Wad next their welcome pay, Wha shuddered at my gothic wa's,
And wished my groves awa. "Cut, cut," they cried, "yon aged elms,
Lay low yon mournfu' pine :" “Na! na! our fathers' names grow there,
Memorials o' langsyne."
To wean me fra these mournfu' thoughts,
They took me to the town;
I missed the youthfu’ bloom.
Whom a' declared divine;
Were fairer far langsyne.
In vain I sought in music's sound,
To find that magic art,
Hae thrilled through a' my heart;
mony an artfu' turn, My ear confessed 'twas fine, But I missed the simple melody
I listened to langsyne.
Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,
Forgie an auld man's spleen,
The days he ance has seen.
Your hearts will feel like mine,
the song.will maist delight
I add an example of a still bolder effort-an attempt to make tender sentiment be felt under the disguise of the rude dialect of Cumberland. Perhaps it may be the effect of Auld Lang Syne on myself, that makes me think it eminently successful.
AULD ROBIN FORBES.
And auld Robin Forbes has gi’en tem a dance,
The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud see
that was dark and hard-featured leyke me;
I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle,
When the clock had struck eight, I expected him heame,
Mrs. James Gray is better known in England as Mary Anne Browne, and under that name might have furnished the text to another melancholy chapter on Prodigies, a chapter on fine and promising girls who have become martyrs to the fond mistakes of parents and the careless flatteries of friends, and have lost the happy and healthful thoughtlessness of the child in the premature cares, the untimely aspirations, the fears, anxieties, and disappointments of the poetess. If in my humble career I can look back to any part of my own conduct
* Those who are fond of Scotch music may be glad to be reminded that the simply-pathetic song,
• What ails this heart of mine ?" is also by Miss Susanna Blamire.
with real satisfaction, it is that I have always, when a young lady has been brought to me in her character of prodigy, had the courage to give present pain in order to avert a future evil. I have always said, "wait;" certain that the more real was the talent the greater was the danger of over-exciting the youthful faculties, of over-stimulating the youthful sensibility. In Miss Mary Anne Browne's case, no advice was asked. I saw her first a fine tall girl of fourteen, already a full-fledged authoress, unmercifully lauded by some, as if verses, especially love verses, written at that age, could be anything better than clever imitations; and still more cruelly depreciated by others, as if we had a right to expect all the results of long study—of skilful practiceof observation—and of experience from one who was in everything but her quick ear and her fertile fancy still a child.
Thus brought forward, praised to the skies one day, utterly neglected the next-taken, as if a woman, into London society, and then thrown back upon a family circle in a provincial town, her health and spirits suffered ; and, if she had not been in heart and temper a girl of a thousand, she would have become soured and miserable for life. The real power was in her, however, and the depression was temporary. When taken from the unhealthy atmosphere of the stove, the plant recovered its strength and blossomed freely in the open air.
When no longer stimulated by factitious applause, she wrote verses deserving of sincere admiration and enduring fame.
An accidental visit to Ireland introduced her poems to the Editor of the “Dublin University Magazine," and under his judicious encouragement she poured forth her various and earnest lays with astonishing fertility and abundance. In Ireland, too, she met the Scottish gentleman, Mr. James Gray, the nephew of the Ettrick Shepherd, whom, after some delay and difficulty, she married.
Her wedded life appears to have been singularly happy-as happy as it was brief. After a short illness she expired, while still in the bloom of womanhood (she had not yet completed her thirtythird year), and while rising daily in poetical power and poetical reputation.
Her highest literary merit was, however, not known until after her death.
Of all poetesses, George Sand herself not excepted, she seems to me to touch with the sweetest, the firmest, the most delicate hand, the difficult chords of female passion. There is a reality in her love, and in the verse that tells it, which cannot be read without a deep and tender sympathy. Beautiful and statuesque as her sketches from the antique undoubtedly are, I prefer to quote from these posthumous poems, written from her very heart of hearts, in which passion seems to burst unconsciously into poetry.