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course for the Fast, which last appeared in 1793. In 1802, she removed, with Mr. Barbauld, to Stoke Newington; and in 1804, published selections from the Spectator, Tatler, Guardian, and Freeholder, with a preliminary essay, which is regarded as her most successful effort in literary

THIS gifted authoress, the daughter of Dr. John | and Propriety of Public or Social Worship; and Aikin, was born at Kilworth Harcourt, in Leices- Sins of Government, Sins of the Nation, or a Distershire, on the 20th of June, 1743. Her education was entirely domestic, but the quickness of apprehension, and desire for learning which she manifested, induced her father to lend her his assistance towards enabling her to obtain a knowledge of Latin and Greek. On the removal of Dr. Aikin to superintend the dissenting academy at Warring-criticism. In the same year, appeared her edition ton, in Lancashire, she accompanied him thither, in her fifteenth year, when she is said to have possessed great beauty of person and vivacity of intellect. The associates she met with at Warrington were in every way congenial to her mind, and among others, were Drs. Priestley and Enfield, with whom she formed an intimate acquaintIn 1773, she was induced to publish a volume of her poems, which, in the course of the same year, went through four editions. They were followed by miscellaneous pieces in prose, by J. (her brother) and A. L. Aikin, which considerably added to her reputation.


In 1774, she married the Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, with whom she removed to Palgrave, near Dis, in Suffolk, where her husband had charge of a dissenting congregation, and was about to open a boarding-school. Mrs. Barbauld assisted him in the task of instruction; and some of her pupils, who have since risen to literary eminence, among whom were the present Mr. Denman and Sir William Gell, have acknowledged the value of her lessons in English composition, and declamation. In 1775, appeared a small volume from her pen, entitled Devotional Pieces, compiled from the Psalms of David, &c.; a collection which met with little success and some animadversion. In 1778, she published her Lessons for Children from Two to Three Years Old; and, in 1781, Hymns in Prose, for Children; both of which may be said to have formed an era in the art of instruction, and the former has been translated into French, by M. Pasquier.

In 1785, Mrs. Barbauld and her husband gave up their school and visited the continent, whence they returned to England in June, 1786, and in the following year took up their residence at Hampstead. Our authoress now began to use her pen on the popular side of politics, and published, successively, An Address to the Opposers of the Repeal of the Corporation and Test Acts; A Poetical Epistle to Mr. Wilberforce on the Rejection of the Bill for Abolishing the Slave Trade; Remarks on Gilbert Wakefield's Inquiry into the Expediency

of The Correspondence of Richardson, in six volumes, duodecimo; but the most valuable part of this work is the very elegant and interesting life of that novelist, and the able review of his works, from the pen of our authoress. In 1808, she became a widow; and in 1810, appeared her edition of The British Novelists, with an introductory essay, and biographical and critical notices prefixed to the works of each author. In the following year she published a collection of prose and verse, under the title of The Female Spectator; and in the same year, appeared that original offspring of her genius, Eighteen Hundred and Eleven, & poem. This was the last separate publication of Mrs. Barbauld, who died on the 9th of March, 1825, in the eighty-second year of her age. Al edition of her works appeared in the same year, in two octavo volumes, with a memoir, by Lucy Aikin.

Mrs. Barbauld is one of the most eminent female writers which England has produced; and both in prose and poetry she is hardly surpassed by any of her sex, in the present age. With respect to the style, we shall, perhaps, best describe it, by calling it that of a female Johnson; and her Essay on Romances is a professed imitation of the manner of that great critic. He is himself said to have allowed it to be the best that was ever attempted; "because it reflected the colour of his thoughts, no less than the turn of his expressions." She is, however, not without a style of her own, which is graceful, easy, and natural: alike calculated to engage the most common, and the most elevated understanding. Her poems are addressed more to the feelings than to the imagination,-more to the reason than the senses; but the language never becomes prosaic, and has sublimity and pathos, totally free from bombast and affectation. The spirit of piety and benevolence that breathes through her works pervaded her life, and she is an amiable example to her sex that it is possible to combine, without danger to its morals or religious principles, a manly understanding with a feminine and susceptible heart.



..A man'y race

Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave;
Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard
To hold a generous undiminish'd state;
Too much in vain


HAIL, generous Corsica! unconquer'd isle!
The fort of freedom; that amidst the waves
Stands like a rock of adamant, and dares
The wildest fury of the beating storm.

And are there yet, in this late sickly age,
Unkindly to the towering growths of virtue,
Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds,
To the bright annals of old Greece opposed,
Would throw in shades her yet unrivall'd name,
And dim the lustre of her fairest page!
And glows the flame of Liberty so strong
In this lone speck of earth! this spot obscure,
Shaggy with woods, and crusted o'er with rock,
By slaves surrounded, and by slaves oppress'd!
What then should Britons feel?-should they not


The warm contagion of heroic ardour,
And kindle at a fire so like their own?

And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides
With living verdure; whence the clustering bee
Extracts her golden dews: the shining box
And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme,
The prickly juniper, and the green leaf

Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing

Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads

The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit
Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps;
And thy own native laurel crowns the scene.
Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep;
Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods,
The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound
From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air,
And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power
That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes
Of unquell'd nature: precipices huge,
And tumbling torrents; trackless deserts, plains
Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries


With shining steel, that to the cultured fields
And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain,
Defends their homely produce. Liberty,
The mountain goddess, loves to range at large
Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil
Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns
The green enamell'd vales, the velvet lap

Of smooth savannahs, where the pillow'd head

Such were the working thoughts which swell'd Of luxury reposes; balmy gales,

the breast

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Of generous Boswell; when with nobler aim
And views beyond the narrow beaten track
By trivial fancy trod, he turn'd his course
From polish'd Gallia's soft delicious vales,
From the gray relics of imperial Rome,
From her long galleries of laurell'd stone,
Her chisell'd heroes and her marble gods,
Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world,
To animated forms of patriot zeal;
Warm in the living majesty of virtue;
Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved;
By fortune nor subdued, nor awed by power.

And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these,
when first

This isle emerging like a beauteous gem
From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main,
Rear'd its fair front, she mark'd it for her own,
And with her spirit warm'd. Her genuine sons,
A broken remnant, from the generous stock
Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains,
True to their high descent, preserved unquench'd
The sacred fire through many a barbarous age:
Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage,
Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome,
Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen,

How raptured fancy burns, while warm in Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria,


I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss
With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil
Stain'd with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail!
Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores,
And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep
Incessant foaming round thy shaggy sides.
Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports,
And ample harbours, which inviting stretch
Their hospitable arms to every sail :

Could crush into subjection. Still unquell'd
They rose superior, bursting from their chains,
And claim'd man's dearest birthright, liberty:
And long, through many a hard unequal strife,
Maintain'd the glorious conflict; long withstood,
With single arm, the whole collected force
Of haughty Genoa, and ambitious Gaul.
And shall withstand it-Trust the faithful muse!
It is not in the force of mortal arm,
Scarcely in fate, to bind the struggling soul

Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the That gall'd by wanton power, indignant swells


Down the steep channell'd rock impetuous pour
With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge
Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown
And straw-roof'd cots, which from the level vale
Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs
Seem like an eagle's nest aërial built.

Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn

Of various trees, that wave their giant arms
O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines,
And hardy fir, and ilex ever green,

Against oppression; breathing great revenge,
Careless of life, determined to be free.
And favouring Heaven approves: for sce the


Born to exalt his own, and give mankind
A glimpse of higher natures: just, as great;
The soul of council, and the nerve of war;
Of high unshaken spirit, temper'd sweet
With soft urbanity, and polish'd grace,
And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles:
Whom Heaven in some propitious hour endow'd
With every purer virtue: gave him all

And spreading chestnut, with each humbler plant, That lifts the hero, or adorns the man.

Gave him the eye sublime; the searching glance, | To after-ages, and applauding worlds

Keen, scanning deep, that smites the guilty soul
As with a beam from heaven: on his brow
Serene, and spacious front, set the broad seal
Of dignity and rule; then smiled benign
On this fair pattern of a God below,


High wrought, and breathed into his swelling
The large ambitious wish to save his country.

O beauteous title to immortal fame!
The man devoted to the public, stands
In the bright records of superior worth,
A step below the skies: if he succeed,
The first fair lot which earth affords, is his;
And if he falls, he falls above a throne.

When such their leader, can the brave despair?
Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief!
Success to your fair hopes A British muse,
Though weak and powerless, lifts her fervent

And breathes a prayer for your success. O could
She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews,
To drop upon your heads! But patient hope
Must wait th' appointed hour; secure of this,
That never with the indolent and weak
Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized
By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing:
Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with

When the storm thickens, when the combat burns,
And pain and death in every horrid shape
That can appal the feeble, prowl around,
Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form
Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien
Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarged
Each spreading feature, with an ampler port
And bolder tone, exulting, rides the storm,
And joys amidst the tempest. Then she reaps
Her golden harvest; fruits of nobler growth
And higher relish than meridian suns
Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds,
And godlike action. 'Tis not meats and drinks,
And balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers,
That feed and ripen minds; 'tis toil and danger;
And wrestling with the stubborn gripe of fate;
And war, and sharp distress, and paths obscure
And dubious. The bold swimmer joys not so
To feel the proud waves under him, and beat
With strong repelling arm the billowy surge;
The generous courser does not so exult

To toss his floating mane against the wind,
And neigh amidst the thunder of the war,
As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast
Like a firm shield against the darts of fate.

And when her sons in that rough school have learn'd

To smile at danger, then the hand that raised,
Shall hush the storm, and lead the shining train
Of peaceful years in bright procession on.

Then shall the shepherd's pipe, the muse's lyre,
On Cyrnus' shores be heard: her grateful sons
With loud acclaim and hymns of cordial praise
Shall hail their high deliverers; every name
To virtue dear be from oblivion snatched
And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine,
Thine, Paoli, with sweetest sound shall dwell
On their applauding lips; thy sacred name,
Endear'd to long posterity, some muse,
More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate

Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country.

So vainly wish'd, so fondly hoped the muse :
Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail,
And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons,
Less vanquish'd than o'erwhelm'd, by numbers

Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon
In dubious battle with the gathering clouds,
And strikes a splendour through them; till at

Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven
And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal
That, too presumptuous, whisper'd better things,
And read the book of destiny amiss.
Not with the purple colouring of success
Is virtue best adorn'd: th' attempt is praise.
There yet remains a freedom, nobler far
Than kings or senates can destroy or give;
Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp
Seated secure, uninjured, undestroy'd ;
Worthy of gods-the freedom of the mind.


O HEAR a pensive prisoner's prayer,
For liberty that sighs:
And never let thine heart be shut
Against the wretch's cries!

For here forlorn and sad I sit,

Within the wiry grate;
And tremble at th' approaching morn,
Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breast with freedom glow'd,
And spurn'd a tyrant's chain,
Let not thy strong oppressive force
A free-born mouse detain!

O do not stain with guiltless blood
Thy hospitable hearth;
Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd
A prize so little worth.

The scatter'd gleanings of a feast

My frugal meals supply; But if thine unrelenting heart That slender boon deny,

The cheerful light, the vital air,

Are blessings widely given;
Let Nature's commoners enjoy
The common gifts of heaven.

The well-taught philosophic mind
To all compassion gives;
Casts round the world an equal eye
And feels for all that lives.

.Found in the trap where he had been confined all night by Dr. Priestley, for the sake of making experi ments with different kinds of air.


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O BORN to soothe distress and lighten care,
Lively as soft, and innocent as fair!
Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought
So rarely found, and never to be taught;
Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind,
The loveliest pattern of a female mind;
Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest,
With all her native heaven within her breast;
So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin,
But thinks the world without like that within;
Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless,
Her charity almost become excess.
Wealth may be courted, Wisdom be revered,
And Beauty praised, and brutal Strength be fear'd;
But Goodness only can affection move,
And love must owe its origin to love

Illam quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit, Componit, furtim, subsequiturque decor.


OF gentle manners, and of taste refined,
With all the graces of a polish'd mind;
Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke,
And from her lips no idle sentence broke.
Each nicer elegance of art she knew ;
Correctly fair, and regularly true.

Her ready fingers plied with equal skill
The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill;
So poised her feelings, so composed her soul,
So subject all to reason's calm control,-
One only passion, strong and unconfined,
Disturb'd the balance of her even mind.
In every word, and look, and thought confest-
One passion ruled despotic in her breast,
But that was love; and love delights to bless
The generous transports of a fond excess.

HAPPY old man! who stretch'd beneath the shade
Of large grown trees, or in the rustic porch
With woodbine canopied, where linger yet
The hospitable virtues, calm enjoy'st.
Nature's best blessings all ;-a healthy age
Ruddy and vigorous, native cheerfulness,
Plain-hearted friendship, simple piety,
The rural manners and the rural joys
Friendly to life. O rude of speech, yet rich
In genuine worth, not unobserved shall pass
Thy bashful virtues! for the muse shall mark,
Detect thy charities, and call to light
Thy secret deeds of mercy; while the poor,
The desolate, and friendless, at thy gate,
A numerous family, with better praise
Shall hallow in their hearts thy spotless name,

SUCH were the dames of old heroic days,
Which faithful story yet delights to praise;
Who, great in useful works, hung o'er the loom,—
The mighty mothers of immortal Rome:
Obscure, in sober dignity retired,

They more deserved than sought to be admired;
The household virtues o'er their honour'd head
Their simple grace and modest lustre shed:
Chaste their attire, their feet unused to roam,
They loved the sacred threshold of their home;
Yet true to glory, fann'd the generous flame,
Bade lovers, brothers, sons aspire to fame;
In the young bosom cherish'd Virtue's seed,
The secret springs of many a godlike deed.
So the fair stream in some sequester'd glade
With lowly state glides silent through the shade;
Yet by the smiling meads her urn is blest,
With freshest flowers her rising banks are drest,
And groves of laurel by her sweetness fed,
High o'er the forest lift their verdant head.

Is there whom genius and whom taste adorn
With rare but happy union; in whose breast
With stores of various knowledge, dwell the
Calm, philosophic, thoughtful, largely fraught


That trace out secret causes, and unveil
Great Nature's awful face? Is there whose hours
Of still domestic leisure breathe the soul
Of friendship, peace, and elegant delight
Beneath poetic shades, where leads the muse
Through walks of fragance, and the fairy groves
Where ideas blossom ?-Is there one
Whose tender hand, lenient of human woes,
Wards off the dart of death, and smooths the couch
Of torturing anguish? On so dear a name
May blessings dwell, honour and cordial praise;
Nor heed he be a brother to be loved.

CHAMPION of Truth, alike through Nature's field, And where in sacred leaves she shines reveal'd, Alike in both, eccentric, piercing, bold,

Like his own lightnings, which no chains can hold;

Neglecting caution, and disdaining art,
He seeks no armour for a naked heart:-
Pursue the track thy ardent genius shows,
That like the sun illumines where it goes;

Travel the various map of Science o'er,
Record past wonders, and discover more ;
Pour thy free spirit o'er the breathing page,
And wake the virtue of a careless age.
But O forgive, if touched with fond regret
Fancy recalls the scenes she can't forget,
Recalls the vacant smile, the social hours

A mass of heterogeneous matter,

A chaos dark, nor land nor water;-
New books, like new-born infants, stand,
Waiting the printer's clothing hand ;-
Others, a motley ragged brood,
Their limbs unfashion'd all, and rude,
Like Cadmus' half-form'd men appear;

Which charm'd us once, for once those scenes One rears a helm, one lifts a spear,

were ours!

And while thy praises through wide realms extend,
We sit in shades, and mourn the absent friend.
So where th' impetuous river sweeps the plain,
Itself a sea, and rushes to the main;
While its firm banks repel conflicting tides,
And stately on its breast the vessel glides;
Admiring much the shepherd stands to gaze,
Awe-struck, and mingling wonder with his praise;
Yet more he loves its winding path to trace
Through beds of flowers, and Nature's rural face,
While yet a stream the silent vale is cheer'd,
By many a recollected scene endear'd,
Where trembling first beneath the poplar shade
He tuned his pipe, to suit the wild cascade.

And feet were lopp'd and fingers torn
Before their fellow limbs were born;
A leg began to kick and sprawl
Before the head was seen at all,
Which quiet as a mushroom lay
Till crumbling hillocks gave it way;
And all, like controversial writing,
Were born with teeth, and sprung up fighting
"But what is this," I hear you cry,
"Which saucily provokes my eye?"—
A thing unknown, without a name,
Born of the air and doom'd to flame.


HER even lines her steady temper show,

AN INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE IN Neat as her dress, and polish'd as her brow;


A MAP of every country known, With not a foot of land his own.

A list of folks that kick'd a dust

On this poor globe, from Ptol. the First;
He hopes, indeed it is but fair,—
Some day to get a corner there.
A group of all the British kings,
Fair emblem! on a packthread swings.
The fathers, ranged in goodly row,
A decent, venerable show,
Writ a great while ago, they tell us,
And many an inch o'ertop their fellows.
A Juvenal to hunt for mottoes;

And Ovid's tales of nymphs and grottoes.
The meek-robed lawyers, all in white;
Pure as the lamb,—at least to sight.
A shelf of bottles, jar and phial,
By which the rogues he can defy all,-
All fill'd with lightning keen and genuine,
And many a little imp he'll pen you in;
Which, like Le Sage's sprite, let out
Among the neighbours makes a rout;

Brings down the lightning on their houses,

And kills their geese, and frights their spouses.

A rare thermometer, by which

He settles to the nicest pitch,

The just degrees of heat, to raise

Sermons, or politics, or plays.

Papers and books, a strange mix'd olio,

From shilling touch to pompous folio;

Answer, remark, reply, rejoinder,

Fresh from the mint, all stamp'd and coin'd here;
Like new-made glass, set by to cool,
Before it bears the workman's tool.
A blotted proof-sheet, wet from Bowling.
-"How can a man his anger hold in?"-
Forgotten rhymes, and college themes,
Worm-eaten plans, and embryo schemes;—

Strong as her judgment, easy as her air;
Correct though free, and regular though fair:
And the same graces o'er her pen preside,
That form her manners and her footsteps guide


In vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains,
She moves our envy who so well complains;
In vain has proud oppression laid her low,
So sweet a garland on her faded brow.
Now, Auburn, now absolve impartial fate,
Which if it made thee wretched, makes thee great
So, unobserved, some humble plant may bloom,
Till crush'd it fills the air with sweet perfume;
So, had thy swains in ease and plenty slept,
Thy poet had not sung, nor Britain wept.
Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay,
Unhonour'd genius, and her swift decay;
O patron of the poor! it cannot be,
While one-one poet yet remains like thee!
Nor can the muse desert our favour'd isle,
Till thou desert the muse and scorn her smile


Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.

O THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.

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