IO A CHILD.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

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?

For thou in every wight that passes,
Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning,
As fringéd eyelids rise and fall,

Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,—
"Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far afield 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 horn-book 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 EMIGRAVI.

FAST by the margin of a mossy rill,

That wander'd, gurgling, down a heath-clad hill,
An ancient shepherd stood, oppress'd with woe,
And ey'd the ocean's flood that foam'd below;
Where, gently rocking on the rising tide,
A ship's unwonted form was seen to ride.
Unwonted, well I ween, for ne'er before
Had touch'd one keel the solitary shore;
Nor had the swain's rude footsteps ever stray'd,
Beyond the shelter of his native shade.

His few remaining hairs were silver gray,
And his rough face had seen a better day.
Around him, bleating, stray'd a scanty flock;
And a few goats o'erhung a neighb'ring rock.
One faithful dog his sorrows seem'd to share,
And strove, with many a trick, to ease his care.
While o'er his furrow'd cheek, the salt drops ran,
He tun'd his rustic reed, and thus began.-

Farewell! farewell! dear Caledonia's strand; Rough though they be, yet still my native land:

Exil'd from thee, I seek a foreign shore,
Friends, kindred, country, to behold no more.
By hard oppression driv'n, my helpless age,
That should, e'er now, have left life's bustling stage,
Is forc'd the ocean's boist'rous breast to brave,
In a far distant land to seek a grave.

"Thou dear companion of my happier life, Now to the grave gone down, my virtuous wife! 'Twas here you rear'd, with fond maternal pride, Five comely sons: three for their country died! Two yet remain, sad remnant of the wars, Without one mark of honor-but their scars, Contented still we rear'd with sturdy hands, The scanty produce of our niggard lands; Scant as it was, no more our heart's desir'd ; No more from us, our gen'rous lord requir'd.

"But ah, sad change! those blessed days are o'er, And peace, content, and safety, charm no more : Another Lord now rules these wide domains, The avaricious tyrant of the plains.

Far, far from hence, he revels life away,

In guilty pleasure, our poor means must pay.
The mossy plains, the mountain's barren brow,
Must now be tortured with the tearing plough,
And, spite of nature, crops be taught to rise,
Which, to these northern climes, wise Heav'n denies.

"On you, dear native land! from whence I part, Rest the best blessing-of a broken heart.

If, in some future hour, the foe shall land
His hostile legions on Britannia's strand,
May she not, then, th' alarum sound in vain,
Nor miss her banish'd thousands on the plain.

"Feed on, my sheep: for though depriv'd of me, My cruel foes shall your protectors be; For their own sakes, shall pen your straggling flocks, And save your lambkins from the rav'nous fox.

"Feed on, my goats! another now shall drain Your streams, that heal disease, and soften pain. No stream, alas! shall ever, ever flow,

To heal thy master's heart, or soothe his woe.

"But, hark! my sons loud call me from the vale ; And, lo! the vessel spreads her swelling sailFarewell! farewell!"-Awhile his bands he wrung, And, o'er his crook, in silent sorrow hung: Then, casting many a ling'ring look behind, Down the steep mountain's brow began to wind.