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"The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
He holds him with his skinny hand,
He holds him with his glittering eye;
The wedding-guest sat on a stone:
And thus spake on that ancient man,
"The ship was cheer'd, the harbor clear'd, Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
"The sun came up upon the left.
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.
The wedding-guest here beat his breast,
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Nodding their heads before her goes
The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
"And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong;
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
"With sloping masts and dipping prow,
The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,
"Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!
"All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon.
"Day after day, day after day,
We struck, nor breath nor motion;
"Water, water, everywhere,
"The very deep did rot: O Christ!
"About, about, in reel and rout,
"And some in dreams assured were
"And every tongue, through utter drought, Was wither'd at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
"Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
"There pass'd a weary time. Each throat Was parch'd, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
"At first it seem'd a little speck,
It moved and moved, and took at last
"A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near'd and near'd:
It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd.
"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,
"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.
"See! see! (I cried,) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
"The western wave was all a-flame,
When that strange shape drove suddenly
"And straight the sun was fleck'd with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon grate he peer'd With broad and burning face.
"Alas! thought I, (and my heart beat loud,) How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Like restless gossameres?
"Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that woman all her crew?
Is death that woman's mate?
"Her lips were red, her looks were free,
"The naked hulk alongside came,
The game is done! I've won, I've won !' Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
"The sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
fair reputation of well-exercised intellect, she is at home in the bosom of home, and lets no restless desire for mere fame dis
HE powerful dramatic writer, the graceful and witty lyrist, and the sweet and gentle woman, who for so many years, in her quiet retreat at Hampstead, let the world flow past her as if she had nothing to do with it, nor cared to be mentioned by it, was born in one of the most lovely and historical districts of Scotland. She was born in a Scottish manse, in the upper dale of the Clyde, which has, for its mild character and lavish production of fruit, been termed "Fruitland." As you pass along the streets of Scotch towns, you see on fruit-stalls in the summer, piles of plums, pears, and other fruits, labeled " Clydesdale Fruit." One of the finest specimens of the fruit of this luxuriant and genial dale, is Joanna Baillie, a name never pronounced but with the veneration due to the truest genius, and the affection which is the birthright of the truest specimens of womanhood. The sister of the late amiable and excellent Dr. Baillie, the friend of Walter Scott, the woman whose masculine muse every great poet has for nearly half a century delighted to honor, Joanna Baillie, wrote because she could not help pouring out the fullness of her heart and mind, and the natural consequence was fame; otherwise, whoever sees that quiet, amiable, and unassuming lady, easy and cheerful as when she played beneath the fruit-laden boughs of her native garden, sees that, though not scorning the
turb the pure happiness of a serene life, and the honor and love of those nearest and dearest to her. Had the lambent flame of genius not burned in the breast of Joanna Baillie, that of a pure piety and a spirit made to estimate the blessings of life, and to enjoy all the other blessings of peace and social good which it brings, would have still burned brightly in her bosom, and made her just as happy, though not as great.
The birthplace of Joanna Baillie is the pretty manse of Bothwell, in the immediate neighborhood of Bothwell Brig; and, therefore, as will at once be seen, in the center of ground where stirring deeds have been done, and where the author of Waverley has added the vivid coloring of romance to those deeds. Bothwell manse, from its elevated site, looks directly down upon the scene of the battle at Bothwell Brig; upon the park of Hamilton, where the Covenanters were encamped; and upon Bothwellhaugh, the seat of Hamilton, who shot the regent Murray. This is no mean spot in a historical point of view, and it is richly endowed by nature. Near it also, a little further down the river, stands Bothwell Castle, on Bothwell bank, on which the charm of poetry has been conferred with an almost needless prodigality, for it is so delightful in its own natural beauty.
The country, as you proceed to Bothwell from Glasgow, from which it is distant about ten miles, though from the first rich and well cultivated, is not so agreeable, from the quantity of coal that is found along the roads into Glasgow, and which seems to have given a blackness to everything. As you advance, however, it grows continually more elevated, open, airy, and pleasant. About a mile before you reach Bothwell, the tall, square church steeple of which, seen far before you, serves you for a guide, a pair of lodge gates on your right hand marks the entrance to the grounds of Bothwell Castle. By writing your name and address in a book kept by the gate-keeper, you are admitted, and can then pursue your way alone to the castle, and make your own survey without the nuisance of a guide. The castle lies about half a mile from the high-road. You first arrive at very beautifully kept pleasure grounds, in which stands a good