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fine arts, which his house in London exhibits; and among all the masters of the lyre in foreign realms, there is none of whom I now think with such deep regret, that I shall see their faces no more on earth. Miss Baillie is well known to be a native of Scotland, and sister to the late celebrated physician of that name, whose monument is in Westminster Abbey. Whether it was the frankness of her nation, touching the chords of sympathy, I know not, but it was painful to bid her farewell. The sublimity of her poetry is felt on both sides of the Atlantic; yet there is no sweeter emanation of her genius than a recent birthday tribute to the sister of whom we have spoken, the loved companion of her days. Surely the readers of these pages, however familiar they may be with that effusion, will thank me for a fragment of it.
"So here thou art, still in thy comely age
Active and ardent. Let what will engage
The present moment, whether hopeful seeds
In garden-plat thou sow, or noxious weeds
From the fair flower remove, or ancient lore
In chronicle, or legend rare, explore,
Or on the parlor-hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides, or take thy way
To gain with hasty step some cottage door,
On helpful errand to the neighboring poor,
Active and ardent,—to my fancy's eye
Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by.