with great power
and in harmonious language; its descriptions are characterized by deep
feeling and truth, and its warnings are conveyed with an earnestness
which is the best evidence of the sincerity of the author.

The unfair construction applied to her motives in writing this poem
probably prevented Mrs. Barbauld from appearing again as an author.
Her efforts were confined to the humble task of administering to the
gratification of a circle of private friends. Although arrived at
years which are assigned as the natural limit of human life, her fancy
was still bright, and she continued to give evidence by occasional
compositions of the unimpaired energy of her mind. Her spirits were
greatly tried, during the latter years of her life, by the loss of her
brother, who died in 1822, and of several cherished companions of her
early days, who quickly followed. Her constitution, naturally
excellent, slowly gave way under an asthmatic complaint, and on the
9th of March, 1825, after only a few days of serious illness, she
died, in the eighty-second year of her age.

In domestic and social life, Mrs. Barbauld was characterized by strong
sense, deep feeling, high moral principle, and a rational but ardent
piety. She passed through a lengthened term of years, free from the
annoyance of personal enmities, and rich in the esteem and affection
of all with whom she was connected. The cause of rational education is
more indebted to her than to any individual of modern times, inasmuch
as she was the leader in that reformation which has resulted in
substituting the use of truth and reason for folly and fiction, in
books for the nursery. She has also shown that a talent for writing
for youth is not incompatible with powers of the highest order. Her
epistle to Mr. Wilberforce is full of lofty sentiment, and, at the
same time, is most felicitously executed. We give a specimen of her
writing in a lighter vein, which has been justly celebrated for its
truth and humor.

"WASHING-DAY.

"The muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear, high-sounding phrase,--
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic muse,
In slip-shod measure, loosely prattling on
Of farm, or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoes lost in the mire,
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, muse, and sing the dreaded washing-day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend
With bowed soul, full we