While a sister that mainly conducted the part

Of clothing it first in a shroud,

Poured out of the depths of her sorrowful heart

The tears that await an ostensible smart,

In sobbings continued and loud.

The solemnity o'er, to the parlour she stole,

And silently closing the door,

A Mouse unexpectedly quitted his hole,

And seeking security under the sole

Of her foot was found dead on the floor.

And the sun that illumined that perilous day,
Yet languidly shone on the house,

When each of the children consented to lay
With the first little speck of inanimate clay

The delicate form of the Mouse.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN THE CHARACTER OF ONE OF MY

TWIN DAUGHTERS.

I LONG to leave the smoky town,
And loiter where my father goes

To muse awhile, and shun the frown
That steals upon his calm repose.

For in his garden do I find

So many things to please the sight,

That often have I truly pined

To linger in its shade till night.

The pretty level walks are wide,

And all throughout the year

is seen

A row of box on either side,

As straight as it is neat and clean.

And Violets in the Spring abound

So freely, that with ease I could

Collect as many as are found

To grow beside the neighbouring wood.

The Snowdrop and the Crocus too

Spring up as though the land were strewn

With jewels of some precious hue,

From which the rival tints had grown.

And when the early flowers are gone,

The Lily of the Valley greets

The fond desire of every one

That covets her secluded sweets.

Coeval with her modest reign,

The little joyous Daphne glows

With fragrance, that we all maintain

Exceeds the more exalted rose.

But Lilies of unbounded grace

And loveliness perfume the air,

In which the youthful heart might trace Some likeness to his gifted fair.

The Honeysuckle clasps the arms

Extended to sustain the flower,

And through the fervid Summer charms The senses at the evening hour.

The Roses flourish on each bush

As daisies deck the cheerful lawn,

And in the month of June we rush

To crop them every night and morn.

But oh! I cannot tell the rich

And varied sweetness of that spot,

So many are the beauties which

Would seem to say "forget me not.”

As Cedars and the rarest Yews,

Present a feast that hourly weans
My soul from less delightful views.

For all the birds of tuneful song

Within this lovely garden meet,

And gayly warbling all day long,

They make my happiness complete.