Some spirit Lucy gain'd; a steady soul,
Defying all persuasion, all control :

In vain reproach, derision, threats were tried ;
The constant mind all outward force defied,

By vengeance vainly urged, in vain assail'd by pride;
Fix'd in her purpose, perfect in her part,
She felt the courage of a wounded heart;
The world receded from her rising view,

When heaven approach'd as earthly things withdrew;...
Surprised, the mother saw the languid frame,
And felt indignant, yet forbore to blame :
Once with a frown she cried, "And do you mean
To die of love-the folly of fifteen ?"

But as her anger met with no reply,

She let the gentle girl in quiet die;

And to her sister wrote, impell'd by pain,
"Come quickly, Martha, or you come in vain.”
Lucy meantime profess'd with joy sincere,
That nothing held, employ'd, engaged her here.
"I am an humble actor, doom'd to play
A part obscure, and then to glide away:
Incurious how the great or happy shine,
Or who have parts obscure and sad as mine;
In its best prospect I but wish'd, for life,
To be th' assiduous, gentle, useful wife;
That lost, with wearied mind, and spirit poor,
I drop my efforts, and can act no more;
With growing joy I feel my spirits tend
To that last scene where all my duties end."
Hope, ease, delight, the thoughts of dying gave,
Till Lucy spoke with fondness of the grave;
She smiled with wasted form, but spirit firm,
And said, "She left but little for the worm :

As toll'd the bell "There's one," she said, hath press'd "Awhile before me to the bed of rest :"

And she beside her with attention spread
The decorations of the maiden dead.

While quickly thus the mortal part declin'd,
The happiest visions fill'd the active mind;
A soft, religious melancholy gain'd
Entire possession, and for ever reign'd:
On Holy Writ her mind reposing dwelt,
She saw the wonders, she the mercies felt;
Till in a blest and glorious reverie,

She seem'd the Saviour as on earth to see,
And filled with love divine, th' attending friend to be;
Or she who trembling, yet confiding, stole
Near to the garment, touch'd it, and was whole;
When, such th' intenseness of the working thought,
On her it seem'd the very deed was wrought;
She the glad patient's fear and rapture found,
The holy transport, and the healing wound;
This was so fix'd, so grafted in the heart,
That she adopted, nay, became the part:
But one chief scene was present to her sight,
Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night;
Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind
Was to that scene, that hallow'd cave, confin'd—
Where in the shade of death the body laid,
There watch'd the spirit of the wandering maid;
Her looks were fix'd, entranced, illumed, serene,
In the still glory of the midnight scene:
There at her Saviour's feet in visions blest,
Th' enraptured maid a sacred joy possess'd;
In patience waiting for the first-born ray
Of that all-glorious and triumphant day:

To this idea all her soul she gave,

Her mind reposing by the sacred grave;

Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close,
And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose.

Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers
Again restored, illumed the dying hours;
But reason dwelt where fancy stray'd before,
And the mind wander'd from its views no more:
Till death approach'd, when every look express'd
A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest.

The Mother lives, and has enough to buy
The attentive ear and the submissive eye
Of abject natures,-these are daily told,
How triumph'd beauty in the days of old;
How, by her window seated, crowds have cast
Admiring glances, wondering as they pass'd;
How from her carriage as she stepp'd to pray,
Divided ranks would humbly make her way;
And how each voice in the astonish'd throng
Pronounced her peerless as she moved along.

Her picture then the greedy Dame displays;
Touch'd by no shame, she now demands its praise;
In her tall mirror then she shows a face,
Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace;

These she compares: "It has the form," she cries,
"But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes;
This, as a likeness, is correct and true,
But there alone the living grace we view."
This said, th' applauding voice the Dame required,
And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired.

A gentleman who is engaged to be married to a lady of his own station in life, is, while on a visit to "The Hall," foolish enough to indulge in a meaningless flirtation with the adopted daughter of his host's steward, who, with his wife, having succeeded in effecting the entanglement, now offer their victim their kindly encouragement.

7ITHIN the park, beside the bounding brook,

WITH

The social pair their usual ramble took;
And there the steward found them: they could trace
News in his look and gladness in his face. . . .

The trembling Fanny, as he came in view,
Within the chestnut grove in fear withdrew;
While Henry wonder'd, not without a fear,

Of that which brought th' important man so near:
Doubt was dispersed by-"My esteem'd young man!"
As he with condescending grace began―

"Though you with youthful frankness nobly trust
Your Fanny's friends, and doubtless think them just;
Though you have not, with craving soul, applied
To us, and asked the fortune of your bride,
Be it our care that you shall not lament
That love has made you so improvident.

An orphan maid-Your patience! you shall have
Your time to speak; I now attention crave,—
Fanny, dear girl, has in my spouse and me
Friends of a kind we wish our friends to be,
None of the poorest-nay, sir, no reply,
You shall not need-and we are born to die;

"Sir," said the Youth, his terrors all awake, "Hear me, I pray, I beg,-for mercy's sake! Sir, were the secrets of my soul confess'd, Would you admit the truths that I protest Are such-your pardon

"Pardon ! good, my friend,

I not alone will pardon, I commend :

Think you that I have no remembrance left
Of youthful love, and Cupid's cunning theft?

How nymphs will listen when their swains persuade,
How hearts are gain'd and how exchange is made?
Come, sir, your hand————”

"In mercy, hear me now!"

"I cannot hear you, time will not allow :
You know my station, what on me depends,
For ever needed-but we part as friends;

And here comes one who will the whole explain,
My better self-and we shall meet again."

"Then be entreaty made

To her, a woman, one you may persuade;
A little teasing, but she will comply,
And loves her niece too fondly to deny."

"Oh! he is mad, and miserable I!"
Exclaimed the Youth; "but let me now collect
My scatter'd thoughts, I something must effect."
Hurrying she came "Now what has he confess'd
Ere I could come to set your heart at rest?
What! he has grieved you! Yet he, too, approves
The thing! but man will tease you, if he loves.
But now for business: tell me, did you think
That we should always at your meetings wink?
Think you, you walk'd unseen? There are who bring