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wife ; and she looks up to me, as to proach her for it?- These kind of the boys' master, to whom all show of complaints are not often drawn from fond affection would be, highly im-, me. I am aware that I am a fortuproper, and unbecoming the dignity inate, I mean, a prosperous man of her situation and mine. Yet this My feelings prevent me from tran-gratitude forbids me to hint to her. scribing any farther.- For the comFor my sake she submitted to be munication of this letter I am indebtthis altered creature, and can I re- ed to my cousin Bridget.



No need there is, in hymning thee,

Passionate epithets to borrow;
Thy requiem should rather be

A tender strain of gentle sorrow:
None of the hopeless gloom of woe

Should cloud the poet's mind who sings thee ;-
At least to me, it seems 10t, so,

As Memory now thy image brings, me.
"Tis true-- that death,-e'en death like thine

Is more than slumber's “ brief forgetting:
Even summer's suns, howe'er they shine,

May not be cloudless at their setting.
But, if that setting hour be calm,

Those clouds the more enhance its splendour:
And round thy own is some such charni,

Making it touching, pure, and tender!
Young-guileless-gentlemand beloved

By the small circle who best knew thee;
Fond recollections, unreproved,

When thou art named, still cling unto thee!
No tears may start:--for Hope supplies,

For thee, thoughts unallied to anguish;
But pensive looks, and softest sighs,

Tell how we loved—and for thee languish !
For me, I own, though months had past,

Ere thy departure, since I met thee;
Such spell is round thy memory cast,

I cannot, gentle friend! forget thee.
O no! some hours I spent with thee

Were dear-from various mingled causes;
Moments from worldly turmoil free,-

For thought, and feeling, breathing pauses.
And they were spent-not in the din

Of crowded streets ;---their still lapse found us
Where Nature's charms were sure to win ;--

With fields, and flowers, and sunshine round us.
Hence, when I think of thee, I seem

Incapable of mourning for thee,
Though He-whose will is love supreme-

From earth has chosen to withdraw thee.
I look on thee as one, who, born

In scenes where peace and virtue blossom ;-
Living-didst those retreats adorn,

And now sleep’st calmly in their bosom! B. B.

It is not alone while we live in the light

Of Friendship's kindling glance,
That its beam so true, and so tenderly bright,

Our purest joys can enhance :-
But that ray shines on through a night of tears,
And its light is round us in after years.
Nor is it while yet on the listening ear

The accents of Friendship steal,
That we know the extent of the joy, so dear,

Which its touching tones reveal:-
'Tis in after moments of sorrow and pain,
Their echo surpasses music's strain.
Though years have rollid by, dear Mary! since we

Have look'd on each other's face,
Yet thy memory is fondly cherish'd by me,

For my heart is its dwelling-place;
And, if on this earth we should meet no more,
It must linger there still, until life is o'er.
The traveller who journeys the live-long day

Through some enchanting vale,
Should he, when the mists of evening are grey,

Some neighb'ring mountain scale,-
0! will he not stop, and look back to review
The delightful retreats he has wander'd through?
So I, who have toild up life's steep hill

Some steps,-since we parted last,
Often pensively pause, and look eagerly still

On the few bright spots I have pass'd :-
And some of the brightest, dear Mary! to me,
Were the lovely ones I enjoy'd with thee.
I know not how soon dark clouds


The valley of years gone by;
Or how quickly its happiest haunts may fade

In the mists of an evening sky;
But-'till quench’d is the lustre of life's setting sun,
I shall look back, at times, as I now have done ! -



"T16 not the sun with all his heavenly light,

Nor morning, when its glory first appears,
Nor yet the silent, sparkling orbs of night,-

Nor change of place,-nor Time’s revolving years,
Nor mighty river, -nor the murmuring stream,

Nor flowers that bloom upon its verdant sides,
Nor yet when in it plays the moon's pale beam,

Nor evening's breath that calmly o'er it glides ;-
Nor dew-besprinkled grass, that glistens in the ray

Of morn-but flies the rapid strides of day ;-
Nor tender trees though sweetly blossoming,

Nor birds' soft notes ;-No! nor returning Spring,
Though dress'd in all its charms, can give relief

To the sad heart, where dwells deep-rooted grief.
April, 1820.

M. M.

Lord Mowbray.

Amelia, his daughter.
Persons.. Maurice, Amelia's husband.

William, a Boy of six years old, the son of Maurice

and Amelia.

Scene, the inside of a Cottage.
Amelia at work singing, Maurice enters during her Song.

The red rose is queen of the garden bower

That glows in the sun at noon;
And the lady lily 's the fairest flower

Whose white bells swing in the breeze of June;
But they, who come 'mid frost and food,

Peeping from hedge or root of tree,
The primrose and the violet bud,

They are the dearest flowers to me.
The nightingale's is the sweetest song

That ever the rose has heard ;
And when the lark chaunts yon clouds among

The lily looks up to the heavenly bird ;
But the robin with his eye of jet,

Who pipes from the bare boughs merrily
To the primrose pale and the violet,

He is the dearest bird to me.
Am. Ah, art thou there? I thought I was alone.
Hast thou been long returned ?

Even now.

I'm glad ;
For I would feel thy presence,

-as I used
When I, a conscious girl, if thou didst come
Behind my chair, knew thee without the aid
Of eye or ear.

A wife's love is as strong ;
Her sense should be as quick.

But maiden love
Is mix'd with shame, and doubt, and consciousness,
Which have a thousand eyes, a thousand ears.
Amelia, thou art pale. Nay, if thou smilest
Thou wilt be pale no longer : thy sick smile
Is fitly wedded to a varying blush,
That flutters tremulously in thy fair cheek
Like shivering wings of new caught butterflies.
Ah, there it is!


But thou wast pale,
Stooping so long o'er that embroidery,
That irksome toil. Go forth into the air.

Am Not yet; there still is light enough to work,
I have one flower to finish. Then I'll fly
To the sweet joys of busy idleness,
To our sweet garden; I am wanted there,
So William says; the freshening showers to-day
Have scattered my carnations; I must raise
'Their clear and odorous beauties from the dark
Defiling earth.

Mau. That task is done.

By thee,
After thy hård day's toil ? Oh what a fond

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And foolish lover-husband I have got!
Art thou not weary?

Only just enough
To feel the comfort, sweetest, of repose,
Of such repose as this, here at thy feet
Extended, and my head against thy knee.

Am. Even as that sweet and melancholy prince,
Hamlet the Dane, lay at Ophelia's feet"
His lady-love. Wast thou not thinking so?

Mau. I was.

Am. And I was likening thee to one--
Dost thou remember-'tis the prettiest nioment
Of that most marvellous and truest book-
When her so dear Sir Charles at Harriot's feet
Lay turning up his bright face smilingly ;-
Dost thou remember?

Mau. Banterer! Where is William ?

Am. That is a secret. Do not question me,
Or I shall tell. He will be shortly back.

But they who come 'mid frost and flood,

Peeping from hedge or root of tree,
The primrose and the violet bud,

They are the dearest flowers to me.
Mau. How much thou lov'st that song!

He loves it so,
Our William : If far off within the wood
He do but catch one clear and singing note
Of that wild cheerful strain, he scuds along
With his small pretty feet, like the young brood
Of the hen-partridge to her

Mau. Well, but where is he?


Nay, tell me, love.
Am. To-day at noon, returning from the farm,
Where on some trifling errand I had sent him,
He left the path in chase of that bright insect
The burnished dragon-fly, with net-work wings
So beautiful. His shining guide flew on,
Tracing the channel of the rippling spring
Up to its very source: there William lost him;
But looking round upon that fairy scene
Of tangled wood and bubbling waters clear,
He found a fairy carpet; strawberries
Spread all about, in a rich tapestry
Of leaves and blushing fruit, and he is gone
With his own basket that his father made him,
His own dear father, to bring home his prize
To that dear father,

Prythee, love, say on.
This is a tale which I could listen to
The live-long day.

And will it not be sweet
To see that lovely boy, blushing all over,
His fair brow reddening, and his smiling eyes
Filling with tears, his scarlet lips far ruddier
Than the red berries, stammering and forgetting
The little pretty speech that he has conn'd
But speaking in warm kisses ?. Will it not .


Be sweet to see my precious William give
The very first thing he can call his own
To him who gives him all? - My dearest husband,
Betray' me not ;-pretend an ignorance,
And wonder why that cream and bread stand there,
And why that china bowl. Thy precious boy!

Mau. Thy precious boy! Amelia, that child's heart
Is like thee as his face.

Liker to thee
Are both. Our blessing! What a world of love
Dwells in that little heart !

Too much! too much!
He is too sensitive. I would he had
An airy playmate full of mirth and jests.

Am. Nature's his playmate ; leaves and flowers and birds
And the young innocent lambs are his companions;
He needs no other. In his solitude
He is as happy as the glittering beetle
That lives in the white rose. My precious boy!

Mau. What are these? Tears! My own Amelia, Weep'st thou for happiness? What means this rain That falls without a cloud. Fy! I must chide thee?

Am. Yes, you are right. Useless—not causeless-tears ! They will have way.- Forgive me, dearest husband !

This is our wedding-eve. Seven years ago
I stole, a guilty wanderer, from my home,-
My old paternal home!-and with the gush
Of motherly love another thought rushed in-
My father!

Mau. My Amelia!

Have past since last I saw him ;-and that last!
The pangs of death were in my heart, when I
Approach'd to say good night. He had been harsh
All day, had press'd Lord Vernon's odious love,
Had taunted at thy poverty-my Maurice !
But suddenly, when I all vainly tried
To falter out good night, in his old tone
Of fond familiar love, and with the name
Which from his lips seem'd a caress, he said,
God bless you Emily! That blessing pierced
My very soul. Oft in the dead of night
I seem to hear it. Would he bless me now?
Oh, no! no! no!

My own beloved wife,
Think not too deeply-there will come a time-

Am. Oh Maurice! All the grandeur that she left
The splendid vanities, ne'er cost thy wife
A sigh, contented in her poverty,
Happy in virtuous love. But that kind voice-
That tender blessing that accustomed name
Of fondness !-Oh! they haunt my very dreams :
They crowd upon my waking thoughts; then most
When some sweet kindness of my lovely boy,
Some sign of glorious promise, tells my heart
How little I deserve -

My Emily!
Am. No, not from thee, not even from thee; that name;-
'Tis sacred to those dear and honour'd lips.
Which ne'er will breathe it more.-I am ungrateful
Thus to repine, whilst thou and our dear boy-

Seven years

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