Making new efforts, and with some success, To pay attention while the students guess; Who to the gentler mistress fain would glide, And dread their station at the lady's side.

Such is their fate:-there is a friendly few Whom they receive, and there is chance for

you;

Their school, and something gather'd from the wreck

Of that bad Bank, keeps poverty in check; And true respect, and high regard, are theirs, The children's profit,and the parents' prayers. With Lucy rests the one peculiar care, That few must see, and none with her may share ;

More dear than hope can be, more sweet than pleasures are.

For her sad sister needs the care of love
That will direct her, that will not reprove,
But waits to warn: for Jane will walk alone,
Will sing in low and melancholy tone;
Will read or write, or to her plants will run
To shun her friends,-alas! her thoughts to
shun.

It is not love alone disturbs her rest,
But loss of all that ever hope possess'd;
Friends ever kind, life's lively pleasures, case,
When her enjoyments could no longer please;
These were her comforts then! she has no
more of these.

Wrapt in such thoughts, she feels her mind

astray,

But knows 'tis true, that she has lost her way; For Lucy's smile will check the sudden flight, And one kind look let in the wonted light. Fits of long silence she endures, then talks Too much—with too much ardour, as she walks;

And make his equal;—then I fondly thought
Among superior creatures to be brought;
And while with them, delighted to behold
No eye averted, and no bosom cold;—
Then at my home, a mother, to embrace
My--Oh! my sister,it was surely base!
I might forget the wrong; I cannot the
disgrace.
Oh! when I saw that triumph in his eyes,
I felt my spirits with his own arise:
I call'd it joy, and said, the generous youth
Laughs at my loss-no trial for his truth;
It is a trifle he can not lament,

A sum but equal to his annual rent;
And yet that loss, the cause of every ill,
Has made me poor, and him' – ‘O! poorer still;
Poorer, my Jane, and far below thee now:
The injurer he, the injured sufferer thou;
And shall such loss afflict thee?'-Lose I not
With him what fortune could in life allot?
Lose I not hope, life's cordial, and the views
Of an aspiring spirit?-O! I lose
Whate'er the happy feel, whate’er the san-
guine choose.

Would I could lose this bitter sense of wrong,
And sleep in peace-but it will not be long!
And here is something, Lucy, in my brain,
I know not what-it is a care for pain;
But is not death!—no beckoning hand I see,
No voice I hear that comes alone to me;
It is not death, but change; I am not now
As I was once,-nor can I tell you how;
Nor is it madness-ask, and you shall find
In my replies the soundness of my mind:
O! I should be a trouble all day long;
A very torment, if my head were wrong.'

At times there is upon her features seen, What moves suspicion-she is too serene. Such is the motion of a drunken man, Who steps sedately, just to show he can. Absent at times she will her mother call,

But most she thinks there will some good

She feels the failure of the promise now.

ensue

From something done, or what she is to do; Long wrapt in silence, she will then assume An air of business, and shake off her gloom; Then cry exulting, 'O! it must succeed, There are ten thousand readers-all men read: There are my writings, you shall never spend

Your precious moments to so poor an end;

those,

forsake

pose;

So let me call them, - what the world allows,
Surely a poet without shame avows;
Come, let us count what numbers we believe
Will buy our work-Ah! sister, do you
grieve?

amiss,

And how I wander!-Where has fancy run?
Is there no poem? Have I nothing done?
Forgive me, Lucy, I had fix'd my eye,
And so my mind, on works that cannot die;
Marmion and Lara yonder in the case,
And so I put me in the poet's place.
Still, be not frighten'd; it is but a dream ;
I am not lost, bewilder'd though I seem;
I will obey thee-but suppress thy fear-
I am at ease, then why that silly tear?'

Jane, as these melancholy fits invade

The busy fancy, seeks the deepest shade; She walks in ceaseless hurry, till her mind Will short repose in verse and music find; Then her own songs to some soft tunes she sings,

And laughs,and calls them melancholy things; Not frenzy all; in some her erring Muse Will sad, afflicting, tender strains infuse: Sometimes on death she will her lines compose;

Or give her serious page of solemn prose; And still those favourite plants her fancy please,

And give to care and anguish rest and ease.

Let me not have this gloomy view,
About my room, around my bed;
But morning-roses, wet with dew,

To cool my burning brows instead.
As flow'rs that once in Eden grew,
Let them their fragrant spirits shed,
And every day the sweets renew,

Till I, a fading flower, am dead.

Oh! let the herbs I loved to rear

Give to my sense their perfumed breath; Let them be placed about my bier,

And grace the gloomy house of death. I'll have my grave beneath an hill, Where, only Lucy's self shall know Where runs the pure pellucid rill

Upon its gravelly bed below; There violets on the borders blow, And insects their soft light display, Till, as the morning-sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay.

That is the grave to Lucy shown,

The soil a pure and silver sand, The green cold moss above it grown, Unpluck'd of all but maiden hand: In virgin earth, till then unturn'd,

There let my maiden form be laid, Nor let my changed clay be spurn'd, Nor for new guest that bed be made.

There will the lark, the lamb, in sport,
In air,-on earth,-securely play,
And Lucy to my grave resort,
As innocent, but not so gay.

He thought a strong and kindred mind to trace
In the soft outlines of a trifler's face.
Poor Finch! I knew him when at school,-
a boy

Who might be said his labours to enjoy ;
So young a pedant that he always took
And would the butler and the cook surprise,
The girl to dance who most admired her book ;
Who listen'd to his Latin exercise;
The matron's self the praise of Finch avow'd,
He was so serious, and he read so loud?
But yet, with all this folly and conceit.
The lines he wrote were elegant and neat ;

Who can her humble acquisitions state, That he will praise, at least will tolerate. Still the cool mother sundry doubts express'd,

'How! is Augusta graver than the rest? There are three others: they are not inclined To feed with precious food the empty mind: Whence this strong relish?' It is very strong, Replied the son, and has possess'd her long, Increased indeed, I may presume, by views,

Wer e may suppose-ah! may she not refuse? Fear not!-I see the question must be tried, Nay, is determined-let us to your Bride.' They soon were wedded, and the Nymph appear'd

By all her promised excellence endear'd: Her words were kind, were cautious, and were few,

And she was proud of what her husband knew.

Weeks pass'd away, some five or six, before, Bless'd in the present, Finch could think of

more:

A month was next upon a journey spent, When to the Lakes the fond companions went; Then the gay town received them, and, at last,

Home to their mansion, man and wife, they pass'd.

And now in quiet way they came to live On what their fortune, love, and hopes would give:

The honied moon had nought but silver rays,
And shone benignly on their early days;
The second moon a light less vivid shed,
And now the silver rays were tinged with lead.
They now began to look beyond the Hall,
And think what friends would make a morn-
ing-call;

Their former appetites return'd, and now
Both could their wishes and their tastes avow;
"Twas now no longer just what you approve,"
But let the wild fowl be to-day, my love.'
In fact the senses, drawn aside by force
Of a strong passion,sought their usual course.
Now to her music would the wife repair,
To which he listen'd once with eager air;
When there was so much harmony within,
That any note was sure its way to win;
But now the sweet melodious tones were sent
From the struck chords, and none cared where
they went.

Full well we know that many a favourite air,
That charms a party, fails to charm a pair;
And as Augusta play'd she look'd around,
To see if one was dying at the sound:
But all were gone a husband, wrapt in
gloom,

Stalk'd careless, listless, up and down the

room.

And now 'tis time to fill that ductile mind With knowledge, from his stores of various kind:

His mother, in a peevish mood, had ask’d, Does your Augusta profit? is she task'd?

Madam! he cried, offended with her looks, There's time for all things, and not all for books:

Just on one's marriage to sit down, and prate
On points of learning, is a thing I hate.—
'Tis right, my son, and it appears to me
If deep your hatred, you must well agree.
Finch was too angry for a man so wise,
And said: Insinuation I despise!
Nor do I wish to have a mind so full
Of learned trash-it makes a woman dull:
Let it suffice, that I in her discern
An aptitude, and a desire to learn.—
The matron smiled, but she observed a frown
On her son's brow, and calmly sat her down;
Leaving the truth to Time, who solves our
doubt,

By bringing his all-glorious daughter outTruth! for whose beauty all their love profess,

And yet how many think it ugliness!

Augusta, love, said Finch, while you engage
In that embroidery, let me read a page;
Suppose it Hume's; indeed he takes a side,
But still an author need not be our guide;
And as he writes with elegance and ease,
Do now attend-he will be sure to please.
Here at the Revolution we commence,-
We date, you know, our liberties from hence.
Yes, sure, Augusta answer'd with a smile,
Our teacher always talk'd about his style;
When we about the Revolution read,
And how the Martyrs to the flames were led ;
The good old Bishops, I forget their names,
But they were all committed to the flames;
Maidens and widows, bachelors and wives,—
The very babes and sucklings lost their lives.
I read it all in Guthrie at the school,—
What now! I know you took me for a fool;
There were five Bishops taken from the stall,
And twenty widows, I remember all;
And by this token, that our teacher tried
To cry for pity, till she howl'd and cried.
True, true, my love, but you mistake the
thing,-

The Revolution that made William king
Is what I mean; the Reformation you,
In Edward and Elizabeth.'-"Tis true:
But the nice reading is the love between
The brave lord Essex and the cruel queen;
And how he sent the ring to save his head,
Which the false lady kept till he was dead.
That is all true: now read, and I'll attend:
But was not she a most deceitful friend?
It was a monstrous, vile, and treacherous
thing,

To show no pity, and to keep the ring;
But the queen shook her in her dying bed,
And God forgive you!' was the word she
said;

Not I for certain!-Come, I will attend,
So read the Revolutions to an end.
Finch, with a timid, strange, inquiring look,
Softly and slowly laid aside the book