So sweet so hallowed 'tis to feel

The gentle woe that wakes thy sigh,
That e'en in heaven, methinks 'twill steal
Upon the spirit's dream of joy!

But hark! that soothing strain is o'er,
And broken is the lovely spell;
So fades from off our native shore,
The accents of a friend's farewell.

John Malcolm, Esq.

CHARACTER OF WOMAN.

Through many a land and clime a ranger,
With toilsome steps I've held my way,

A lonely unprotected stranger,

To all the stranger's ills a prey.

While steering thus my course precarious,
My fortune still has been to find
Men's hearts and dispositions various,
But gentle woman, ever kind.

Alive to every tender feeling,
To deeds of mercy ever prone;
The wounds of pain and sorrow healing
With soft compassion's sweetest tone.

No proud delay, no dark suspicion,
Stints the free bounty of their heart
They turn not from the sad petition,
But cheerful aid at once impart.

Formed in benevolence of nature,

Obliging, modest, gay, and mild, Woman's the same endearing creature, In courtly town and savage wild.

When parched with thirst, with hunger wasted,
Her friendly hand refreshment gave;
How sweet the coarsest food has tasted,
What cordial in the simple wave!

Her courteous looks, her words caressing,
Shed comfort on the fainting soul:
Woman's the stranger's general blessing,
From sultry India to the Pole!

Barbauld.

ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S
PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
'Grieve not my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour, with an artless song
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own :
And, while that face renews my
filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief;
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the bearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ?-It was-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return; What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By disappointment every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;