Then, with a blessing granted from above 1829. *There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realized: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her. Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she had within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal. INCIDENT AT BRUGÈS. IN Bruges town is many a street The measure, simple truth to tell, The shadow and the song. When silent were both voice and chords It was a breezy hour of eve; Quivered and seemed almost to heave, Not always is the heart unwise, If even a passing Stranger sighs Such feeling pressed upon my soul, By one soft trickling tear that stole Fresh from the beauty and the bliss THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received alins, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions. I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged Man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, Upon the second step of that small pile, And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; So helpless in appearance, that for him |