I see thy grateful babes caress thee;
I mark thy wise maternal care;
And sadly do the words impress me,

The heartless words, that thou art fair:
I wonder that a tongue is found
To utter the unfeeling sound.

For art not thou above such praises?
And is this all that they can see?
Poor is the joy such flattery raises,
And oh how much unworthy thee!
Unworthy one whose heart can feel
The voice of truth, the warmth of zeal.

O Lucy! thou art snatch'd from folly,
Become too tender to be vain :
The world-it makes me melancholy-
The world would lure thee back again ;
And it would cost me many sighs
To see it win so bright a prize.

Tho' passing apprehensions move me,
I know thou hast a noble heart:
But, Lucy, I so truly love thee,

So much admire thee as thou art,
That but the shadow of a fear

Wakes in my breast a pang sincere.

MATILDA BETHAM.

THE Rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd;

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it-it fell to the ground.

"And such," I exclaim'd," is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind;

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resign'd.

"This elegant Rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address May be follow'd, perhaps, by a smile."

THE MANSION OF REST.

I TALK'd to my fluttering heart,
And chided its wandering ways;
I told it from folly to part,

And husband the best of its days:
I bade it no more to admire

The meteors that fancy had drest, I whisper'd, 't was time to retire, And seek for a Mansion of Rest.

A charmer was list'ning the while, Who caught up the tone of my lay; "Oh! come then," she cried with a smile, "And Friendship shall point out your way." I follow'd the witch to her home,

And vow'd to be always her guest;

," I exclaim'd, "will I roam

Never more,"

In quest of a Mansion of Rest."

But the sweetest of moments will fly,

Not long was my fancy beguiled;

And shortly I own'd, with a sigh,

That Friendship could stab while she smiled:

Yes

Yes-coldly could stab the repose

Of the trusting and innocent breast, And every fair avenue close

That led to a Mansion of Rest.

Love next urged my footsteps to stray
Thro' the wildering paths of Romance;
But I started and turn'd me away

From his bright and enamouring glance;
For reflection had taught me to know,
That the soul by his sorc'ry possest
Might toss on the billows of woe,
But ne'er find a Mansion of Rest.

Still in search of the phantom call'd Joy,
Stern Reason I met on my way;

I shrank from the beam of her eye,
Yet its lustre illumined my day :
"Behold," she exclaim'd, "yonder grave
With the flowers of the woodland bedrest,

Where darkly the cypresses wave:

Lo! that is the Mansion of Rest."

THE gloomy night is gathering fast,

Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain :
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure;
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early winter's ravage torn ;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave;
I think upon the stormy wave
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Tho' death in every shape appear,

The wretched have no more to fear :

But