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good bumour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her'; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort! . * Admirable girl ! exclaimed I. You call yourself poor, my friend you never were so rich-you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman.
Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could lben be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience: she has been introduced into a humble dwelling-she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments—she bas for the first time, known the fatigaes of domestic employment-she has for the first time, looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant,-almost of every tbing convepient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty.'
There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence.
After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine over-run one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door and on the grass plat in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music-Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in the style of a most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond.
I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His steps made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished a light footstep was heard
and Mary came tripping forth to meet us: she was in a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild Aowers weretwisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole counteuance beamed her smiles--I had never seen her look so lovely. .
My dear George,' cried she 'I am so glad you are come, I have been watching and watching for you; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I have set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawber. ries, for I know you are fond of them, and we have sucb excellent cream-and every thing is so sweet and still here -Oh!' said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, 'Oh, we shall be so happy!
Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to bis bosom --he folded his arms round her-he kissed her again and again-he could not speak, but tbe tears gushed into bis eyes; and he has often assured me that though the world has since gone prosperously with bim, and bis life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a moment of such utterable felicity.
O FRESH is the breeze of my mountains,
When Morn lifts her bright dewy eye;
When the fervours of noontide are high;
Adown the dim valley glides softly along,
To watch the first notes of the nightingale's song..
Over ocean her silvery light,
Comes soft through the silence of night.
A-dreaming to Fancy's wild witchery given,
The harp of the winds-with the music of Heaven.
Which Solitude ne'er can supply!
For looks that to mine might reply:
To worship wild Nature by mountain and grove-
To lighten the home that is hallowed by love!
A CAPTIVE LARK.
The lambs are sporting on the brae,
Rejoicing o'er the infant May. Why does this quivering throat refuse
To swell the song? methinks you sayAlas my breast in heavenly dew's
Hatb not been steep'd for many a day. No zephyr in the rustling grass
My home with gentle whisper cheers, But comfortless, as winter, pass , The captive's hours—the captive's years. My wing is like a withered Jeaf,
That drops in autumn's early frost,
And all the soul of song is lost.
Who fills with music every vein,
. ADDRESS TO SPRING. FROM bowers of amaranthine bloom,
O lovely, lovely Spring, draw near, And hence dismiss chill Winter's gloom,
And wake with smiles the new born year. With light green leaves and opening flowers,
Once more perfume, and dress the grove, And shed thy fostering dews and showers,
Fair Sylvan “Queen of rural love.' To yon dark cell as Winter feets
While Flora spreads her mantle gay, Collect those rich luxuriant sweets,
Which bind the rosy brows of May! Whilst I with nymphs, and " village hinds."
In lively dance, and frolic play,
To thee fair Spring our homage pay.
THE BARD'S SONG.
TO HIS DAUGHTER.
Prop of my mortal pilgrimage,
And wreathed with Spring my wintry age, Through thee a second prospeci opes
Of life, when but to live is glee, And jocund joys, and youthful hopes,
Come thonging to my heart through thee, Backward thou lead'st me to the bowers
When love and youth their transports gave; While forward still thou strewest flowers,
And bids me live beyond the grave; For still my blood in ihee shall Aow,
Perhaps to warm a distant line, Thy face, my lineaments shall show,
And e'en my thoughts survive in thine. Yes, Daughter, when this tongue is mute,
This heart is dust-these eyes are closed, And thou art singing to thy lute
Some stanza by the Sire composed, To friends around thou may'st'impart
A thought of him who wrote the lays, And from the grave my form shall start,
Embodied forth to fancy's gaze. Then to their memories will tbrong
Scenes shared with him who lies in earth, The cheerful page, the lively song,
The woodland walk, or festive mirth; Then may they heave the pensive sigh,
That friendship seeks not to control, And from the fix'd and thoughtful eye
The half unconscious tears may roll :Such now bedew my cheek-but mine
Are drops of gratitude and love, That mingle human with divine,
The gift below, its source above-
Can only be by tears exprest,
While thus I clasp thee to my breast.
SION HOUSE. DELIGHTFULLY situated on the banks of
the Thames, opposite Richmond Gardens, is this seat of the duke of Northumberland! It is called Sion, from a nunnery of Bridge. tines, of the same name, originally founded at Twickenham, by Henry V.
The most beautiful scenery imaginable is formed before two of the principal fronts;
I for even the Thames itself seems to belong to the gardens, which are separated into two parts by a pew serpentine river, which communicates with the Thames. Two bridges form a communication between the two gardens, and there is a stately Doric column, on the top of which is a finely proportioned, statue of Flora. The greenhouse has a Gothic front, in so light a style, as to be greatly admired. The back and end walls of it are the only remains of the old monastery. These beautiful gardens are stored with a great many curious exotics, and were principally laid out by Brown.
The entrance to the mansion, from the great road, is through a beautiful gateway, adorned on each side with an open colonnade. The visitor ascends the house by a Aight of steps which leads into The Great Hall, a noble oblong room, sixty-six feet by twenty.one, and thirtyfour in height. It is paved with white and black marble, and is ornamented with antique marble colossal statues, NO. XXVII.