O guide me to the humble cell,
Where Resignation loves to dwell,
Contentment's bower in view!

Nor pining grief with absence drear,
Nor sick suspense, nor anxious fear,
Shall there my steps pursue.

There, let my soul to Him aspire,
Whom none e'er sought with vain desire
Nor lov'd in sad despair;
There, to his gracious will divine,

My dearest, fondest hope resign,

And all my tenderest care.

Then peace shall heal this wounded breast,

That pants to see another blest,

From selfish passion pure;

Peace, which when human wishes rise,

Intense, for aught beneath the skies,

Can never be secure.

GEORGIANA, DUTCHESS OF

DEVONSHIRE,

Born 1757, died 1806,

Was the daughter of John, Earl of Spencer. This beautiful woman, who shone a brilliant star in the fashionable world, cultivated, and liberally patronized, literature and the arts. Gibbon says, "she was made for something better than a dutchess." The following poem has been translated into French by the Abbé De Lille.

The Passage of the Mountain of St. Gothard:

TO MY CHILDREN.

1.

YE plains, where threefold harvests press the ground,

Ye climes, where genial gales incessant swell, Where Art and Nature shed profusely round

Their rival wonders-Italy, farewell!

2.

Still may thy year in fullest splendour shine!
Its icy darts in vain may Winter throw!
To thee, a parent, sister, I consign,

And wing'd with health, I woo thy gales to

blow.

3.

Yet pleas'd Helvetia's rugged brows I see,
And thro' their craggy steeps delighted roam :
Pleas'd with a people, honest, brave, and free,
Whilst every step conducts me nearer home.

4.

I wander where Tesino madly flows,..
From cliff to cliff in foaming eddies tost;
On the rude mountain's barren breast he rose,
In Po's broad wave now hurries to be lost.

5.

His shores neat huts and verdant pastures fill, And hills, where woods of pine the storm defy;

While, scorning vegetation, higher still,

Rise the bare rocks, coeval with the sky.

6.

Upon his banks a favour'd spot I found,
Where shade and beauty tempted to repose;
Within a grove, by mountains circled round,
By rocks o'erhung, my rustic seat I chose,

Advancing thence, by gentle pace and slow,
Unconscious of the way my footsteps prest,
Sudden, supported by the hills below,

St. Gothard's summits rose above the rest.

8.

Midst towering cliffs, and tracts of endless cold,
Th' industrious path pervades the rugged stone,
And seems -Helvetia! let thy toils be told
A granite girdle o'er the mountain thrown.

9.

No haunt of man the weary traveller greets,

No vegetation smiles upon the moor,

Save where the floweret breathes uncultur'd sweets,

Save where the patient monk receives the poor.

10.

Yet let not these rude paths be coldly trac'd,
Let not these wilds with listless steps be trod,
Here fragrance scorns not to perfume the waste,'
Here charity uplifts the mind to God.

11.

His humble board the holy man prepares,
And simple food and wholesome lore bestows,
Extols the treasures that his mountain bears,
And paints the perils of impending snows.

12.

For whilst bleak Winter numbs with chilling hand

Where frequent crosses mark the traveller's fateIn slow procession moves the merchant band, And silent treads where tottering ruins wait.

13.

Yet midst those ridges, midst that drifted snow, Can Nature deign her wonders to display;

Here Adularia shines with vivid glow,

And gems of crystal sparkle to the day.