Or she who trembling, yet confiding, stole
Near to the garment, touch'd it, and was whole;
When, such th' intenseness of the working thought,
On her it seem'd the very deed was wrought;
She the glad patient's fear and rapture found,
The holy transport, and the healing wound;
This was so fix'd, so grafted in the heart,
That she adopted, nay became the part :
But one chief scene was present to her sight,
Her Saviour resting in the tomb by night;
Her fever rose, and still her wedded mind
Was to that scene, that hallow'd cave, confin'd-
Where in the shade of death the body laid,
There watch'd the spirit of the wandering maid;
Her looks were fix'd, entranced, illumed, serene,
In the still glory of the midnight scene:
There at her Saviour's feet, in visions blest,
Th' enraptured maid a sacred joy possess'd;
In patience waiting for the first-born ray
Of that all-glorious and triumphant day:
To this idea all her soul she gave,

Her mind reposing by the sacred grave;
Then sleep would seal the eye, the vision close,
And steep the solemn thoughts in brief repose.

Then grew the soul serene, and all its powers
Again restored, illumed the dying hours;
But reason dwelt where fancy stray'd before,
And the mind wander'd from its views no more;
Till death approach'd, when every look ex-
press'd

A sense of bliss, till every sense had rest.

The Mother lives, and has enough to buy
Th' attentive ear and the submissive eye
Of abject natures-these are daily told,
How triumph'd beauty in the days of old;
How, by her window seated, crowds have cast
Admiring glances, wondering as they pass'd;
How from her carriage as she stepp'd to pray,
Divided ranks would humbly make her way;
And how each voice in the astonish'd throng
Pronounced her peerless as she moved along.

Her picture then the greedy Dame displays; Touch'd by no shame, she now demands its praise; In her tall mirror then she shows a face,

Still coldly fair with unaffecting grace; These she compares, "But wants the air, the spirit, and the eyes; "This, as a likeness, is correct and true, "But there alone the living grace we view." This said, th' applauding voice the Dame required, And, gazing, slowly from the glass retired.

"It has the form," she cries,

THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS *

THE Brothers met, who many a year had past
Since their last meeting, and that seem'd their last;
They had no parent then or common friend

Who might their hearts to mutual kindness bend:
Who, touching both in their divided state,
Might generous thoughts and warm desires create ;
For there are minds whom we must first excite
And urge to feeling, ere they can unite:

As we may

hard and stubborn metals beat

And blend together, if we duly heat.

The elder, George, had past his threescore years, A busy actor, sway'd by hopes and fears Of powerful kind: and he had fill'd the parts That try our strength and agitate our hearts. He married not, and yet he well approved The social state; but then he rashly loved; Gave to a strong delusion all his youth, Led by a vision till alarm'd by truth : That vision past, and of that truth possess'd, His passions wearied and disposed to rest,

George yet had will and power a place to choose, Where Hope might sleep, and terminate her views.

* NOTE C.-The Meeting of the Brothers.

He chose his native village, and the hill

He climb'd a boy had its attraction still;

With that small brook beneath, where he would stand And stooping fill the hollow of his hand

To quench th' impatient thirst—then stop awhile
To see the sun upon the waters smile,

In that sweet weariness, when, long denied,
We drink and view the fountain that supplied
The sparkling bliss-and feel, if not express,
Our perfect ease in that sweet weariness.

The oaks yet flourish'd in that fertile ground, Where still the church with lofty tower was found And still that Hall, a first, a favourite view, But not the elms that form'd its avenue; They fell ere George arrived, or yet had stood, For he in reverence held the living wood, That widely spreads in earth the deepening root, And lifts to heaven the still aspiring shoot; From age to age they fill'd a growing space, But hid the mansion they were meant to grace.

It was an ancient, venerable Hall, And once surrounded by a moat and wall; A part was added by a squire of taste, Who, while unvalued acres ran to waste, Made spacious rooms, whence he could look about, And mark improvements as they rose without: He fill'd the moat, he took the wall away, He thinn'd the park, and bade the view be gay: The scene was rich, but he who should behold Its worth was poor, and so the whole was sold.

Just then the Merchant from his desk retired,
And made the purchase that his heart desired;
The Hall of Binning, his delight a boy,

That gave his fancy in her flight employ ;
Here, from his father's modest home, he gazed,
Its grandeur charm'd him, and its height amazed:
But never in his fancy's proudest dream
Did he the master of that mansion seem:
Young was he then, and little did he know
What years on care and diligence bestow;
Now young no more, retired to views well known,
He finds that object of his awe his own:
The Hall at Binning!-how he loves the gloom
That sun-excluding window gives the room;

Those broad brown stairs on which he loves to tread;
Those beams within; without, that length of lead,
On which the names of wanton boys appear,
Who died old men, and left memorials here,
Carvings of feet and hands and knots and flowers,
The fruits of busy minds in idle hours!

Here day by day, withdrawn from busy life,
No child t' awake him, to engage no wife,
When friends were absent, not to books inclined,
He found a sadness steal upon his mind;
Sighing, the works of former lords to see,

"I follow them," he cried, "but who will follow me?"

George loved to think; but as he late began To muse on all the grander thoughts of man, He took a solemn and a serious view

Of his religion, and he found it true;