The breeze is still, the sea is calm,
And the whole scene combines to charm;
The flowers revive, this charming May,
Because it is thy natal day.

The sky is blue, the day serene, And only pleasure now is seen; The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, Combine to bless thy natal day.

The infant muse, Jehovah ! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good ! oh, teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties

spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,
Who saidst to Chaos, “let the earth arise."
O Author of the rich luxuriant year !
Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear :
Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep,
And e'en hast limited the mighty deep.
Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways,
And wake the voice of animated praise !
Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note;
To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float.
'Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing
Thee, God of mercy,-heaven's immortal King'
Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire-
Oh ! fill my heart with elevated fire :
With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend,
The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend.

A PRAYER

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF XINE.

1

O GOD! my Father and my Friend,
Ever thy blessings to me send ;
Let me have Virtue for my guide,
And Wisdom always at my side.
Thus cheerfully through life I'll go,
Nor ever feel the sting of woe;

Yes! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, And “fill my beating heart with sacred fire !” And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given, Raise me to join Eliza, 1 blest in Heaven.

lished, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her return home was thus expressed in rhyme.—Mem. p. 8, 9.]

SHAKSPEARE.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.

[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old; and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance she had passed in a secret haunt of her own-a seat amongst the branches of an old apple-tree — where, revelling in the treasures of the cherished volume, she would become completely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be adduced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm. — Memoir of Jrs lemans by her Sister, p. 6, 7.)

I LOVE to rove o'er history's page,
Recall the hero and the sage;
Revive the actions of the dead,
And memory of ages fled :
Yet it yields me greater pleasure,
To read the poet's pleasing measure.
Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired,
The bosom's energies are fired;
We learn to shed the generous tear,
O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier ;
To love the merry moonlit scene,
With fairy elves in valleys green;
Or, borne on fancy's heavenly wings,
To listen while sweet Ariel sings.
How sweet the "native woodnotes wild"
Of him, the Muse's favourite child !
Of him whose magic lays impart
Each various feeling to the heart !

Happy soon we'll meet again,
Free from sorrow, care, and pain;
Soon again we'll rise with dawn,
To roam the verdant dewy lawn;
Soon the budding leaves we'll hail,
Or wander through the well-known vale;
Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers;
And sport away the light-wing'd hours.
Soon we'll run the agile race;
Soon, dear playmates, we'll embrace;-
Through the wheat-field or the grove,
We'll hand in hand delighted rove;
Or, beneath some spreading oak,
Ponder the instructive book;
Or view the ships that swiftly glide,
Floating on the peaceful tide;
Or raise again the caroll’d lay;
Or join again in mirthful play;
Or listen to the humming bees,
As their murmurs swell the breeze;
Or seek the primrose where it springs;
Or chase the fly with painted wings;
Or talk beneath the arbour's shade;
Or mark the tender shooting blade :
Or stray beside the babbling stream,
When Luna sheds her placid beam;
Or gaze upon the glassy sea-
Happy, happy shall we be !

SONNET TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE.

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth,

I pour the genuine numbers free from artThe lays inspired by gratitude and truth;

For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care,

To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; With soothing tenderness to chase the tear,

With fond endearments to impart relief : Be mine thy warm affection to repay

With duteous love in thy declining hours;

My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, Perennial roses, to adorn thy way: Still may thy grateful children round thee smileTheir pleasing care affliction shall beguile.