And now to thee she comes; still, still the same
As in the hours gone unregarded by!
To thee, how changed, comes as she ever came :
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!

Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth,
By the way-side she shed her parting tears-
For ever lovely in the light of Youth !

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers
The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

As on she moves with hesitating grace,
She wins assurance from his soothing voice;
And, with a look the pencil could not trace,
Smiles thro’ her blushes, and confirms the choice.
Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !
To thee she turns-forgive a virgin's fears !
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim ;
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ;

At each response the sacred rite requires,
From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh.
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires ;
And on her lips the trembling accents die.

O’er her fair face what wild emotions play!
What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend !
Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day,
And settled sunshine on her soul descend!

Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought !
That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers ;
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours !

TO THE

YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY **.

Ah! why with tell-tale tongue reveal *
What most her blushes would conceal ?
Why lift that modest veil to trace
The seraph-sweetness of her face?
Some fairer, better sport prefer;
And feel for us, if not for her.

For this presumption, soon or late,
Know thine shall be a kindred fate.
Another shall in vengeance rise-
Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Harriet's eyes ;
And, echoing back her wood-notes wild,
- Trace all the mother in the child !

.

Alluding to some verses which she had written on an elder sister.

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !
To thee she turns-forgive a virgin's fears !
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim;
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ;

At each response the sacred rite requires,
From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh.
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires ;
And on her lips the trembling accents die.

O'er her fair face what wild emotions play!
What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend !
Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day,
And settled sunshine on her soul descend !

Ah soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought !
That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers ;
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours !