And as she seemed, she was-From day to day
Wisdom and virtue marked her peaceful way.
Her friends were many-and the cheerful breast
Spread, wide around her, happiness and rest :
She had sweet words, and pleasant looks for all,
And precious kindness at the mourner's call;
Charity, quick to give and slow to blame,
And, lingering still in that unfaded frame,
The fairest and most fleeting charms of youth,
Bloom of the mind, simplicity and truth ;—
And pure Religion, thine eternal light

Beamed round that brow, in mortal beauty bright,
Spake in that voice, soft as the mother-dove,
Found, in that gentle breast, thy home of love.

So knit she Friendship's lovely knot-How well She filled each tenderer name, no verse can tell : That last best praise lives in her husband's sigh, And floating dims her children's glistening eye, Embalming with fond tears her memory.

Queen Marie's Well.

In the grounds of Quernmore near Lancaster, is a well, near which Mary Stuart is said to have rested, in a journey to or from Bolton Castle-thence called the Queen's Well.

ART thou the fount, in former days
So like a diamond sparkling bright;
When, through the trees, the sunny rays
Shed on thy wave a changing light?

-Now, moss and weeds have choked thy stream;

Thy place the shepherd scarce can tell,

Thou dost so dim and stagnant seem,

Lone and deserted well!

Not thus! not thus! in days of yore,
When earth in verdure fresh was drest,

The trees thy margin bending o'er,

Were imaged on thy glassy breast;
And there, amid the blooms of spring,

Was heard the humming of the bee;

And the wild bird would check its wing,

And stoop to drink of thee.

And those who know the spot will tell,
That she, the fairest of the fair,
Paused on thy brink, oh forest well!

Her feverish lip to moisten there

And on thy banks of emerald green, She spent the sultry noontide hours; And better loved the sylvan scene,

Than Bolton's lordly towers.

And, as she sat beside the rill,

Perchance the captive's thoughts would stray

To her own land of glen and hill,
Her native Scotland far away!

And memory, to her aching eye,
Would bring again the festive scene;
Till she would weep for days gone by,

And pleasures that had been.

When in the sunny land of France,
The centre of a dazzling throng,

Her step was lightest in the dance,

Her voice, the sweetest in the song ;—
When kings were listeners for her words,

And nobles wooed in courtly phrase,

And for her smiles would draw their swords,

And die to win her praise!

And turning from that brilliant scene,

Her thoughts would mourn her altered state;

In foreign land a captive Queen,

The victim of a rival's hate :

And now, awhile escaped from thrall,

To her 'twas bliss to wander free;

And hear thy silver streamlets fall,

In gentle melody.

Fast fled the sultry hours away;

On past the Queen and all her train, Ere evening, with its shadows grey, Came down upon the stream and plain. -But still as darker grew her lot, How often in her dreary cell,

She thought upon that distant spot;

The lonely forest well!—

H. F. CHORLEY.

Sonnet

TO THE CAMELLIA JAPONICA.

BY W. ROSCOE, ESQ.

SAY, what impels me, pure and spotless flower,
To view thee with a secret sympathy?

-Is there some living spirit shrined in thee?
That, as thou bloom'st within my humble bower,

Endows thee with some strange mysterious power,
Waking high thoughts ?-As there perchance might be
Some angel-form of truth and purity,

Whose hallowed presence shared my lonely hour?
-Yes, lovely flower, 'tis not thy virgin glow,
Thy petals whiter than descending snow,
Nor all the charms thy velvet folds display,
'Tis the soft image of some beaming mind,
By grace adorn'd, by elegance refin'd,
That o'er my heart thus holds its silent sway.