Can language paint the deep distress
Which changed that flush to palidness?
Now swims the room before her eyes;
Quenched seem the lights, the music dies;
She feels a horror o'er her creep;
She sobs, but tries, in vain, to weep;
But, uttering shrieks of wild dismay,
Sinks to the ground and swoons away.

Is there a sight more full of woe
In the wide range of ills below,
Than youthful loveliness, when laid,
Bereft of sympathetic aid,

On couch of sickness?—and is nign
No breast, on which the head may lie,
No hand, to wipe away a tear,

No voice, to whisper in the ear

Sweet words of Hope :-but her last moan
The sufferer must breathe alone?
Ah! none-yet such was Lucy's fate,
Though crowds of menials on her wait,
When Death's fell breathings tainted all,
Even the cup medicinal.

Still, wildly, her delirious eye

Would roll, her mother to descry;

And, "mother," that endearing name,

Her tongue a thousand times exclaim.

Ah, Lucy! when it was too late,

Thy mother, and thy faithless mate,
Both wept beside thee.-Woke to shame,
A humbled penitent he came

And pardon craved.-She turned her eye,
Like a pure angel from the sky

Smiling in peace, and mildly said

"Edmund, 'tis given," then droop'd her head. 'Twas o'er-but, yet, the smile remain'd:'Twas all of Lucy Death had gained.

TO THE MOTHER.

NAY! youthful Mother, do not fly,

Though pleasure lure, and flatt'ry court thee, Sooth thy sick infant's moaning cry,

And wake the smile that must transport thee.

Life has no charm so deep, so dear,

As that soft tie thou blindly leavest—

No love so constant and sincere,

As that which fills the heart thou grievest.

In all the bloom of beauty's pride,

In all ambition's vainest splendour, Ne'er was thy woman's heart supplied With bliss so pure, with joy so tender.

Canst thou forsake that joy so soon?

Canst thou forget the lips that bless'd thee, When, bending o'er this precious boon,

The Father wept whilst he caress'd thee?