Nijni, where Prascovie had promised to meet them. On the night before their departure, they had taken an affecting farewell of their two friends, and had bid adieu to the rest of their neighbours, when Lopouloff was roused from his bed by a state courier. On opening the packet delivered to him by that officer, he instantly perceived to his great joy that it contained the pardon of the unfortunates, whose release was the only thing wanted to complete his sum of happiness. He instantly repaired to their cabin, and having communicated his errand, was a joyful witness of their happiness. They fell on their knees, and after thanking the Almighty for their deliverance, prayed that every blessing might be showered upon the head of their benefactress, Prascovie. We now draw the history of the Siberian heroine to a conclusion, and we wish it were in our power, consistently with truth, to do so in that pleasing manner which has been adopted by Madame Cottin. Lopouloff and his wife met their daughter, as appointed, at the convent of Nijni; and after the first emotions of joy had subsided, she informed them that it was her resolution to shew her thankfulness to God for her father's release, by becoming a nun, and residing in the convent during the remainder of her existence. The happiness of the parents was much qualified by this unforeseen intelligence; but seeing that their daughter's resolve was unalterably fixed, they gave an unwilling consent. They passed eight days together at the convent in an alternation of joy and sorrow. Amidst the solemn rites with which that ceremony is accompanied, Prascovie took the veil, devoting the rest of her days to religious retirement. The slender means which Lopouloff possessed, prevented him from living at Nijni; and his wife having relations at Vladimir, they repaired thither to end their days in the sweets of liberty. The final parting was indeed sorrowful. It was the fate of the gentle Prascovie not to live to an old age in the retirement she had chosen. She died on the 8th of December 1809, in a hermitage near the convent. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, Y loved, my honoured, much-respected friend! M The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh: The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, And weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, The expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, The mother, wi' her needle and her shears, Their master's and their mistress's command, They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!' But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; To do some errands, and convoy her hame. Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek, With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben : The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave: Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love!-where love like this is found! 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; And 'Let us worship GOD!' he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise; The priest-like father reads the sacred page- With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme— The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. |