is acceptable will always cost something. So I prevailed upon myself to write a note, and lay it before my father, asking him not to send them, trembling lest he should dislike my changeableness, or I should change again and repent it. My father said nothing, but gave me back the lines when we were all together, which was a mountain got over. I thought to have had more peace after; but till this First-day I have been very desolate, though, I believe, daily desiring to seek my God above all; and thinking, sometimes, that that for which I had made a sacrifice became thereby dearer. After this striking and instructive account, which shows how zealously she endeavored to guard against any too absorbing influence, however good and allowable in itself the thing might be, it seems not amiss to remark that Eliza's taste for poetry was keen and discriminating; and that her love of external nature, and more especially her deeper and holier feelings, found appropriate expression in verse. If some of these effusions show a want of careful finish, it must be remembered that they were not written for publication, but for the sake of embodying the feeling of the occasion, in that form which naturally presented itself. The pieces alluded to in the foregoing extracts are the following:-- "WHAT I DO THOU KNOWEST NOT NOW." Hast thou long thy Lord's abiding Vainly sought 'mid shadows dim? Lo! His purpose wisely hiding, Thee He seeks to worship him. Shades of night, thy strain'd eye scorning, Have they; long enwrapp'd the skies? He, whose word commands the morning, Soon shall bid the day-spring rise! Are ten thousand fears desiring To engulf their helpless prey? One faint hope, his grace inspiring, Is a mightier thing than they. Has the foe his dark dominion, As upon thy Saviour, tried?-- As to Him with hastening pinion, Lo! the angels at thy side. Is thy spirit all unfeeling, Save to sin that grieves thee there? Thee He'll make, his face revealing, Joyful in His house of prayer! Hast thou seen thy building falter Can thy God thy griefs despise? 'Mid the ruins dark, an altar Fashion'd by His hands, shall rise. Thee, to some lone mountain sending, Only with the wood supplied; He, thy God, thy worship tending, Will Himself a lamb provide. Has He made it vain thy toiling Fine-spun raiment to prepare? 'Twas to give--thy labors spoiling-- Better robes than monarchs wear. From thy barn and storehouse treasure Did He take thy hoarded pelf? Yes: to feed thee was His pleasure, Like the winged fowls--_Himself_. * * * * * "WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?" Must we forever train the vineyard sproutings, And plough in hope of harvests yet to come, Nor ever join the gladsome vintage shoutings, And sing the happy song of harvest-home?