from the moor, which is filled with sweet, but common flowers. The family have been set to spin, and are already clothed in their own manufacture. Frederick has given poor Tom a cow, to which I have added half a dozen sheep; and such a scene of contentment above, and of beauty below, it would be difficult to equal: at least so _we_ think; and when we contemplate the entire as a creation of our own, Frederick and I certainly do confess to some degree of self-complacency. But as far as I have hitherto narrated, only relates to the _body_ of our exertions. I must now describe the _soul_ of them. In the back part of our rustic temple, is a door so completely concealed by the matting of reeds, as not to be discernible to ordinary observers. This door, upon being opened, discovers a little cell of just sufficient size to admit of one person's sitting in it without inconvenience. Its furniture consists of a small pedestal of delicate workmanship in white marble, upon which Frederick has placed the exquisite urn that you may remember, of alabaster, found at Pompeïa. It belonged to my father, and has been kept in a closet, hidden from every eye since the time of his death. Upon the front of the pedestal which supports it, we have had engraved the following lines:-- Bless'd refuge of a sad and broken heart, Soft soothing solitude, thy balm impart; Come with thy gentle train, thy peaceful rest, Thy tender stillness to this grief-worn breast. With thee, how sweet to climb the craggy way, And o'er these rocky cliffs in silence stray, In Nature's temple to expand the soul, While tears distil refreshing as they roll, What fond deceit the present to beguile, And bid the shades of past delight to smile. Call back the dreams of youth, and hope, and love, And 'mid the dear aërial phantoms rove. But hush! too sharp that pang, my heart gives o'er, Invoke the memory of thy bliss no more! Raise up to heaven thy soul, quit earth, and fly, Go seek thy refuge in yon azure sky; Ask mercy's aid to shed celestial light Upon the dismal gloom of sorrow's night, And God's own spirits of the mountain air, Shall waft on high the deep unuttered prayer, While filial love shall consecrate the scene, That gave a mother's tears for hope serene.