When the heart throbs with bitter woe, Her winning mien disarms the foe, And the kind glances of her eye, Force the desponding power to fly. She gives a zest to every joy, Forbids tranquillity to cloy, Softens misfortune, chases fear, And balm distills in every tear. 'Tis she alone can make us know, A truly blissful hour below, Can smooth the furrow'd brow of life, And hush the thundering voice of strife. O, may she still exert her power, Still lead us to the rural bower, Which vaunting Pride does ne'er disgrace, Or critic Envy's spiteful face. Here Raymond ever shall delight, To sit and watch the closing night; And open-hearted Gertrude here, With her sweet infant shall appear. Here oft her brother shall prepare, A wreath for Mary's curling hair; While soft-voic'd Anna, fond of play, And all the train, alert and gay, In healthful games shall frolic round, And revel on the mossy ground. Here Edmund shall forget his care, And often fill an elbow chair; While Sophia, friendly and sincere, Shall ever find a welcome here. Yet would my hovering fancy trace, The features of each happy face; And sympathy informs my mind, That they the same emotions find; That in each scene of harmless glee, Memory recalls the absent three: And all, though distance strives to part, Will hold communion in the heart. FINIS.