"There is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there, It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow. The trees that grow upon the shore, Have grown a hundred years or more, So long, there is no knowing. Old Daniel Dobson does not know, When first these trees began to grow; But still they grew, and grew, and grew, As if they'd nothing else to do, But ever to be growing. The impulses of air and sky Have reared their stately stems so high, And clothed their boughs with green; Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,-- And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, And shake their sides with merry glee-- Wagging their heads in mockery. Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, Where winds can never blow; But visitings of deeper birth Have reached their roots below. For they have gained the river's brink, And of the living waters drink. There's little Will, a five year's child-- He is my youngest boy; To look on eyes so fair and wild, It is a very joy:-- He hath conversed with sun and shower, And dwelt with every idle flower, As fresh and gay as them. He loiters with the briar rose, The blue-bells are his play-fellows, That dance upon their slender stem. And I have said, my little Will Why should not he continue still A thing of Nature's rearing? A thing beyond the world's control-- A living vegetable soul,-- No human sorrow fearing. It were a blessed sight to see That child become a willow tree, His brother trees among. He'd be four time as tall as me, And live three times as long." It was related by the Rev. William Harness, who did much to make known the merits of Miss Fanshawe's works, that when the foregoing lines were read to a distinguished admirer of Wordsworth's poetry, she thought them beautiful, and wondered why the poet had never shown them to her! Miss Fanshawe's fame rests on the authorship of the celebrated riddle on the letter H, which has frequently been attributed to Byron, and appeared in more than one edition of his poems. At a party held one evening at the house of her friend, Mr. Hope, of Deep Dene, the conversation turned upon the abuse of the aspirate. After the guests had withdrawn, Miss Fanshawe retired to her room and composed her noted poem. Next morning she read it at the breakfast table, much to the surprise and delight of the company. It is as follows:--