When low-soul'd Pomp, vain Wealth, that Pity gives, Which Virtue ne'er bestows and ne'er receives,-- That Pity, stabbing where it vaunts to cure, Which barbs the dart of Want, and makes it sure. How far removed from what the feeling breast Yields boastless, breathed in sighs to the distress'd! Which whispers sympathy, with tender fear, And almost dreads to pour its balmy tear. But such I know not now! Unseen, alone, I heave the heavy sigh, I draw the groan; And, madd'ning, turn to days of liveliest joy, When o'er my native hills I cast mine eyes, And said, exulting--"Freemen here shall sow The seed that soon in tossing gold shall glow! While Plenty, led by Liberty, shall rove, Gay and rejoicing, through the land they love; And 'mid the loaded vines, the peasant see His wife, his children, breathing out,--'We're free!' But now, O wretched land! above thy plains, Half viewless through the gloom, vast Horror reigns, No happy peasant, o'er his blazing hearth, Devotes the supper hour to love and mirth; No flowers on Piety's pure altar bloom; Alas! they wither now, and strew her tomb! From the Great Book of Nations fiercely rent, My country's page to Lethe's stream is sent-- But sent in vain! The historic Muse shall raise O'er wronged Sarmatia's cause the voice of praise,-- Shall sing her dauntless on the field of death, And blast her royal robbers' bloody wrath!" "It must be Constantine's!" cried Euphemia, in a voice of surprised delight, while springing up to take the paper out of the deriding reader's hand when he finished. "I dare say it is," answered the ill-natured Lascelles, holding it above his head. "You shall have it; only first let us hear it again, it is so mighty pretty, so very lackadaisical!" "Give it to me!" cried Euphemia, quite angry. "Don't, Lascelles," exclaimed Miss Dundas, "the man must be a perfect idiot to write such rhodomontade." "O! it is delectable!" returned her lover, opening the paper again; "it would make a charming ditty! Come, I will sing it. Shall it be to the tune of 'The Babes in the Wood,' or 'Chevy Chase,' or 'The Beggar of Bethnal Green?" "Pitiless, senseless man!" exclaimed Mary, rising from her chair, where she had been striving to subdue the emotions with which every line in the poem filled her heart. "Monster!" cried the enraged Euphemia, taking courage at Miss Beaufort's unusual warmth; "I will have the paper." "You sha'n't," answered the malicious coxcomb; and raising his arm higher than her reach, he tore it in a hundred pieces. "I'll teach pretty ladies to call names!" At this sight, no longer able to contain herself, Mary rushed out of the room, and hurrying to her chamber, threw herself upon the bed, where she gave way to a paroxysm of tears which shook her almost to suffocation.