"But what is treasure but a gilded toy? The wounded spirit never can enjoy Its hollow pomp, which ne'er can satisfy The craving heart (where hope bloomed but to die). Yes, ev'ry tie which bound to earth had flown, And I seemed left forsaken and alone; The guiding star which cheered me with its light Had, sinking, left me overwhelmed with night. Years past, but still my feelings were the same, When melancholy news from India came,-- The youthful husband in the war was slain, (Her mother long time in the grave had lain,) And poor Rosina, worn with care and grief, In childhood's scenes resolved to seek relief: But deep disease was rooted in her breast, And soon her gentle spirit sank to rest. 'My child! my child! Oh, guard it for my sake!' Were the last words she ere departing spake. 'An orphan's life from infancy was thine, O then in pity aid and succour mine!' "This sacred trust has yielded me more joy Than all my wealth, by serving to employ My vacant thoughts, and giving Hope fresh life, Who all but perished in that mental strife. "The portrait of Rosina you have seen, Her daughter, too (my housekeeper, I mean), You've also met,--who now must waiting be I fear, for I have long delayed the tea. "O never then, my friend, let grim Despair Reign o'er thy soul; a balm to soothe the care Which wrecks thy peace may suddenly appear, The drooping heart and gloomy thoughts to cheer." In chat and song the evening passed away, For oft Rosina with some Irish lay, Of touching sweetness, charmed th' enraptured ear, So soft and plaintive like the whisp'rings near Of some bright spirit sent from Eden's bowers To cheer awhile this dark, cold world of ours.