It is a lovely sight to see A maiden in the privacy Of her own chamber—where the day In gentle studies glides away: Her spirit breathes through all things round— The dainty volumes that abound; The silken broidery in its frame, That might e’en Flora’s labour shame; The easel, where no critic’s eye A meretricious taste could spy; The harp, on which she loves to play, Singing the while some sweet old lay; Here gay and placid speed the hours, Among her music, books, and flowers— No thought of care, or anger rude, No breath of evil dare intrude, No babbler, fraught with idle speech, This maiden solitude can reach: Save her fond Sire’s, no footstep male Has e’er presumed to cross its pale. Here he brings gifts of gem and flower, And Indian birds to deck her bower; And, dearer gifts! her mother oft With looks of love, and accents soft, Steals in to bless her duteous child, And leave behind her counsels mild: There’s not a book that here may lie, Unseen by that unsleeping eye, Which knows how subtly books might lure That maiden, still so angel-pure. Here, where a crucifix you’d see, Did Southern maiden bend the knee; The ‘Book of Life’ is laid, and read— I know it by the page outspread; Approached with love, and reverent awe, Our maiden from its page will draw Those hopes that light declining years, Those promises that dry our tears! The very air that lingers round This sanctuary is sweet—no sound, Except of music rich and low, Or gentle voices, doth it know: Listen! her hand is on the strings, And, artless, to herself she sings. SONG. Oh! never doubt I love thee! When every sigh of thine Awakens Echo’s music Within this heart of mine! Oh! never doubt I love thee! Thy smile, oh! oft it gleams, Like fabled lamps of fairies, To cheer my midnight dreams! Oh! never doubt I love thee! As few have loved before; There’s nought can change my worship Till life itself be o’er! The song is o’er—why doth she seem Abstracted—lost in pleasant dream? Her harp is left—she turns aside, And now her taper fingers guide The pencil.—No, ’tis all in vain! What art could picture Deloraine? A step is heard—with glowing cheeks She hides the sketch—and vainly seeks To sing as blithely as before, While her good mother’s at the door. O Love! thou subtle, dexterous cheat, To _such_ a maid to prompt deceit! Thy wily lessons to impart To one, till now, who knew not art;— To teach our Mary’s heart to glow With secret thoughts, she dare not shew To her, who erst each feeling shared, As if its inmost cells were bared! Ah! why thus rend the tender bond ’Twixt duteous child and mother fond? ’Tis strange thy sudden work to see, Begun—complete:—_Telle est la vie!_