“Yet all in vain the tempests roar, And whirls the drifted snow; In vain the torrents scorn the shore, To Delia I must go. “In vain the shades of evening fall, And horrid dangers threat; What can the lover’s heart appal, Or check his eager feet? “The darksome vale the fearless tries, And winds its trackless wood, High o’er the cliff’s dread summit flies, And rushes through the flood. “Love bids achieve the hardy task And act the wondrous part, He wings the feet with eagle speed, And lends the lion-heart. “Then led by thee, all-powerful boy, I’ll dare the hideous night, Thy dart shall guard me from annoy, Thy torch my footsteps light. “The cheerful blaze, the social hour, The friends—all plead in vain; Love calls—I brave each adverse power Of peril and of pain.” Mrs. Percy died on the 31st December, 1806. Her remains were interred within the Cathedral of Dromore. Several poems were published on her decease in the _Gentleman’s Magazine_ at that time. One of them, descriptive of the graces of this excellent lady, reads thus:— “Within the precincts of this silent cell Distinguished Percy’s sacred relicks dwell; Whose youthful charms adorn’d the courtly scene, And won the favour of a British Queen Whose moral excellence, and virtues rare, Shone as conspicuous as her face was fair. By none throughout a long and happy life Was she surpassed as mother, friend, or wife. Alike from ostentation free, and pride, Humanity her motive, sense her guide. Her charity with constant current flowed, And its best gifts so usefully bestowed, That ere her spirit reached its native sphere, Her goodness marked her as an angel here.” Dr. Percy lived on for five years longer, passing away on September 30th, 1811, revered and beloved for his piety, liberality, benevolence, and hospitality, by persons of every rank and religious denomination. _Leisure Hour._ A DOUBTFUL ADVANTAGE.—A young working man was being shown the advantages of having a home of his own instead of knocking about in lodgings. “I don’t see,” said he, “the good of giving some woman half my victuals to get t’other half cooked.” CONTENT. Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content; The quiet mind is richer than a crown. Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent; The poor estate scorns fortune’s angry frown. Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy which princes often miss. —_Greene._ WOMAN’S SPHERE. They talk about a woman’s sphere As though it had no limit. There’s not a place in earth or heaven, There’s not a task to mankind given, There’s not a blessing or a woe, There’s not a whispered yes or no, There’s not a life, or death, or birth That has a feather’s weight of worth, Without a woman in it.