Oh yes! however cold in after years, At least it cost thee sorrow _then_ to leave me; And for those few sincere, remorseful tears, I do forgive (though thou couldst thus deceive me) The years of peace of which thou didst bereave me. Yes--as I saw those gushing life-drops come Back to the heart which yet delayed to grieve me, Thy love returned a moment to its home, Far, far away from me for ever then to roam. He deserts her: Still hope was left me, and each tedious hour Was counted as it brought his coming near; And joyfully I watched each fading flower; Each tree, whose shadowy boughs grew red and sear; And hailed sad Autumn, favourite of the year. At length my time of sorrow came--'twas over, A beauteous boy was brought me, doubly dear, For all the Tears that promise caused to hover Round him--'twas past--I claimed a husband in my lover. On her return to her paternal cottage: "My father' oh, my father!" vain the cry-- I had no father now; no need to say "Thou art alone!." I _felt_ my misery-- My father, yet return,--_return_! the day When sorrow had availed is passed away: Tears cannot raise the dead, grief cannot call Back to the earthy corse the spirit's ray-- Vainly eternal tears of blood might fall; One short year since, he lived--my hopes now perished all! The tale then concludes: Years have gone by--my thoughts have risen higher-- I sought for refuge at the Almighty's throne; And when I sit by this low mould'ring fire, With but my Bible, feel not quite alone. Lingering in peace, till I can lay me down, Quiet and cold in that last dwelling place, By him o'er whose young head the grass is grown-- By him who yet shall rise with angel face, Pleading for me, the lost and sinful of my race. And if I still heave one reluctant sigh-- If earthly sorrows still will cross my heart-- If still to my now dimmed and sunken eye The bitter tear, half checked, in vain will start; I hid the dreams of other days depart, And turn, with clasping hands, and lips compress'd, To pray that Heaven will soothe sad memory's smart; Teach me to bear and calm my troubled breast; And grant _her_ peace in Heaven who not on earth may rest. The author of this exquisite volume is the daughter of the late Thomas Sheridan, and is described as a young and lovely woman, moving in a fashionable sphere. In this edition are several minor pieces, and others not before published, some of which are of equal merit with the specimens we have here quoted. * * * * * PILGRIMAGE TO MEKKA.