During the lifetime of her distinguished husband, Mrs Hunter was in the habit of receiving at her table, and sharing in the conversation of, the chief literary persons of her time. Her evening _conversazioni_ were frequented by many of the more learned, as well as fashionable persons in the metropolis. On the death of her husband, which took place in 1793, she sought greater privacy, though she still continued to reside in London. By those who were admitted to her intimacy, she was not more respected for her superior talents and intelligence, than held in esteem for her unaffected simplicity of manners. She was the life of her social parties, sustaining the happiness of the hour by her elegant conversation, and encouraging the diffident by her approbation. Amiable in disposition, she was possessed of a beautiful countenance and a handsome person. She wrote verses with facility, but she sought no distinction as a poet, preferring to be regarded as a good housewife and an agreeable member of society. In her latter years, she obtained amusement in resuming the song-writing habits of her youth, and in corresponding with her more intimate friends. She likewise derived pleasure in the cultivation of music: she played with skill, and sung with singular grace. Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering illness. Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the collections of national poetry. Those selected for the present work have long maintained a wide popularity. The songs evince a delicacy of thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression. THE INDIAN DEATH-SONG. The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain? No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain. I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain, And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain. MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR. My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my boddice blue. "For why," she cries, "sit still and weep, While others dance and play?" Alas! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away. 'Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love were near; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear.