[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London with her father and mother; and a similar sojourn was repeated in the following year, after which she never visited the metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain home, was even then so distasteful to her, that the indulgences of plays and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she longed to rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite rural haunts and amusements--the nuttery wood, the beloved apple-tree, the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, in whose trunk a daily interchange of family letters was established, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally painted and decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her return home was thus expressed in rhyme.--_Mem._ p. 8, 9.] Happy soon we’ll meet again, Free from sorrow, care, and pain; Soon again we’ll rise with dawn, To roam the verdant dewy lawn; Soon the budding leaves we’ll hail, Or wander through the well-known vale; Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers; And sport away the light-wing’d hours. Soon we’ll run the agile race; Soon, dear playmates, we’ll embrace;-- Through the wheat-field or the grove, We’ll hand in hand delighted rove; Or, beneath some spreading oak, Ponder the instructive book; Or view the ships that swiftly glide, Floating on the peaceful tide; Or raise again the caroll’d lay; Or join again in mirthful play; Or listen to the humming bees, As their murmurs swell the breeze; Or seek the primrose where it springs; Or chase the fly with painted wings; Or talk beneath the arbour’s shade; Or mark the tender shooting blade: Or stray beside the babbling stream, When Luna sheds her placid beam; Or gaze upon the glassy sea---- Happy, happy shall we be! SONNET TO MY MOTHER. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE. To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, I pour the genuine numbers free from art-- The lays inspired by gratitude and truth; For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart. Oh! be it mine, with sweet and pious care, To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, With fond endearments to impart relief: Be mine thy warm affection to repay With duteous love in thy declining hours; My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, Perennial roses, to adorn thy way: Still may thy grateful children round thee smile-- Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile. SONNET. WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.