She first of all impoverished herself, by the profuse liberality of her presents to those to whom she was partial. She was subsequently induced to lend, with the truest motives of generosity and friendship on her part, a portion of her capital, on very insufficient security. This she accordingly lost. There was an enthusiasm in her attachments bordering on infatuation, and very indiscriminating in the choice of its objects. Talent was her great idol, before which she bowed, but she often neglected to examine and investigate the private character and conduct by which it was accompanied. The consequence was, that she was perpetually imposed upon, and did not discover her error till it was too late. Her finances became finally so exceedingly narrowed and embarrassed, that penury began to stare her in the face. Her friends, in some degree to ward off this evil, suggested the expediency of her publishing two volumes of her poems. This was accordingly done, under the inspection of a most judicious, able, and compassionate friend, whose attentions cheered and soothed the last sorrowful moments of her life. To him they were inscribed, with a very appropriate address. The reader may not be averse to see a specimen. _Ex uno disce omnia._ THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY. Proud of its little day, enjoying The lavish sweets kind Nature yields, In harmless sports each hour employing, Ranging the gardens, woods, and fields. A lovely Butterfly extending Its grateful wing to Sol’s warm beams, No dreaded danger saw impending, But basked secure in peaceful dreams. A wandering Urchin viewed this treasure, Of gaudy colours fine and gay, Thoughtless consulting but his pleasure, He chased it through the live-long day. At last the young but sly dissembler Appeared to follow other flies, Then turning seized the little trembler, Who crushed beneath his fingers dies! Surprized he sees the hasty ruin His reckless cruelty had wrought, The victim which so long pursuing Scarce raised a wish, or claimed a thought, Now bid the tear of genuine sorrow O’er his repentant bosom flow, Yet he’ll forget it ere the morrow, And deal to others equal woe. Thus the vain man, with subtle feigning, Pursues, o’ertakes, poor woman’s heart, But soon his hapless prize disdaining, She dies the victim of his art. Her compositions were all of the same character and tendency—tender, elegant, and tinged with the most romantic sensibility. Whether their publication answered the proposed purpose to any effect, may reasonably be questioned; for in her last illness, if she did not actually want the necessaries incident to her situation, she had but a very scanty supply of them.