“Afflictions, it is said, never come alone. The same day that brought the overwhelming tidings of Percy's fall, intelligence reached my mother that Colonel Ridgely was mortally wounded. Hostilities having ceased, he sent under a flag of truce to request the immediate attendance of his sister and daughter. No time was to be lost; in a state of mind bordering on distraction, they were hurried towards the British camp. My mother was a worshipper of God; to Him she looked up for strength equal to the mighty conflict. But of poor Morna, how shall I speak? The waves of affliction had well nigh overwhelmed the slender bark of her existence, and despair alone seemed to nerve her step, as she was conducted to the door of her father's tent. The attendant officer seeing them approach, opened the door, and with a sad countenance informed them that Colonel Ridgely had just expired. A shriek was the only sound that escaped Morna's lips. She fell insensible on the floor, and happy would it have been for her if life had been extinguished with her reason, which from that moment never resumed its empire. The functions of life gradually revived, and maintained a feeble and wavering existence for a few weeks; but the gem of the mind was gone—wild and incoherent fancies filled her imagination—broken images of past and future joys were confusedly mingled with phantoms of fear and dread. In her last moments, there was something mysterious and almost supernatural in the creations of her imagination. She seemed to have caught the glimpse of a procession, which she was hastening to join. ‘Mammy Marget,’ she cried, ‘bring my bridal dress—the procession is waiting for me; to the church you know we must go to be united: there is Alfred and father too. Haste! haste!—it is almost in the clouds already, but I must overtake it!’ Breathless she sunk back, and expired. Her remains were laid in my mother's garden, and the turf that ‘wraps her slumbering clay’ was daily moistened with her tears. On the slab that marks the spot are inscribed Hamlet's words: ‘Lay her in the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring.’” Such was the history attached to the PORTRAIT. V. STANZAS. BY JAMES F. OTIS. See, where, fast sinking o'er the hills, As with a golden halo round, The setting sun with splendor fills Those massy piles which lie around His couch, in crimson glory drest, Like drapery o'er a monarch's rest. {495} Bright, fair, but oh, how fading too Is all this beautiful array! A moment given to the view, Then past, amid the gloom, away: So, like the gilded things of earth, Which charm the eye, though little worth! And now, eve's glowing star illumes The chambers of the distant west, And, scarce discerned, like waving plumes That flash o'er many a warrior's crest, There float along the upper air Thin, fleecy clouds, so clear and fair.