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.