It breaks with fearless nerve the tempest-gale--
And spreads its wings like a majestic sail,
Full on the bosom of the raging blast,
Thy spirit soar'd--but ah! too like us frail,
When the same breeze which bore it from the dust
Wing'd home the fatal shaft that tore its bleeding breast.

Would I could sing thy fame with thine own lyre,
Then should I breathe a more deserving lay,
A lay which every spirit would inspire,
And melt each eye to tears of sympathy;
But others at thy shrine, their tributes pay.
Offspring of Beauty! child of native song!
And I, ev'n I, would venture to essay,
To raise my lauding voice amidst the throng
Of those who weep thy loss--and who shall weep it long!--N.C.

[2] See Memoir, and specimens of her Poetry, _Mirror_, vol.
xiv. p. 340.

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SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

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IMPROVED RAW SUGAR.