mingled their fine sounds with the well modulated tones of an
accomplished family of sons and daughters. My thoughts, at the moment
I am writing this, are at Chateâu Blonay, but most of the voices,
which I heard there, are now silent in death! I am thoroughly
convinced that family worship, and congregational worship lose a great
auxiliary to piety, when there is not the power or the inclination to
join in psalmody.

* * * * *


LINES


_Written after reading the Memoir and Poems of Miss Lucretia
Davidson._[2]

Ev'n till thy latest hour, Lucretia! thou
Didst cherish _that_ which but consum'd thy frame.
'Twas _then_ it shone the brightest on thy brow,
Like the last flickerings of an earthly flame--
Yes, thy brain harass'd by deep toil, became
With all its fire, a tenant of the tomb,
And dim is now thine eye, Belov'd of Fame!
Thy cheek is pale--thy lip without perfume--
And there thou liest--the child of Genius--and its doom.

Like the proud eagle soaring to the skies,
Intent "the topmost arch" of heaven to scale,
When heeding naught that would oppose its rise,