steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these
desultory remarks better, than by quoting the words of a modern
English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity:

Through each gradation, from the castled hall,
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade,
But chief from modest mansions numberless,
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life,
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed;
This western isle has long been famed for scenes
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place;
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,)
Can centre in a little quiet nest
All that desire would fly for through the earth;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven;
That, like a flower deep hid in rock cleft,
Smiles, though 't is looking only at the sky.*

* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the
Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M.



THE BROKEN HEART.

I never heard
Of any true affection, but 't was nipt