LINES,

To the Memory of Mrs. LEFROY*, who died by a Fall from her Horse, 16th December, 1804.

BY S. E. BRYDGES, ESQ.

DEEP Grief is dumb †; else long ago, dear Shade,
To thee the mournful Muse her rites had paid!
Whelm'd with the stroke e'en now my palsied brain
Struggles with feeble effort at the strain:
The fountain of my former tears is dry;
And wan Despair sits fix'd in either eye.

+ Curæ leves loquuntur; ingentes stupent.

Of this most accomplished and incomparable woman, it is impossible to speak in adequate terms of affection and admiration. The following character appeared in a Provincial Newspaper immediately after her decease.

"On Sunday morning, the 16th of December, died at Ashe, in Hampshire, in consequence of a fall from her horse, which she survived only twelve hours, Mrs. Lefroy, wife of the Rev. George Lefroy, Rector of that parish, and eldest daughter of the late Edward Brydges, Esq. of Wootton, in Kent. Of this lovely, accomplished, and most extraordinary woman, it is almost impossible to speak truly, without seeming to use terms of exaggeration. The splendor of her talents, her vivacity, her powerful and energetic language, the beaming and eager benevolence of her countenance and manners; her fondness for society, and her delight in making every one around her happy, were felt, wherever she appeared. But with all these worldly attractions, her religion predominated over all her excellencies, and influenced and exalted every expression and action of her life. How amiable and angelic she was in the domestic duties of daughter, wife, mother, and sister, they only ean properly conceive who experienced her unequalled virtues in those situations, and who now have to mourn

Ah! Time, that boasts to mellow down the hues
Of wild Regret, and o'er her form diffuse
A soothing sadness, teaches me to know
With keener certainty my darkening woe.
At every care, and every rising joy,

Each task, that would my anxious thoughts employ,
The morning ramble, and the evening toil,
Thro' life I look'd for thy consoling smile!
But now, whene'er I Learning's page unroll,
And strive by studious pains to raise my soul,
Soon as in vain I seek thy chearing look,

Down from my unclasping hands descends the book.

a loss beyond the power of words to describe, and of any earthly advantage to repair. But it is not only to near relations and friends, that her loss is irreparable, she has left a chasm in society, which there is no second to fill. The whole division of the county, in which she lived, will feel her death most poignantly, and appreciate it with deep and unaffected concern. Above all, the poor will receive this afflicting dispensation of Providence with the keenest sorrow and lamentation: she fed, she cloathed, she instructed them with daily and never-ceasing attention; in grief she soothed them by her conversation and her kind looks; and in sickness, she comforted them by medicines and advice. She instituted a daily school of poor children in her own house whom, in the midst of a thousand avocations, she never failed to instruct herself; she taught them not only to read and write, but, by her ingenuity, introduced among them a little manufacture of straw, by which they were enabled, at a very early age, to contribute to their own livelihood. When the vaccine inoculation was discovered, she soon convinced herself of its beneficial effects, and having learned the process, actually inoculated upwards of eight hundred poor with her own hand. Thus she seemed like a ministering Angel going about to dispense unmingled good in the world, when it pleased Providence, for its own inscrutable purposes, so suddenly to take her away."

See also Gent. Mag, Dec. 1804, and Monthly Mag. Jan. 1805. A few of Mrs. L's Poems have appeared in former volumes of the Poetical Register.

Forgetful of my loss, if transient fire"
Impels those hands to seize the silent lyre,
To thee I bid it pour its trembling tone.-
Thou hearest not!-It breathes a dying moan;
And instantly the rising spirit's flown.

Sometimes I wake from some enchanting dream,
Bright with the Muse's rainbow-tinctur'd beam ;
Or deck'd with golden pomp, and all the show,
That bold Ambition's gorgeous flames bestow.
Glowing I haste my raptures to impart !-
But thou, alas! art gone; and to my heart
Cold chilling damps of hopeless anguish dart!

Loveliest of human beings, Sister, Friend,
Instructor, Guardian! where can ever end
The praise, that to thy angel worth belongs?
Worth, that has e'en transcended Poets' songs!
In every walk of life, belov'd, ador'd,
How have all ranks thy hapless fate deplor❜d!
How did thy liberal hand, and melting voice
Bid the chill'd heart of Poverty rejoice!
Amid the circles of the rich and wise,
How spoke the mental radiance of thine eyes!
How charm'd the wisdom of thy flowing tongue;
How from thy breast the lore of Angels sprung!

But while thy mortal relics slumber here, Moisten'd by Love's, by Friendship's, Virtue's tear, Thy blissful spirit, O exalted Saint,

Which not the mixture of Earth's mould could taint, Wanders triumphant, and the swelling lyre

(Touch'd by thy human hands with hallow'd fire,) Around the throne, where singing seraphs blaze, Strikes in glad notes to thy Creator's praise!

VERSES

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY,

On her Emigration to America.

BY DAVID IRVING, A. M.

YE weltering waves whose sullen murmur drear... !
Conveys no bland suggestion to my ear,

Why chase the welcome visions Fancy brought,
And call to sadder themes my devious thought?
O wandering winds, your melancholy swell
Shall pass in concert to my plaintive shell.
Oft from these eyes the winds and waves have bore
Some gentle friend, doom'd to return no more;
Doom'd to descend, in Death's untimely sleep,
Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, to the dreary deep;
Or hapless fall in youth's ecstatic bloom,
And find on Gambia's shores a Stranger's tomb.
O lovely Maid, shall Life's resistless tide
Give to Columbia's wilds thy youthful pride?
Thy wit maturing, and thy opening charms?
That modest grace which every feature arms?
Thy tuneful voice, and eloquence of mein,
Which soothe gaunt care, and lull the vulture spleen?
In vain each wish! the bark already flings
Wide to the fresh'ning gale her eager wings:
O'er the high deck I see thee pensive roam,
To view with humid eye the hills of home.

Sweet Emigrant, though dear thy native isle,
Though chosen friends repay thy friendly smile;
Though thou recal-nor check the graceful tear-
Anna's bright sense, and taste, and soul sincere ;
Though youthful fancy twine with magic art
A thousand nameless cords to bind thy heart;
Yet still with thee the faithful keel shall bear
A Mother's love, a more than Father's care:
His heavenly wings the cherub Hope shall spread,
And Virtue hover round thy cherish'd head.
O while the restless bark shall onward stray,
Proud of her freight, a long and pathless way,
May gentle breezes swell the buxom sail,

Hush'd be each storm, and calm'd each ruder gale.
Through the dread might of Him that stills the waves,
The giant storms shall seek their murky caves;
Grim in repose, shall raise a half-closed eye,
And mark Eliza glide securely by.

I WISH

TO MARY.

-nor ever wish thee ill!

I wish thee all thy heart's desire,
Mary! if just, may time fulfill

The wish that friendship doth inspire.

I wish thee, Dear! a sacred boon,

Nay Heaven importune to bestow it,
I wish thee married, Girl, and soon;
But wish thou ne'er may'st wed a Poet!

P. L. C.