dation she left behind her, that during her life the religion of Christ most happily flourished, and had a right prosperous

course.

John Fox.

Lovely in Death.

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last;
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

Lo! where this silent marble weeps,
A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps ;
A heart within whose sacred cell
The peaceful virtues loved to dwell.
Affection warm, and faith sincere,
And soft humanity were there.

In agony, in death resign'd,

She felt the wound she left behind,

Byron.

Her infant image here below

Sits smiling on a father's woe.

Gray.

Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman's excellence,

In her white bosom-look, a painted board

Circumscribes all!

Earth can no bliss afford:

Nothing of her but this!

Dekker.

Her Peace in Death.

So softly death succeeded life in her,

She did but dream of heaven and she was there.
No pains she suffer'd, nor expired with noise;
Her soul was whisper'd out with God's still voice.

Dryden.

Her Dependence on Man.

The

There is beauty in the helplessness of woman. clinging trust which searches for extraneous support is graceful and touching. Timidity is the attribute of her sex; but to herself it is not without its dangers, its inconveniences, and its sufferings. Her first effort at comparative freedom is bitter enough; for the delicate mind shrinks from every unaccustomed contact, and the warm and gushing heart closes itself, like the blossom of the sensitive plant, at every approach. Man may at once determine his position, and assert his place; woman has hers to seek; and, alas! I fear me, that however she may appear to turn a calm brow and a quiet lip to the crowd through which she makes her way, that brow throbs and that lip quivers to the last; until, like a wounded bird, she can once more wing her way to the tranquil home where the drooping head will be fondly raised, and the fluttering heart

laid to rest. The dependence of woman in the common affairs of life is, nevertheless, rather the effect of custom than necessity. We have many and brilliant proofs that where need is, she can be sufficient to herself, and play her part in the great drama of existence with credit, if not with comfort. The yearnings of her solitary spirit, the outgushings of her shrinking sensibility, the cravings of her alienated heart, are indulged only in the quiet holiness of her solitude. The world sees not, guesses not, the conflict; and in the ignorance of others lies her strength. The secret of her weakness is hidden in the depths of her own bosom ; and she moves on, amid the heat and the hurry of existence, and with a seal set upon her nature, to be broken only by fond and loving hands, or dissolved in the tears of recovered home affection. Bethmont.

Angel-like in her Devotions.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst ;

And on her hair a glory like a saint :
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven.

Devotedness of.

Keats.

There is one in the world who feels for him who is sad a keener pang than he feels for himself; there is one to whom

reflected joy is better than that which comes direct; there is one who rejoices in another's honour more than in any which is one's own; there is one on whom another's transcendent excellence sheds no beam but that of delight; there is one who hides another's infirmities more faithfully than one's own; there is one who loses all sense of self in the sentiment of kindness, tenderness, and devotion to another;-that one is woman.

Washington Irving.

Though for myself alone

I would not be ambitious in my wish,
To wish myself much better, yet, for you,
I would be trebled twenty times myself:

A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times
More rich;

That only to stand high on your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account, but the full sum of me
Is sum of something: which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised;
Happy in this, she is not yet so old

But she may learn; and happier than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ;
Happiest of all, is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours
Is now converted but now I was the lord

Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now,
This house, these servants, and this same myself,
Are yours, my lord.

Shakespeare.

A Poet's Description of her Dignity.

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,

That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair; Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould,

They nearly reach'd her heels; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies Deepest attraction; for when to the view Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,

Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew :
"Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length
And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

Her brow was white and low; her cheek's pure dye,
Like twilight, rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lip-sweet lips that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such; for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary.

Byron.