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The Biographical Sketches,” and “Notes, on the Poets," while they were compiled for your ultimate improvement, were thought at the time too advanced for the capaci. ties of all our household band, as their readings have been given to you at different times. The pleasure of novelty is necessa rily precluded by a former acquaintance; but instead of this, you will find the tender interest of association, which to your minds will supersede that of talent and ability.

Accept, my dear ones, in the repugnance which I have conquered to comply with your wishes, another evidence of my devoted love.


A beautiful picture of the Crucifixion hangs over the altar of St. Mary's, where from our earliest recollections we were used to assemble for divine worship. So dear had it become to us, that we often felt a longing when absent to gaze upon the sad and beautiful lineaments there represented.

My Jesus, I am sadly gazing,

Upon that still, pale form of Thine;
The thronged worshippers have left Thee,

And I alone bend at Thy shrine.

Nearer, still nearer, I approach Thee,

Nor pause, till prostrate at Thy feet;
Refuse me not, my Lord and Master,

This commune short, these moments brief.

Here 'neath the shadow of Thy woes,

I learn the ransom paid for man; Thine be the school, my heart to teach

Thine be the rule, each act to scan.

And thou, sweet Mary, mother, mine,

On his cold brow thy lips are pressed; Thy twining arms are 'round Him flung,

With more than human tenderness.

Oh! by the love thou did'st receive,

Oh! by the love thou did'st impart, Obtain for me, I ask no more,

A refuge in His bleeding heart.

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'Tis the hour my spirit loves

Twilight, with its robes of gray,
With the deeper shades of even,

Other thoughts and se e lings play.

Now I close my eyes to outward,

Now my soul is turned within, Welcome, memory, with my dear ones,

Lead them, softly, gently in.

Once again, those happy faces,

Smiles and tender looks of love;
Memory, thou hast holy power,

Traversing the realms abore.

I lend me to the sweet delusion,

And I listen, mother dear, For the prayers you taught my childhood

Seem to float upon my ear.

Sister! with the deep, dark eye,

Sister! with the poet brow, Thy soft notes at eventide

Linger, oh! so fondly now.

Mother, sister, absent brother,

Parted by the deep, blue main, Shall we ever clasp each other?

Shall we ever meet again ?

Though my present hath its gladness,

Though my steps are watched by love, Still I languish for the hour

When on memory's wings I rove.

Then I hail the pensive twilight,

And its mantling robes of gray, With the deeper shades of even,

Other thoughts and feelings play.

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