<£otoj&Ifp. 115 
Again, again, when many springs 
Upon my grave shall shine, 
Here shall you speak of vanished things, 
To living hearts of mine. 
Mrs. Howitt. 
Blest are the pure and simple hearts, 
Unconsciously refined, 
By the free gifts that Heaven imparts 
Through nature to the mind ; 
Not all the pleasures wealth can buy 
Equal their happy destiny. 
Mrs. Wells. 
0 Nature! a’ thy shows an’ forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 
Whether the simmer kindly warms, 
Wi’ life an’ light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 
The lang, dark night! 
Burns. 
Melancholy 
Sits on me, as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself 
'Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between man 
And man—an everlasting mist. 
Byron. 
