®am£llia Sajmmta. 157 
There’s a proud modesty in merit! 
Averse from asking, and resolved to pay 
Ten times the gift it asks. 
Dryden. 
Oh, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it, 
To lock it in the wards of covert bosom; 
When it deserves with characters of brass 
A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time, 
And razure of oblivion. 
Shakspeare. 
Thine is a mind of maiden artlessness! 
Unstained, undarkened, by the dross of earth; 
A soul, that through thine eyes, bright beams express 
Thy nature, e’en as noble as thy birth; 
Whose every glance reflects the gem enshrined, 
Worthy a form so fair; the diamond of the mind. 
Anon. 
Ilis resting-place is noted by a stone 
Of whitest marble: truthful words are those 
Inscribed thereon. The scene of his repose 
Befits his life: ’twas beautiful and calm. 
In meekness and in love he went his way, 
Uprightly walking—filling up the day 
With useful deeds. He often poured the balm 
Of healing into wounded breasts; nor sought 
The praise of men in doing good. 
MacKellar. 
14 
