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Say, what is woman ?-a lovely flow'r,-
The lily, in purity;

As the rose-fair, in her op'ning hour;
The sun flow'r, in constancy.

Say, what is woman?-I pr'ythee, say,—
The gem of worldly treasures;
Our firm support in adversity's day;-
The zest of earthly pleasures.

Then prize dear woman, and love her well,-
To her, be each fond thought giv'n;
Her beaming smile is our life's bright spell,
"Her kiss, our passport to heav'n."

J. W. E.

MEMOIRS OF CONSTANTIA GRIERSON.

That the most splendid talents united with the most intense application, is not confined either to sex or sphere of life, is fully evinced by the subject of the present memoir. This prodigy of early learning and acquirements (whose maiden name is no where mentioned,) was born in the county of Kilkenny, Ireland, of parents poor and illiterate. Nothing is recorded of her until her eighteenth year, when we are told by Mrs. Pilkington, that she was brought to her father to be instructed in midwifery, and that then she was a perfect mistress of the Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and French languages, and was far advanced in the study of the mathematics. Mr. Pilkington having inquired of her where she gained this prodigious knowledge, she modestly replied, that when she could spare time from her needle-work to which she was closely kept by her mother, she had received some little instruction from the minister of her parish. She wrote elegantly, (says Mrs. P.) both in verse and prose; but the turn of her mind was chiefly to philosophical or divine subjects; nor was her piety inferior to her learning. The most delightful hours, this lady declares that she had ever passed, were in the society and conversation of this " female philosopher." My father (adds she) readily consented to accept Constantia as a pupil, and gave her a general invitation to his table, by which means we were rarely

asunder. Whether it was owing to her own design, or to the envy of those who survived her, I know not, but of her various and beautiful writings I have never seen any published, excepting one poem of hers in the works of Mrs. Barber. Her turn, it is true, was principally to philosophical or religous subjects, which might not be agreeable to the present taste; yet could her heavenly mind descend from its sublimest heights to the easy and epistolary style, and suit itself to my then gay disposition."

Mrs. Barber, likewise, gives her testimony to the merit of Constantia, of whom she declares, "that she was not only happy in a fine imagination, a great memory, an excellent understanding, an exact judgment, but had all these crowned by virtue and piety. She was too learned to be vain, too wise to be conceited, and too clear sighted to be irreligious. As her learning and abilities raised her above her own sex, so they left her no room to envy; and on the contrary, her delight was to see others excel. She was always ready to direct and advise those who applied to her, and was herself willing to be advised. So little did she value herself upon her uncommon excellencies, that she has often recalled to my mind a fine reflection of a French author, That great geniusses should be superior to their own abilities.' Constantia married a Mr. George Grierson, a printer in Dublin, for whom Lord Carteret, then Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, obtained a patent, appointing him printer to the king, in which, to distinguish and reward the merit of his wife, her life was inserted.

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She died in 1733, at the premature age of twenty-seven, admired and respected as an excellent scholar in Greek and Roman literature, in history, theology, philosophy, and mathematics. Her dedication of the Dublin edition of Tacitus to Lord Carteret, affords a convincing proof of her knowledge in the Latin tongue; and by that of Terence to his son, to whom she wrote a Greek epigram. Dr. Hazwood esteems her Tacitus one of the best edited books ever published. She wrote many fine poems in English, but esteemed them so slightly, that very few copies of them were to be found after her decease. What makes her character more remarkable is, that she rose to this extraordinary eminence entirely by the force of natural genius and uninterrupted application.

SONG. FOR MUSIC.

BY REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

Thou art a spirit unto me,
Though I am far away,

For, the loveliness that shone from thee,
Will haunt me many a day!
Methinks I see thy maiden eye,
So deeply blue, and meek,
And the roses of the morning sky
Reflected on thy cheek.

Thy memory has entwin'd my dreams

To thy distant homely hearth,

Where we heard the laugh and shout of streams,
And the sybil-cuckoo's mirth;
And when the stars are brightly hung

In the heavenly fields of blue,

May thy sweetest hymn to them be sung,
As my lips adore them too.

ΤΟ

We meet, but not as once we met,
When passion fill'd each vein;
Our sun of love too soon has set,
'Twill never rise again.

And thou whose falsehood this change wrought,

Thy eyes are dim as mine;

Could not that wealth so dearly bought

Then cause those eyes to shine?

'Tis even so thy golden store
Cannot to thee real joy impart;
Time passes on, but never more
Will it bring pleasure to thy heart.

F. A.

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THE WIDOW AND ORPHAN.

My mother! now my father's dead,
And you are all that's left to me,
These hands shall work to gain you bread-
This heart shall pour its prayer for thee;
Then, oh, my mother! cease those tears,
And let us look for brighter years.

""Tis true we shall not have the pleasure,
Since he, the life of all, has fled;
And well we know our greatest treasure

On this fair earth is with the dead:
But yet, since 'tis the will of heaven,
Oh, should you to despair be driven?
"And think, dear mother! if 'tis thus
You weep, because my father's gone,
How should I feel, if to the dust

My other parent too was borne !
Do, dearest mother! seek a balm,
And try that weeping heart to calm."
"Oh! could I be as I have been!

Oh! could I feel that rapt'rous joy,
As oft I've felt, when I have seen
His coming form, and held my boy,
To give the dear, the loving kiss,

And see him taste earth's brightest bliss.
"And though so many years have sped,
Since first I knew thy father dear,
How quickly all of them seem fled,
Now that he's gone and left me here
To mourn the loss of all that bliss,
For we had found a heaven in this.

"Then do not talk to me of pleasure,
Since that I know has ever fled;
And though I still have one dear treasure,
It never can be like the dead:

He was my life, my bliss, my joy,
And thou art my lov'd orphan boy."

Wisbech.

E. E.

IN MEMORY OF CAROLINE,

WHO SUDDENLY DIED IN THE NINETEENTH YEAR OF HER AGE,
DEEPLY LAMENTED, OCT. 22, 1829.

Sweet Asphodel! whose birth
Beneath affection's skies,
Endeared thee to the best of earth,
And gladden'd lovers' eyes!

Fair Flower! in youthful prime
Unequall'd, unexcell'd;

And cropped before love's summer time
His perfect empire held !

The eye of faith was fixed
On thee, the lip of truth!
Pronounced thy virtuous beauties mixed
With all the charms of youth!
Thou'rt now entomb'd with flowers
E'en like thyself hope's flower!
Grief cadences the whisp'ring hours,
Which echo sorrow's power!

But, as the root survives,

When all of bloom has fled,

Thy loveliness of spirit lives,

Though thou to earth art dead!

J. R. PRIOR.

THE PICTURE OF THE DEAD.

BY REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

The same-and yet how beautiful! the same-
As memory meets thee through the mist of years.

T.K. Hervey.

Sweet image! thou hast charm'd my heart
With music of the past,

And thy dear lips have sung to me,
When blue skies wooed our haunted tree :-
But is this look thy last?

I've seen thee when the stars hung bright
Amid their azure sea,-

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