Ah! no, what solace can existence give
To one condemn'd in infamy to live.
Who, scorn'd by others-of himself asham'd,
Is shunn'd, and spoke of-only to be blam'd;
When truth and virtue from the breast depart.
The clouds of sorrow gather round the heart;
And keen remorse, where'er we chance to stray,
Becomes the sole companion of our way.

Yet, tho' degraded to a state like this,
And 'reft of social and domestic bliss,
If doom'd to visit that opprobrious land,
Where impious exiles form a desperate band,
Some sober scheme I'll studiously enforce,
And, self-repenting, tread in virtue's course;
A little useful seminary found,

And spread the fiame of reformation round;
Instruct the offspring of ill-fated hinds,

And sow the seeds of wisdom in their minds :
Teach them to teem with sympathetic thoughts,
And weep in pity o'er another's faults;
Till, wak'd to prudence by their parent's shame
They grow ambitious of a virtuous name.

But, ah! what favor can I hope to find?
No glimpse of pardon dawns upon my mind!
Fate calls my trembling spirit to the skies,
And ignominious death must seal mine eyes!

To Thee, great God, whose piercing eye can dart Through the dark windings of the human heart, To Thee I pour my supplicating cries

For Thou art, yet, as merciful as wise;
Oh! deign from Thy ethereal throne to hear

The invocation of a soul sincere :

And, since Thy goodness has allow'd me time

To see my error, and repent my crime,

Oh! grant an earnest of eternal day,
Nor cast Thy prostrate penitent away!"

The Leicester landlord's daughter was inconsolable; she became religious; she first attached herself to a Methodist congregation, and eventually joined the Society of Friends. She altogether rejected the further advances of King, refusing to marry a man who had been instrumental in bringing her favored lover to so untimely an end.

THE KESWICK IMPOSTURE,

Sweet Muse, the child and friend of woe,
Sweet Lyre, to sorrow ever dear,

Oh, may your softest accents flow
To mourn the Maid of Buttermere !

As some fresh violet in the dale,
Delights its lonely head to rear,
And spreads its fragrance on the gale,
So bloomed the Maid of Buttermere.
As 'scapes the bud the clouted shoon,

And many a wandering footstep near,
So 'scapes through nature's dangerous noon
The grace and charm of Buttermere.
As some rude townsman passes by,
And plucks the flower to all so dear,
So one rude hand, one keener eye,

Plucked the fair flower of Buttermere.

If by true passion led astray,

Thy bosom felt love's tender tear,
Who shall not mourn the fatal day

That crushed the pride of Buttermere.

The wounded flower shall still survive,
Shall bloom and charm some future year,

But who shall bid that heart revive

That beats so sad at Buttermere ?

For Mary many a tear shall fall,

And heaved be many a sigh sincere,
And oft shall pitying breasts recall
The bursting heart at Buttermere.

The Gentle Shepherd of Witham.

THE melancholy story of Mary of Buttermere has been over and over again a subject with poets and romancists. In the

period of her far-famed beauty, as well as that of her unmerited misfortunes, she long formed one of the attractions of the lovely district in which she resided. Although in her own neighborhood she had been known from childhood as the Beauty of Buttermere, the first cause of the general interest attaching to Mary Robinson (for that was her name) was this. One of the many travelers who frequented the inn kept by her father in the village of Buttermere, at the side of the lake, and near the town of Keswick, happened to be an author, and wrote a very popular book entitled a "Fortnight's Ramble to the Lakes in Westmoreland, Lancashire, and Cumberland." He there, amid his admiration of the wonderful witchery of the glorious landscapes he had visited, discoursed in glowing terms on the enchanting beauty, grace, and intellect on the daughter of mine host. Mary, by general accord, was the loveliest inhabitant of that lovely scene; "when a' the fairest maids were met," she was "the fairest maid." Unlike, however, the bonnie Jean of Burns' famous ballad-probably, by the way, the most exquisite love ditty ever penned the Beauty of Buttermere had to experience not the truth but the treachery of man. Owing to the praises in the "Fortnight's Ramble," she became a wonder, and the crowds who thronged each season to the lakes thought their journey incomplete unless they saw and conversed with Mary Robinson. She had to live in a perfect atmosphere of admiration and compliments. The very writer of the "Fortnight's Ramble" took alarm at the danger to which so much attraction exposed the object of his praise; and it is somewhat singular and not a little melancholy to find him taking occasion, on his revisit to the lakes, to warn poor Mary of her perilous situation. This author, in the account of his second ramble, thas

depicts Mary, and relates the circumstance of his admonition. "Mary Robinson," says he—he was at Mary's inn at the time -"has really a heavenly countenance; yet is she far from a perfect beauty; and in a few years she may grow too large even to have been thought what she now is. She is nineteen, and very tall; her voice is sweetly modulated, and in every point of manner, she appeared such as might be fitted to shine. in courts with unaffected lustre. The weather was lowering, and I did not wish, in case of a downfall, to be cribbed in Buttermere; therefore seizing the opportunity of our being alone, I told Mary I knew the author of the "Fortnight's Ramble,' and as such I had something to say to her. She curtsied respectfully, and taking her by the hand I began. 'Mary, I wrote it, and I rejoice in having had such an opportunity of minutely observing the propriety of your behavior. You may remember I advise you in that book never to leave your native vale: your age and situation require the utmost care. Strangers have come and will come purposely to see you, and some of them with very bad intentions. I hope you will never suffer from them; but, never cease to be on your guard. You are really not so handsome as you promised to be, and I have long wished by conversation like this to do away what mischief the flattering character I gave you may expose you to. Be merry and wise.' She told me she sincerely thanked me, and said, 'I hope, sir, I ever have, and trust I always shall take care of myself.' I then bade her farewell."

Alas! even the kind and well-intentioned traveler in his caution could not have anticipated the strange and foul deception which awaited her, and which her very virtue could not guard against. Mary sinned not, but was undone. The