haracter. It happened one evening, as the Countess was anticipating
the joys of Heaven, by an analogy drawn from the delights which
Bellingham-Castle afforded, and which she supposed would there be
increased in an infinite ratio, that her humble companion ventured to
recall her imagination to this world, by producing what she thought a
very pretty poem on the subject of love, which she found in their chamber
at the miserable old delinquent's at Ribblesdale. Lady Bellingham shook
her head at the name of love, commanded Mrs. Abigail to avoid the sinful
subject, and to expiate the offence by reading fifty pages of "a popular
fanatical treatise."

As the waiting-gentlewoman retired to perform the penance, Lady
Bellingham commanded her to leave the paper that she might destroy it.
But though the word Love was dangerous to a tyro in Antinomianism, the
situation of the initiated is very different; to the former all things
are sinful, but the latter being free from the law, and above ordinances,
have a large licence. Valuing herself now only on her spiritual graces,
Lady Bellingham opened the profane legend, which, she expected, described
personal attractions; and to her astonishment recognized the writing of
her son, of whom she had heard no certain tidings since the battle of
Preston, but who was supposed, both by Cromwell and herself, to be in the
north of Ireland, where an officer of the same name had gained celebrity.
The date proved that he had been a resident in Dr. Beaumont's family; no
name was prefixed, but the lines breathed a permanent attachment, to
which, after some resistance, he had entirely surrendered his heart.

O place thy breast against a turbid stream,
Beat with strong arm the flood, and tread the wave,
Or toil incessant 'neath the burning beam,
When, like a giant woke from wassail-dream,
Sol rushes furious from the lion's cave:

Then mayst thou know how hard to stem the tide
Of chaste desire, and love's o'erwhelming storm,
When by entranc'd affection first descry'd,
Beauty and truth, such as in Heaven reside,
Appear on earth in woman's lovely form.

Is there a charm in wisdom? Is there power
In blushing modesty's retiring air?
Looks patience lovely in affliction's hour?
Is not humility a priceless flower?
And filial piety divinely fair?

And bloom such graces in this narrow dell,
Bosom'd in hills, from civil discord