t see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!

How oft I've watched the freshening shower
Bending the summer tree and flower,
And felt my little heart beat high
As the bright rainbow graced the sky!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!

And shall I never see thee more,
My native lake, my much-loved shore?
And must I bid a long adieu,
My dear, my infant home, to you?
Shall I not see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain?"

But Margaret was happy; the family were reunited, and she had health
sufficient to allow her to pursue her studies, still under her
mother's direction. She was fond, too, of devising little plans for
intellectual improvement and amusement: among others, a weekly
newspaper was issued in manuscript, called the "Juvenile Aspirant."
But this happiness was soon clouded. Her own severe illness excited
alarming fears; and hardly was she convalescent, when, in the spring
of 1834, intelligence was received from Canada of the death of her
eldest sister. This was a severe shock, for she had always looked up
to this only surviving sister as to one who would supply the place of
her seemingly dying mother. But she forgot her own grief in trying to
solace that of her mother. Her feelings, as usual, were expressed in
verses, which are as remarkable for their strain of sober piety as for
poetical merit. The following are portions of an address--

"TO MY MOTHER, OPPRESSED WITH SORROW.

"Weep, O my mother! I will bid thee weep,
For grief like thine requires the aid of tears;
But O, I would not see thy bosom thus
Bowed down to earth, with anguish so severe;
I would not see thine ardent feelings crushed,
Deadened to all save sorrow's thrilling tone,
Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head
Beneath the chilling blasts of Eolus!

. . . . . . . . . .

When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief,
And fondly pleads one cheering look to view,
A sad, a faint, sad smile one instant gleams
Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined,
Brooding o'er ruins of what once was fair;
But like departing sunset, as it throws
One farewell shadow o'er the sleeping earth,
Thus, thus it fades! and sorrow more profound
Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold,
It scarcely might be called the mockery
Of cheerful peace, but just before had been.

. . . . . . . . . .

But, O my mother, we