And rayless that night is, that morning unblest,
When no beam in your eye, lights up peace in the breast;
And the sharp thorn of sorrow sinks deep in the heart,
Till the sweet lip of Woman assuages the smart;
'Tis her's o'er the couch of misfortune to bend,
In fondness a lover, in firmness a friend;
And prosperity's hour, be it ever confest,
From Woman receives both refinement and zest;
And adorn'd by the bays, or enwreath'd with the willow,
Her smile is our meed, and her bosom our pillow.

ARRIVED at Grosvenor Square, they found the party consisted of Colonel
B----, his son and daughter, Miss Mortimer, and her brother, Mr.
Sparkle, Mr. Merrywell, and Lady Lovelace. The first salutations of
introduction being over, there was time to observe the company, among
whom, Miss Mortimer appeared to be the principal magnet of attraction.
The old Colonel was proud to see the friends of Mr. Sparkle, and had
previously given a hearty welcome to Mr. Merrywell, as the friend of his
nephew, the young Mortimer. Sparkle now appeared the gayest of the gay,
and had been amusing the company with some of his liveliest descriptions
of character and manners, that are to be witnessed in the metropolis.
While Merrywell, who did not seem to be pleased with the particular
attentions he paid to Miss Mortimer, was in close conversation with her
brother.

Tom could not but acknowledge that it was scarcely possible to see Miss
Mortimer, without feelings of a nature which he had scarcely experienced
before. The elegant neatness of her dress was calculated to display the
beauty of her form, and the vivid flashes of a dark eye were so
many irresistible attacks upon the heart; a sweet voice, and smiling
countenance, appeared to throw a radiance around the room, and
illuminate the visages of the whole ~186~~party, while Lady Lovelace
and Maria B---- served as a contrast to heighten that effect which
they envied and reproved. While tea was preparing, after which it was
proposed to take a rubber at cards, a sort of general conversation took
place: the preparations for the Coronation, the new novels of the day,
and the amusements of the theatre, were canvassed in turn; and speaking
of the writings of Sir Walter Scott, as the presumed author of the
celebrated Scotch novels, Lady Lovelace declared she found it impossible
to procure the last published from the libra