kably successful. From this time she employed her talents in the
composition of prose; she published "Adonia," a novel, in three volumes;
and various tales, essays, and fugitive pieces, forming contributions to
popular serials. Her later poems remain in manuscript. She maintained an
extensive correspondence with her literary friends, and spent much of
her time in reading and study, and in the practice of sincere and
unostentatious piety. Her faculties were vigorous and unimpared, until
the seizure of her last illness, which quickly terminated in death, on
the 9th October 1853, when she had nearly completed her seventy-sixth
year. She died at Forge, and was laid to rest in the church-yard of her
own beloved Canonbie.

[112] The memoir of Mrs G. G. Richardson has been kindly supplied by her
accomplished relative, Mrs Macarthur, Hillhead, near Glasgow.

THE FAIRY DANCE.

The fairies are dancing--how nimbly they bound!
They flit o'er the grass tops, they touch not the ground;
Their kirtles of green are with diamonds bedight,
All glittering and sparkling beneath the moonlight.

Hark, hark to their music! how silvery and clear--
'Tis surely the flower-bells that ringing I hear,--
The lazy-wing'd moth, with the grasshopper wakes,
And the field-mouse peeps out, and their revels partakes.

How featly they trip it! how happy are they
Who pass all their moments in frolic and play,
Who rove where they list, without sorrows or cares,
And laugh at the fetters mortality wears!

But where have they vanish'd?--a cloud 's o'er the moon,
I 'll hie to the spot,--they 'll be seen again soon--
I hasten--'tis lighter,--and what do I view?--
The fairies were grasses, the diamonds were dew.

And thus do the sparkling illusions of youth
Deceive and allure, and we take them for truth;
Too happy are they who the juggle unshroud,
Ere the hint to inspect them be brought by a cloud.

SUMMER MORNING.

How pleasant, how pleasant to wander away,
O'er the fresh dewy fields at the dawning of day,--
To have all this silence and lightness my own,
And revel with Nature, alone,--all alone!

What a flush of young beauty lies scatter'd around,
In this calm, holy sunshine, and stillness profound!
The myriads are sleeping, who waken to care,
And earth looks like Eden, ere Adam was there.

The herbage, the blossoms,