lse the sight of them
will cause remorse rather than pleasure. If I should
lose my soul through poetry? For the life of self
seems bound up in it; and "whosoever loveth his
life shall lose it." But perhaps it would be a needless
piece of austerity; it would be a great struggle;
it would be like binding myself for the future, not
to enjoy my treasured pleasure. The sacrifice which
is acceptable will always cost something. So I prevailed
upon myself to write a note, and lay it before
my father, asking him not to send them, trembling
lest he should dislike my changeableness, or I should
change again and repent it. My father said nothing,
but gave me back the lines when we were all together,
which was a mountain got over. I thought to have
had more peace after; but till this First-day I have
been very desolate, though, I believe, daily desiring
to seek my God above all; and thinking, sometimes,
that that for which I had made a sacrifice became
thereby dearer.

After this striking and instructive account, which shows how zealously
she endeavored to guard against any too absorbing influence, however
good and allowable in itself the thing might be, it seems not amiss to
remark that Eliza's taste for poetry was keen and discriminating; and
that her love of external nature, and more especially her deeper and
holier feelings, found appropriate expression in verse. If some of
these effusions show a want of careful finish, it must be remembered
that they were not written for publication, but for the sake of
embodying the feeling of the occasion, in that form which naturally
presented itself.

The pieces alluded to in the foregoing extracts are the following:--

"WHAT I DO THOU KNOWEST NOT NOW."

Hast thou long thy Lord's abiding
Vainly sought 'mid shadows dim?
Lo! His purpose wisely hiding,
Thee He seeks to worship him.

Shades of night, thy strain'd eye scorning,
Have they; long enwrapp'd the skies?
He, whose word commands the morning,
Soon shall bid the day-spring rise!

Are ten thousand fears desiring
To engulf their helpless prey?
One faint hope, his grace inspiring,
Is a mightier thing than they.

Has the foe his dark dominion,
As upon thy Saviour, tried?--
As to Him with hastening pinion,
Lo! the angels at thy side.

Is thy spirit all unfeeling,
Save to sin that grieves thee there?
Thee He'll make, his face r