tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a
duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work,
"Woman's History," appeared in 1848.

In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and
has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic
avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson
continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary
pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more
ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.

GENTLENESS.

Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,
'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;
The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,
In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!

What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,
And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;
'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,
And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!

Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,
Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;
A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood--
Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!

No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,
Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,
And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,
And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.

An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,
And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand--
Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,
Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!

I long'd to weep--I strove to speak--no words came from my tongue,
Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;
The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;
I could have borne to meet thy wrath--'twas death to see thee kind!

'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,
A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;
But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,
The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!
O G