circumstances appear subsequently to have been more favourable. In July
1771, Miss Home became the wife of John Hunter, the distinguished
anatomist, to whom she bore two children. She afforded evidence of her
early poetical talent, by composing, before she had completed her
twenty-third year, the song beginning, "Adieu! ye streams that smoothly
glide." This appeared in the _Lark_, an Edinburgh periodical, in the
year 1765. In 1802, she published a collection of her poems, in an
octavo volume, which she inscribed to her son, John Banks Hunter.

During the lifetime of her distinguished husband, Mrs Hunter was in the
habit of receiving at her table, and sharing in the conversation of, the
chief literary persons of her time. Her evening _conversazioni_ were
frequented by many of the more learned, as well as fashionable persons
in the metropolis. On the death of her husband, which took place in
1793, she sought greater privacy, though she still continued to reside
in London. By those who were admitted to her intimacy, she was not more
respected for her superior talents and intelligence, than held in esteem
for her unaffected simplicity of manners. She was the life of her social
parties, sustaining the happiness of the hour by her elegant
conversation, and encouraging the diffident by her approbation. Amiable
in disposition, she was possessed of a beautiful countenance and a
handsome person. She wrote verses with facility, but she sought no
distinction as a poet, preferring to be regarded as a good housewife and
an agreeable member of society. In her latter years, she obtained
amusement in resuming the song-writing habits of her youth, and in
corresponding with her more intimate friends. She likewise derived
pleasure in the cultivation of music: she played with skill, and sung
with singular grace.

Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering
illness. Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the
collections of national poetry. Those selected for the present work have
long maintained a wide popularity. The songs evince a delicacy of
thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression.

THE INDIAN DEATH-SONG.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Reme