"Oh, shall I ne'er behold thy waves again,
My native lake, my beautiful Champlain ?
Shall I no more above thy ripples bend

In sweet communion with my childhood's friend?
"Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave,
The patriot's cradle and the warrior's grave?

Thy mountains, tinged with daylight's parting glow ?
Thy islets, mirror'd in the stream below?

"Back! back!-thou present! robed in shadows lie,
And rise, thou past, before my raptured eye!
Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between,
And memory's hand shall paint the glowing scene!
"Lo! how the view beneath her pencil grows!
The flow'ret blooms, the winding streamlet flows;
With former friends I trace my footsteps o'er,
And muse, delighted, on my own green shore!
"Alas it fades-the fairy dream is past!
Dissolved the veil by sportive fancy cast.

Oh why should thus our brightest dreams depart,
And scenes illusive cheat the longing heart?

"Where'er through future life my steps may roam,
I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home;
With all my joys the thought of thee shall blend,

And joined with thee, shall rise my childhood's friend.

"Mother is most truly alive to all these feelings. During our first year in New York, we were living a few miles from the city, at one of the loveliest situations in the world! I think I have seldom seen a sweeter spot; but all its beauties could not divert her thoughts from our own dear home, and despite the superior advantages we there enjoyed, she wept to enjoy it again. But enough of this; if I suffer my fancy to dwell longer upon these loved scenes, I shall scribble over my whole sheet, and, leaving out what I most wish to say, fill it with nothing but 'Home, home, sweet, sweet home!' as the song goes.

June, 1837.

"Now for the mighty theme upon which I scarcely dare to dwell: my visit to Plattsburgh! Yes, my dear H., I do think, or rather I do hope, that such a time may come when I may spend at least a week with you. I dare not hope for a longer time, for I know I shall be disappointed. About the middle of this month brother graduates, and will leave West Point for home. He intends to visit Plattsburgh, and it will take much to wean me from my favourite plan of accompanying him. However, all is uncertain-I must not think of it too much-but if I do come, it will be with the hope of gaining a still greater pleasure. We are now delightfully situated. Can you not return with me, and make me a visit? What joy is like the joy of anticipation? What

pleasure like those we look forward to, through a long lapse of time, and dwell upon as some bright land that we shall inhabit when the present shall have become the past? I have heard it observed that it was foolish to anticipate— that it was only increasing the pangs of disappointment. Not so: do we not, in our most sanguine hopes, acknowTedge to ourselves a fear, a doubt, an expectation of disappointment? Shall we lose the enjoyment of the present, because evil may come in future? No, no-if anticipation was not meant for a solace, an alleviation of the sorrows of life, would it have been so strongly implanted in our hearts by the great Director of all our passions? No-it is too precious! I would give up half the reality of joy for the sweet anticipation. Stop-I have gone too far-for indeed I could not resign my visit to you, though I might hope and anticipate for years!

"Just as I had written the above, father interrupted me with an invitation to ride. We have just returned from a long, delightful drive. Though Ballston cannot compare with Plattsburgh for its rich and varied scenery, still there are romantic woods and shady paths which cannot fail to delight the true lover of nature.

"So you do have the blues, eh? I had almost said I was glad of it; but that would be too cruel-I will only say, one does not like to be alone, or in any thing singular, and I too, once in a while, receïve a visit from these provoking imps -are they not? You should not have blamed Scott only, (excuse me,) but yourself, for selecting such a book to chase away melancholy.

"You ask me if I remember those story-telling days? Indeed I do, and nothing affords me more pleasure than the recollection of those happy hours! If my memory could only retain the particulars of my last story, gladly would I resume and continue it when I meet you again. I will ease your heart of its fear for mine—your scolding did not break it. My dear H., it is not made of such brittle materials as to crack for a trifle. No, no! It would be far more prudent to save it entire for some greater occasion, and then make the crash as loud as possible-don't you think so? Oh nonsensical nonsense! Well,

"The greatest and the wisest men
Will fool a little now and then.'

But I believe I will not add another word, lest my pen should slide off into some new absurdity."

On the 1st of May, 1837, the family left New York for Ballston. They had scarce reached there when Mrs. David

son had an attack of inflammatory rheumatism, which confined her to her bed, and rendered her helpless as an infant. It was Margaret's turn now to play the nurse, which she did with the most tender assiduity. The paroxysms of her mother's complaint were at first really alarming, as may be seen by the following extract of a letter from Margaret to Miss Sedgwick, written a short time afterwards:

"We at first thought she would never revive. It was indeed a dreadful hour, my dear madam-a sad trial for poor father and myself, to watch, as we supposed, the last agonies of one so beloved as my dear mother! But the cloud has passed by, and my heart, relieved from its burden, is filled, almost to overflowing, with gratitude and joy. After a few hours of dreadful suspense, reaction took place, and since then she has been slowly and steadily improving. In a few days, I hope, she will be able to ride, and breathe some of this delightful air, which cannot fail to invigorate and restore her. My own health has improved astonishingly since my coming here. I walk, and ride, and exercise as much as possible in the open air, and find it of great service to me. Oh how much I hope to see you here! * * * * Do, if possible, try the Ballston air once more. It has been useful to you once, it might be still more so now. You will find warm hearts to welcome you, and we will do all in our power to make your visit pleasant to you. The country does indeed look beautiful! The woods are teeming with wild flowers, and the air is full of melody. The soft, wild warbling of the birds is far more sweet to me than the most laboured performances of art; they may weary by repetition, but what heart can resist the influence of a lovely day ushered in by the morning song of those sweet carollers! and even to sleep, as it were, by their melodious evening strain How I wish you could be here to enjoy it with me."

The summer of 1837 was one of the happiest of her fleeting existence. For some time after the family removed to Ballston she was very much confined to the house by the illness of her mother, and the want of a proper female companion to accompany her abroad. At length, a Mr. and Mrs. H., estimable and intimate friends, of a highly intellectual character, came to the village. Their society was an invaluable acquisition to Margaret. In company with them she was enabled to enjoy the healthful recreations of the country; to ramble in the woods; to take exercise on horseback, of which she was extremely fond, and to make excursions about the

neighbourhood; while they exerted a guardian care to prevent her, in her enthusiastic love for rural scenery, from exposing herself to any thing detrimental to her health and strength. She gave herself up, for a time, to these exhilarating exercises, abstaining from her usual propensity to overtask her intellect, for she had imbibed the idea that active habits, cheerful recreations, and a holiday frame of mind would effectually re-establish her health. As usual, in her excited moods, she occasionally carried these really healthful practices to excess, and would often, says her mother, engage, with a palpitating heart, and a pulse beating at the rate of one hundred and thirty in a minute, in all the exercises usually prescribed to preserve health in those who are in full possession of the blessing. She was admonished of her danger by several attacks upon her lungs during the summer, but as they were of short duration, she still flattered herself that she was getting well. There seemed to be almost an infatuation in her case. The exhilaration of her spirits was at times so great as almost to overpower her. Often would she stand by the window admiring a glorious sunset, until she would be raised into a kind of ecstasy; her eye would kindle; a crimson glow would mount into her cheek, and she would indulge in some of her reveries about the glories of heaven, and the spirits of her deceased sisters, partly uttering her fancies aloud, until turning and catching her mother's eye fixed painfully upon her, she would throw her arms round her neck, kiss away the tears, and sink exhausted on her bosom. The excitement over, she would resume her calmness, and converse on general topics. Among her writings are fragments hastily scrawled down at this time, showing the vague aspirations of her spirit, and her vain attempts to grasp those shadowy images that sometimes flit across the poetic mind.

Oh for a something more than this,
To fill the void within my breast;

A sweet reality of bliss,

A something bright, but unexpress'd!

My spirit longs for something higher
Than life's dull stream can e'er supply;
Something to feed this inward fire,

This spark, which never more can die.

I'd hold companionship with all
Of pure, of noble, or divine;
With glowing heart adoring fall,
And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine.

My soul is like a broken lyre,

Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone;
A note, half trembling on the wire-

A heart that wants an echoing tone.

When shall I find this shadowy bliss,
This shapeless phantom of the mind?
This something words can ne'er express,
So vague, so faint, so undefined?

Language! thou never canst portray
The fancies floating o'er my soul!
Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away
Which o'er my changing visions roll!

And again—

Oh I have gazed on forms of light,

Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear-
Till in that fleeting space of sight
Were merged the feelings of a year.

And I have heard the voice of song,
Till my full heart gush'd wild and free,
And my rapt soul would float along
As if on waves of melody.

But while I glow'd at beauty's glance,
I long'd to feel a deeper thrill:
And while I heard that dying strain,
I sigh'd for something sweeter still.

I have been happy, and my soul
Free from each sorrow, care, regret;
Yet even in these hours of bliss

I long'd to find them happier yet.

Oft o'er the darkness of my mind

Some meteor thought has glanced at will;
'T was bright-but ever have I sigh'd
To find a fancy brighter still.

Why are these restless, vain desires,
Which always grasp at something more

To feed the spirit's hidden fires,

Which burn unseen-unnoticed soar?

Well might the heathen sage have known
That earth must fail the soul to bind;
That life, and life's tame joys, alone,

Could never chain the ethereal mind.

The above, as we have before observed, are mere fragments, unfinished and uncorrected, and some of the verses have a vagueness incident to the mood of mind in which they were conceived, and the haste with which they were penned, but in these lofty, indefinite aspirations of a young, halfschooled, and inexperienced mind, we see the early and im