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"Each joy thou could'st double, and when there came sorrow,
Or pale disappointment to dar en my way;

What voice was like thine! that could sing of to-morrow,
Till forgot in the strain, was the

gri

of to-day."

SCOTT.

LONDON:

MITCHELL AND SON, CHARING CROSS.

MDCCCXXXIX.

560.

Mitchell & Son, Printers, 39, Charing Cross.

PREFACE.

IN giving a more extensive circulation to these Poems by publication, my greatest anxiety is, that my motives may not be misconstrued, as one, who fearlessly encounters the unpleasant ordeal of a first appeal.

Indeed it is with extreme diffidence that I present the following fugitive pieces to the public, most of which were written at a very early period of life, and without the most distant view of ever being seen, save by a few of my most intimate friends, the perhaps, too great partiality of whom, may (in this instance) have induced me to publish them.

They have been the solace of many weary hours, when the loss of near, and dear friends, together

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with other distressing circumstances, too often required that alleviation from the severe pangs of grief and suffering, which the muse, blended with a more divine power, has ever tended to soften ; and proved a healing balm to my wounded heart, when the world, and all other sublunary things. appeared only a sterile wilderness,

It is a blest endeavour to diffuse happiness; and if the perusal of these simple efforts shall tend to chase the cloud from sorrow's brow,-dispel a mournful mood,-or light up the eye that grief had dimmed-then will my task have not been altogether fruitless,

Poetry is the spring-touch that calls into action all the finer feelings of our nature; and although looked upon by many with indifference, there are still a few, whose hearts reverberate to its thrilling numbers. The sublime fountain of imagination draws its inspiring influence at the ever-flowing

PREFACE.

spring, that issues forth from the throne of God, diffusing its refreshing streams to fertilize the drooping heart; and although it beams not so bright as in the days of yore, when heroes kindled their torch at its inspiring flame-when the bards of old bound their wisdom to its fascinating chain, and linked its harmony to their souls-still it beautifies the most rugged paths, with celestial bloom; and, like the little flower found by the African traveller,* in the desert, it raises the thoughts from nature's works, to nature's God.

I now offer my little Work, with all its imperfections, trusting for a kind reception from my indulgent readers; with most grateful thanks to those kind friends who have thus far aided me with their countenance and support.

MARGARET RICHARDSON.

*Mungo Park,

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