ould be, and thus gives vent to her feelings.

_On receiving certain Intelligence that my most amiable and beloved
Brother, Peter Heywood, would soon be restored to Freedom_.
Oh, blissful hour!--oh moment of delight!
Replete with happiness, with rapture bright!
An age of pain is sure repaid by this,
'Tis joy too great--'tis ecstasy of bliss!
Ye sweet sensations crowding on my soul,
Which following each other swiftly roll,--
Ye dear ideas which unceasing press,
And pain this bosom by your wild excess,
Ah! kindly cease--for pity's sake subside,
Nor thus o'erwhelm me with joy's rapid tide:
My beating heart, oppress'd with woe and care,
Has yet to learn such happiness to bear:
From grief, distracting grief, thus high to soar,
To know dull pain and misery no more,
To hail each op'ning morn with new delight,
To rest in peace and joy each happy night,
To see my Lycidas from bondage free,
Restored to life, to pleasure, and to me,
To see him thus--adorn'd with virtue's charms,
To give him to a longing mother's arms,
To know him by surrounding friends caress'd,
Of honour, fame, of life's best gifts possess'd,
Oh, my full heart! 'tis joy--'tis bliss supreme,
And though 'tis real--yet, how like a dream!
Teach me then, Heav'n, to bear it as I ought,
Inspire each rapt'rous, each transporting thought;
Teach me to bend beneath Thy bounteous hand,
With gratitude my willing heart expand:
To Thy omnipotence I humbly bow,
Afflicted once--but ah! how happy now!
Restored in peace, submissive to Thy will,
Oh! bless his days to come--protect him still;
Prolong his life, Thy goodness to adore,
And oh! let sorrow's shafts ne'er wound him more.
NESSY HEYWOOD. _London, October 15th, 1792, Midnight_.

[34] Mr. Graham's daughter.

[35] Several elegiac stanzas were written on the death of this
accomplished young lady. The following are dated from her native place,
the Isle of Man, where her virtues and accomplishments could best be
appreciated.
How soon, sweet maid! how like a fleeting dream
The winning graces, all thy virtues seem!
How soon arrested in thy early bloom
Has fate decreed thee to the joyless tomb!
Nor beauty, genius, nor the Muse's care,
Nor aught could move the tyrant Death to spare:
Ah! could their power revoke the ste