The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
Oh, Sister! sing the song once more,
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.
'Twere almost sacrilege to sing
Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.
When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, Sister! sing the song I love?
To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses in one
place approach the verge of meaning, but are on the wrong side of the
line: to none can it be necessary to say, that they breathe the deep
feeling of a mind essentially poetical.
"Her desire of knowledge increased as she grew more capable of
appreciating its worth;" and she appreciated much beyond its real worth
the advantages which girls derive from the ordinary course of female
education. "Oh!" she said one day to her mother, "that I only possessed
half the means of improvement which I see others slighting! I should
be the happiest of the happy." A youth whom nature has endowed with
diligence and a studious disposition has, indeed, too much reason to
regret the want of that classical education which is wasted upon the
far greater number of those on whom it is bestowed; but, for a girl who
displays a promise of genius like Lucretia, and who has at hand the
Bible and the best poets in her own language, no other assistance can be
needed in her progress than a supply of such books as may store her mind
with knowledge.
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