Thus peaceful she died, but still lingered the trace

Of the image divine on her cold pallid face.

In the lone, quiet tomb where she’s longed to repose,

She rests from life’s cares, from its “burden of woes,”

Beside her loved father, to memory dear—

O’er the graves of these loved, I withhold not the tear.

The Slave of Appetite.

What stings of conscience men will bear,

Their tastes to gratify;

Resolve and re-resolve, and still

Themselves cannot deny.

They say, “I’d give a thousand worlds

Could I the victory gain.”

Your cause is just, to conquer here,

And all your rights maintain.

“What use,” you ask, “to say I will,

And almost know I shan’t;

I’ve tried, and tried, and tried again,

To quit, but oh! I can’t.”

Well, be it so; your course pursue,

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