closes the volume just mentioned, we turn to some reminiscences far more real and true, though recorded in verse; to a little poem, written in the spring of this year, and expressive of the fond and gentle feelings with which she ever turned to the scene whose loveliness it pictures in such simple colours. If it merited publication for no other reason, it might claim it for the sweetness of the reflections suggested to her by revisiting a spot endeared to her by friendships retained to the last hour of her life, and comforting her always from the first moment of their commencement. The poem refers to a visit to some valued friends, under whose roof the last months of her stay in England were passed. They were now residing chiefly in a beautiful spot at a short distance from the metropolis. To them, even at this time, L. E. L. was indebted for many of "those happy hours" which she in these verses alludes to; to the kind and sympathizing mistress of that house, she was even then under obligations for advice and for affection, to her of inestimable value; and from the family by whom that lady was surrounded, she received attentions and kindnesses that sprang not simply from admiration, but from real regard—not from delight in her talents merely, but from a confidence in her worth. The advantages she, at this, and at an earlier season, derived from her intimacy with this family increased month by month, and they were repaid with a true and steady attachment. This will be presently found recorded in a "farewell," a poem written upon resigning their generous protection, and quitting a country which she loved better for their sakes.
HAPPY HOURS.
Where are they—those happy hours,
Link'd with everything I see,
