'Tis the last act which crowns the play

How great his theft, who robs himself!

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; Its checker'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread

To be resign'd when ills betide, Patient when favours are deni'd, And pleas'd with favours given,— Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of the heart Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

Yet still we hug the dear deceit.

If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam. The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.