says she, "by the advice of Lord Malden, I consented to meet his royal high

ness.

He accosted me with every appearance of tender attachment, declaring that he had never for one moment ceased to love me, but that I had many concealed enemies, who were exerting every effort to undermine me. We passed some hours in the most friendly and delightful conversation, and I began to flatter myself that all our differences were adjusted-But what words can express my surprize and chagrin, when, on mecting his royal highness the very next day in HydePark, he turned his head to avoid seeing me, and even affected not to know

me.

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Overwhelmed by this blow, my distress knew no limits. Yet heaven can witness the truth of my assertion, even in this moment of complete despair, when oppression bowed me to

the earth, I blamed not the Prince. I did then, and ever shall, consider his mind as nobly and honourably organized; nor could I teach myself to believe, that a heart, the seat of so many virtues, could possibly become inhuman and unjust. I had been taught from my infancy to believe that elevated stations are surrounded by delusive visions, which glitter but to dazzle like an unsubstantial meteor, and flatter to betray."

We shall only remark upon this narrative that it bears on the face of it unquestionable marks of sincerity and genuineness. It is written with the freedom of friendship, and the language and sentiments are such a person of a sensible and well-cultivated mind, but of strong feelings, writing on such a topic to a confidential friend, would in all probability use. It has indeed scarcely anything of the

air of an apology. Mrs. Robinson. candidly acknowledges that the manners, the accomplishments, the fascination of the heir apparent, completely seized upon her affections, and rendered her totally unable to resist his royal highness's advances. To this we may add, that to the latest period of her life her attachment for the Prince continued unabated. When on

her death-bed, she requested that a lock of her hair might be presented to his royal highness, and this mark of her regard is said to have been received on the part of the Prince with strong demonstrations of sensibility.

The beautiful poem which was published in the Annual Register, and entitled by Mrs. Robinson "Lincs to him who will understand them," evi- ' dently seems to have been composed at no very distant period from the date of her separation from the Prince. As

these lines breathe a pensive spirit of tenderness, affection, and regret, which none but an amiable and accomplished object could have inspired, we shall offer no apology to our readers for presenting them with an extract from them in this place.

"THOU art no more my bosom friend;
Here must the sweet delusion end,
That charm'd my senses many a year,
Thro' smiling summers, winters drear.—
O, Friendship! am I doom'd to find
Thou art a phantom of the mind?
A glitt'ring shade, an empty name,
An air-born vision's vap'rish flame?
And yet, the dear deceit so long
Has wak'd to joy my matin song,
Has bid my tears forget to flow;
Chas'd every pain, sooth'd ev'ry woe;
That truth, unwelcome to my ear,
Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear,
Gives to the sense the keenest smart,
Checks the warm pulses of the heart,
Darkens my fate, and steals away
Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.

Britain, farewel!* I quit thy shore:
My native country charms no more;
No guide to mark the toilsome road;
No destin'd clime; no fix'd abode :
Alone and sad; ordain'd to trace
The vast expanse of endless space;
To view, upon the mountain's height,
Thro' varied shades of glimm'ring light,
The distant landscape fade away
In the last gleam of parting day :-
Or, on the quiv'ring lucid stream,
To watch the pale moon's silv'ry beam;
Or when in sad and plaintive strains
The mournful Philomel complains,

In dulcet notes bewails her fate,
And murmurs for her absent mate;
Inspir'd by sympathy divine,

I'll weep her woes-for they are mine.
Driven by my fate, where'er I go,
O'er burning plains, o'er hills of snow,
Or on the bosom of the wave

The howling tempest doom'd to brave,-
Where'er my lonely course I bend,

Thy image shall my steps attend;

Mrs. Robinson at this period was about to set out on a four to the Continent, for the recovery of her health.