"The Servant started back a few
paces, at sight of the tremendous
fist which the Farmer clenched."

Page 15

PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE;

OR, THE

FARMER'S DAUGHTERS.

A Bomestic Story.

BY HANNAH MARIA JONES,

AUTHORESS OF

The Gipsy Mother, Emily Moreland, Rosaline Woodbridge, Scottish Chieftains, &c &c.

What is our hope? a rainbow in the skies,

That lures us on, but as we follow, flies!

What is our pleasure? but the dream that leads

'Mid elfin palaces and flowery meads,

Then wakes to dark reality-to woe

And all the ills that wait man's path below!

What is our trust?-the leaf in autumn's bower

Is not more frail, the phantom of an hour!

Yet let us deem not, though alike for all

The daily sun may shine, the dews may fall-
That though on all the brumal tempests beat,
That though on all young spring bestows her heat-
Though summer ripens, and though autumn yields
For all the aureate treasures of her fields-
Let us not deem that Truth has empty claims,
That Right and Wrong are accidental names,
That conscious strength is not to Virtue given,
Or that this crooked path will lead to Heaven!

DELTA.

EMBELLISHED WITH SUPERIOR STEEL ENGRAVINGS.

LONDON:

GEORGE VIRTUE, 26, IVY LANE, PATERNOSTER ROW.

BODLEIAA

- 4 DEC 1963

LIBRARY