And where in beauty rise my dead;
The land that speaks my native speech,
The blessed land I may not reach!
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing—where?
And spirit-sounds come answering this—
“There, where thou art not, there is bliss!”
THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST WASP OF SCOTLAND,
—A jeu-d’esprit produced at this time, which owed its origin to a simple remark on the unseasonableness of the weather, made by Mrs Hemans to Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, whom she was in the habit of seeing at Sir David Wedderburn’s. “It is so little like summer,” she said, “that I have not even seen a butterfly.” “A butterfly!” retorted Mr Sharpe, “I have not even seen a wasp!” The next morning, as if in confutation of this calumny, a wasp made its appearance at Lady Wedderburn’s breakfast table. Mrs Hemans immediately proposed that it should be made a prisoner, inclosed in a bottle, and sent to Mr Sharpe: this was accordingly done, and the piquant missive was acknowledged by him as follows:—