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THE

SOLDIER'S ORPHAN:

A TALE.

CHAP. I.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art, her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,

To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is to die.

GOLDSMITH.

LEAVING Lord Belmour, whom Louis requested to wait a few minutes, she ascended to the chamber of the deceased with Mrs. Mason, where lay the mortal

remains of the beautiful Miss Conway. Serene and lovely in death, no trace of sorrow was on that countenance, so lately marked with its deepest lines; she appeared to have indeed, by the sweet placidity of her features,

As Louisa bent over the cold inanimate corse, and bedewed its pale face with her tears, she could not help reflecting on the goodness and mercy of God, who had thought proper to call her away from a life so truly wretched as hers must have been: endowed by him with so much sensibility, the remembrance of her past errors would have embittered her future life; but she now humbly trusted her penitence had been accepted, and that her sufferings in this life had atoned for her faults.

She also hoped it would serve as a useful lesson to Lord Belmour; for that