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202 ELIZABETH BOGART.

New York Mirror, under the signature of Estelle. Her poems have never been collected into a volume; nor has she (being a lady of independent fortune,) ever been compelled to write by any other motive than her own pleasure, or better still, to soothe sorrows not her own. Very often, we doubt not, the tribute of grateful love and praise (dearer than fame to a pious heart) has been gladly rendered to her, for the gentle sympathy of her friendly verses. One of her poems has been so frequently re-published, and so much admired, that Miss Bogart might be specified as the author of He came too late; there is so much nature and simple dignity about this general favourite, that it shall be the first we select.

HE CAME TOO LATE.

HE came too late! -- Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.

He came too late! -- At once he felt
That all his power was o'er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

He came too late! -- the subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights of that wound.