I'd sooner see within that frame,
Lycanthrophy, that none can tame.
For such a frame would move me less,
Than that same form of helplessness.
A mass of flesh without a mind,
A mockery of human kind;

The shape of man without one spring

Of thought, however wandering;

A living statue, it can weep,

With lace, and hat with splendid riband

bound.

A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy followed him through foaming

waves

To distant shores; and she would sit and weep

At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,

sleep.

But this mere mechanism-the call

Of natural instinct-this is all

That gives this mass of moulded clay
Its title to humanity.

There's not a gleaming, not a spark
Of reason there; all, all is dark.
It is an awful thing to see,
The vacant face of idiocy!

THE MANIAC.

COWPER.

THERE often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed

Would oft anticipate his glad return,

And dream of transports she was not to know! She heard the doleful tidings of his deathAnd never smiled again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the live-long day,

And there, unless when charity forbids,

The live-long night. A tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tattered still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful
food,

Tho' pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,

Tho' pinched with cold, asks never-Kate is crazed;

FAREWELL.

ANON.

BARTON.

As if 'twere Friendship's final knell;

Such fears may prove but vain : So changeful is Life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever-Hope may say We part, to meet again!

E'en the last parting Earth can know, Brings not unutterable wo,

To souls that heavenward soar; For humble Faith, with stedfast eye, Points to a brighter world on high, Where hearts, that here at parting sigh, May meet-to part no more!

And feel a touch of sorrow.

But who can paint the briny tears

We shed when thus we sever, If forced to part for months, for years, To part-perhaps for ever!

ANSWER.

DUDLEY.

BUT if our thoughts are fix'd aright, A cheering hope is given,

thence

Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd Unto the Temple service. By the hand She led him, and her silent soul, the while, Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think

That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, To bring before her God.

So pass'd they on, O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves

Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs, With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue

Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest;

And softly parting clusters of jet curls To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reach'd, The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hush'd

Her bosom, as before her, thro' the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd
In light like floating gold. But when that
hour

Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy

Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye

Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear, Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm

Clung even as ivy clings; the deep-springtide

Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child

That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,

As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount Lay, like a twilight star, 'midst palmy shades,

sounds

Of weeping and sad song.-"Alas!" she cried,

"Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, And now fond thoughts arise,