649. THE MANIAC; MAD-HOUSE.
Stay, jailor, stay-and hear my woe!
She is not mad-who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now-too well I know,

For what I was-and what should be.
I'll rave no inore-in proud despair;
My anguage shall be mild-though sad:
But yet I'll firmly-truly swear,

I am not mad-I am not inad.
My tyrant husband-forged the tale,

Which chains me-in this dismal cell;
My fate unknown-my friends bewail;
Oh! jailor, haste-that fate to tell;
Oh! haste-my father's heart to cheer:
His heart, at once--'twill grieve, and glad,
To know, though kept a captive here,
I am not mad ;-1 am not mad.
He smiles--in scorn, and turns-the key;
He quits the grate; I knelt in vain;
His glimmering lamp, still, still I see--
'Tis gone, and all is gloom again.
Cold--bitter cold!--No warmth no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had;
Yet here I'm chained,-this freezing night,
Although not mad; no, no, not mad.
'Tis sure some dream,-some vision vain :

What! 1,-the child of rank-and wealth,

Am I the wretch--who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom,-fri nds and health?
Ah! while dwell on Llessings fled,

Which never more-my heart must glad.

650. THE ALPS.

[eye;

Proud monuments of God! sublime ye stand
Among the wonders of his mighty hand:
With summits soaring in the upper sky,
Where the broad day looks down with burning
Where gorgeous clouds in solemn pomp repose,
Flinging rich shadows on eternal snows:
Piles of triumphant dust, ye stand alone,
And hold in kingly state, a peerless throne!
Like olden conquerors, on high ye rear
The regal ensign, and the glittering spear:
Round icy spires, the mists, in wreaths unrolled,
Float ever near, in purple or in gold:
And voiceful torrents, sternly rolling there,
Fill with wild music, the unpillared air:
What garden, or what hall on earth beneath,
Thrills to such tones, as o'er the mountains
[shone,
breathe ?
There, through long ages past, those summits
Where morning radiance on their state was
thrown;

There, when the summer day's career was done,
Played the last glory of the sinking sun;
There, sprinkling lustre o'er the cataract's shade,
The chastened moon, her glittering rainbow
made;

How aches my heart-how burns my head; And. blent with pictured stars, her lustre lay,

But 'tis not mad ;-no, 'tis not mad. Hast thou, my child-forgot ere this,

A mother's face,-a mother's tongue ? She'il ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck-how fast you clung;
Nor how with me--you sued to stay;

Nor how that suit--your sire forbade;
Nor how--I'll drive such thoughts away;
They'll make me mad, they'll make nie inad.
His rosy lips,-how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None--ever bore a lovelier child:

And art thou now forever-gone 7
And must I never see the more,
My pretty, prety, pretty lad?

I will be free! unbar the door!

I am not mad;-I am not mad.
Oh! hark! what mean those yells, and cries?
His chain--some furious madman breaks;
He comes,-I see his glaring eyes;

Now, now--my dungeon grate he shakes.
Help! help!-He's gone! Oh! fearful wo,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain,-I know, I know,
I am not mad, but soon shall be.
Yes. soon:-for, lo you!-while I speak--
Mark how yon Demon's eye-balls glare!
He sees me now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent-high in air.
Horror-the reptile--strikes h's tooth-
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad;
Ay. laugh, ye fiends: I feel the truth,

Where to still vales,the free streams leaped away.
Where are the thronging hosis of other days,
Whose banners floated o'er the Alpine ways;
Who, through their high defiles, to battle, wound,
While deadly ordnance stirr'd the h'ights around}
Gone: like the dream, that melts at early morn,
When the lark's anthem through the sky is borne:
Gone: like the wrecks, that sink in ocean's spray,
And chill oblivion murmurs; Where are they?

Yet, "Alps on Alps" still rise: the lofty home
Of storms, and eagles, where their pinions roam;
Still, round their peaks, the magic colors l'e,
Of morn, and eve, imprinted on the sky;
And still, while kings and thrones, shall fade,

and fall,

And empty crowns lie dim upon the pall: [roar;
Still, shall their glaciers flash; their torrents
Till kingdoms fail, and nations rise no more.

ADHERENCE TO TRUTH. Petrarch, a celebrated Italian poet, who flourished about four hundred years ago, recommended himself to the confidence and affection of Cardinal Colonna, in whose family he resided, by his candor, and strict adherence to truth. A violent quarrel occurred in the household of this nobleman; which was carried so far, that recourse was had to arms. The Cardinal wished to know the foundation of this affair; and that he might be able to decide with justice, he assembled all his people, and obliged them to bind themselves, by a most solemn oath on the gospels, to declare the whole truth. Every one, without exception, submitted to this determination; even the Bishop of Luna,

Your task is done!--I'm mad! I'm mad! Here didst thou dwell, in the enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating, For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; [ing, The purple moonlight vail'd that mystic meet-brother to the Cardinal was not excused. With her most starry canopy, and, seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? This cave was surely shaped out for the greetOf an enamor'd goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy love-the earliest oracle! Calldren, like tender scions, take the bow, And, as they first are fashioned-always grow.

[ing

Petrarch, in his turn, presenting himself to take the oath; the Cardinal closed the book, and said, " As to you, Petrarch, your word is sufficient."

'Tis done, and since 'tis done, 'tis past recall; And since 'tis past recall, must be forgotten Never purchase friendship by gifts.

654. GINEVRA; OR LOST BRIDE.
If ever you should come to Modena,
Stop at a palace, near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in, of old, by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace, above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you--but before you go,
Euter the house-forget it not, I pray you--
And look awhile upon a picture there
Tis of a lady, in her earliest youth,
The last, of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes, and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward, as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold,
Broidered with flowers, and clasp'd from head to
An emerald stone, in every golden clasp; [foot,
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowing-of an innocent heart--
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs,
Over a mouldering heir-loom; its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved, by Antony of Trent,
With scripture-stories, from the life of Christ;
A chest, that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes-of some old ancestors--
That, by the way-it may be true, or false---
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale, they told me there.
She was an only child-her name-Ginevra,
The joy, the pride-of an indulgent father;
And, in her fifteenth year, became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate, from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there, in her bridal dress,
She was: all gentleness, all gayety;

Her pranks, the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now, the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
iter hind, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but, at the nuptial feast, [ing.
When all sat down. the bride herself-was want-
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled h's glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest-the panic spread.
Twas but that instant-she had leit Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her vory tooth-imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor, from that hour, could anything be guessed,
But, that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco-flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away, in battle with the Turk.

Donati Eved-and long might you have seen
An old man, wandering-as in quest of something. I

[said,

Something he could not find--he knew not what
When he was gone, the house remained awhile,
Silent, and tenantless--then, went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When, on an idle day, a day of search,
Mid the old lumber, in the gallery,
That mouldering chest was not ced; and, 'twas
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
Why not remove it from its lurking-place?
"Twas done, as soon as said; but, on the way,
It burst. it fell; and lo! a skeleton!
With here and there a pearl, and emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished--save a wedding ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
"Ginevra."

There, then, had she found a grave!
Within that chest, had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!-- Rogers.

THE NEEDLE.

The gay belles of fashion, may boast of excelling,
In waltz, or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration, by vauntingly telling-
Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill;
But give me the fair one, in country or city,
Whose home, and its duties, are dear to her heart;
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty,
While plying the needle, with exquisite art;
The bright little needle, the swift flying needle,
The needle-directed by beauty, and art.
If LOVE has a potent, a magical token,
A talisman, ever resistless, and true,
A charm, that is never evaded or broken,
A witchery, certain the heart to subdue,
'Tis THIS, and his armory-nerer has furnished,
So keen, and unerring, or polish'd a dart,
(Let beauty direct it,) so pointed, and burnish'd,
And, oh! it is certain-of touching the heart,
The bright little needle, the swin flying needle,
The needle-directed by beauty, and art.
Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration,
By dressing-for conquest, and flirting-with all,
You never, whate'er be your fortune, or station,
Appear half so lovely, at rout, or at ball,
As-gaily conven'd at the work-covered table,
Each-cheerfully active, and playing her part,
Beguiling the task, with a song, or a fable,

And plying the needle-with exquisite art;
The bright little needle,-the long darning needle,
The swift knitting needle, the needle, directed by
BEAUTY and ART.- Woodworth.
In parts superior, what advantage lies?
Tell, (for you can) what is it to be wise?
Tis but to know how little can be known;
To see all others' faults, and feel our own;
Condemn'd in business, or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge.
Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land
All fear, none aid you, and few-understand.
Even from the body's parity, the mind
Receives a secret sympathete aid.
Not rural sight alone, but rural sounds.
Exhilarate the spirits.

655. ADAME AND JEFFERSON. They have gone to the companions of their cares, of the a foils. It is well with them. The treasures of America are now in Heaven. How long the list of our good, and wise, and brave, assembled there! how few remain with us! There is our Wash ngton; and those who followed him in their country's confidence, are now met together with him, and all that illustrious company.

The faithful marble may preserve their image; the engraven brass may proclaim their worth; but the humblest sod or independent America, with nothing but the dewdrops of the morning to gild it, is a prouder mausoleum than kings or conquerors can boast. The country is their monument. independence is their epitaph.

Its

But not to their country is their praise limited. The whole earth is the monument of illustrious men. Wherever an agonizing people shall perish, in a generous convulsion, for want of a valiant arm and a fearless heart, they will cry, in the last accents of deepair, Ch. for a Washington, an Adams, a Jellerson! Wherever a regenerated nation. starting up in its might, shall burst the links of steel that enchain it, the praise of our fathers shall be the prelude of their triumphal

song.

The contemporary and successive generations of men will disappear. In the long lapse of azes, the tribes of America, like those of Greece and Rome, may pass away. The fabric of American freedom. like all things human, however firm and fair, may crumble

into dust. But the cause in which these our fathers shone is immortal. They did that, to which no age, no people of reasoning men, can be indifferent.

Their eulogy will be uttered in other languazes, when those we speak, like us who speak them, shall all be forgotten. And when the great account of humanity shall be closed at the throne of God, in the bright list of his children. who best adorned and served it. shall be found the names of our Adams and our Jefferson.-Everett.

656. EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach-a poor exile of Erin,
The dew. on his thin robe, hung heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight repair-
To wander alone, by the wind-beaten hill: [ing.
But the day-star-attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose-on his own native Isle of the Ocean.
Where once, in the glow of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold authein-of ERIN Go Bragh!
O, sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf, to a covert can fee;
But 1-have no refuge--from famine, or danger,

Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams. I rev's t thy sea-beaten shore!
But alas! in a far d staut land I awaken, [inore!
And sigh for the friends, who can meet me no
O. hard cruel fate. wilt thou never replace me,
In a mans on of peace, where no per !twa chase me?
Ah! never, aga n. shail my brothen embrace me,
They died to defend me. or live-to deplore!
But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish-my lone Losom shall draw:
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing.

Land of my forefathers, ERIN GO BRAGH!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,
And thy harp-str king bards sing aloud with devo-
O, Erin ma vorneen. ERIN GO BRAGH! [tion

Who stole the Every-of the court of heaven,
To serve the devil in: in virtue's gu'se,
Devoured the widow's house, and orphan's bread
In holy phrase, transacted villanies.
That common sinners-durst not meddle with.
A1 sacred feast, he sat among the saints,
And with his guilty hands-ouched holiest things.
And none of sin lamented more, or sighed
More deeply, or with graver countenance,
Or longer prayer. wept o'er the dying man,
Whose inant children. at the moment, he
Planned how to rob. In sermen-style he bought,

[ing.

And sold, and fied; and salutation made,
In ser pture terms. He prayed. by quantity,
And with his repet t'ons, long and loud.
All knees were weary With one hand, he put
A penny-in the urn of soverty,
And with the other-took a shilling out.
On charitable lists-those trumps, which told
The public ear, who had, in secret, done
The poor a benefit. and half the alms
They told of, took themselves to keep them sound-
He blazed his name. inore pleased to have it there,
Than in the book of life. Seest thou the man!
A serpent with an angel's vo'ce! a grave, (ceiv'd.
With flowers bestrewed! and yet, few were de
His virtues, being over-done, his face,
Too grave, his prayers too long, his charities,
Too pompously attended. and his speech,
Larded too frequently, and out of time,
With serious phraseology were rents,
That in his garments opened, in spite of him,
'Thro' which, the well accustomed eye, could see
The rottenness of his heart. None deeper blush'd,
As in the all-piercing light he stood. exposed,
No longer herding-with the holy ones.
Yet still he tried to bring his countenance--
To sanctimonious seeming; but, meanwhile,
The shame within, now visible to all,
His purpose balk'd. The righteous smild, and eve
Despair itself. some signs of laughter gave,
As. ineffectually, he strove to w ́pe

A home, and a country-remain not for me;
Ah! never again. in the green sunny bow'rs. [hours.
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet
Or cover my harp. with the wild woven flowers,
And sir ke to the numbers--of ERIX GO BRAGI!
O,where is my cottage, that stood by the wild wood?
S sters and sires, did ye weep for its fall? [hood.
O, where is the mother, that watch'd o'er my child-His brow. that inward guilt ness defiled.
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ab ny sad soul. long abandoned by pleasure,
O why did it doat-on a fast fading treasure-
Tears 1 ke the rain-drops, may fall, without mea-
Bul rapture, and Beauty, they cannot recall! [sure.
BRONSON 18

Detected wretch! of all the reprobate.

None seem d more mature-for the flames of hell
Where still his face, from ancient eustom, wears
A ho'y a'r, which says to all that pass
Him by," I was a hypocrite on earth." -Pollock,

274

658. ARRHASIUS AND CAPTIVE.
Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian cap-
fives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old
man; and when he had him at his house, put him to death with
extreme torture and torment, the better, by his example, to express
the pains and passions of his Prometheus, whom he was then
about to painl
Burton's Anat. of Mel.

There stood an unsold captive in the inart,
A gray-haired and majestical old man,
Chained to a pillar. It was almost night,
And the last seller from his place had gone,
And not a sound was heard but of a dog
Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone,
Or the dull echo from the pavement rung.
As the faint captive changed his weary feet.
"Twas evening, and the half-descended sun
Tipped with a golden fire the many domes
Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere
Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street
Through which the captive gazed.
The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes, magical they lay.
Parrhasius stood, gazing, forgetially,
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay
Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus--
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim,
Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth
With its far-reaching fancy, and with form
And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye,
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
[Hight.
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering p
Were like the winged God's, breathing from his
"Bring me the captive now!

My hands feel skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift,
And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens-around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

Ha! bind him on his back!

Look-as Prometheus in my picture here'
Quick-or he faints! stand with the cordia near!

Now-bend him to the rack!

Press down the poison'd links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!
So-let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!
How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!
"Pity" thee! So I do!

A pity the dumb victim at the altar--
But does the rob'd priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee though I knew

thousand lives were perishing in thineWhat were ten thousand to a fame like mine? Yet there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shail spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn-
And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!

Ay-though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-

All-I would do it all

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot-
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!

O heavens-but I appal

Your heat, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint?-rack him till he revives!

Vain-vain-give o'er! His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now---
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lip!
Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath
Another Wilt thou never come, oh, Deau'
Look! how his temples flutter!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders, gasps, Jove help him! so, he's
How like a mounting devil in the heart
Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders though,
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip,
We look upon our splendor and forget
The thirst of which we perish!

O, if earth be all, and Heaven nothing.
What thrice mocked fools we are!- Willis
NATURAL HISTORY OF LOVE,
Addressed to Dr. Moyce by the ladies.
Dear doctor, let it not transpire,
How much your lectures we admire;
How, at your eloquence we wonder,
When you explain the cause of thunder,
Of lightning, and electricity,
With so much plainness, and simplicity;
The origin of rocks, and mountains,

Of seas, and rivers, lakes, and fountains;
Of rain, and hail, and frost, and snow,
And all the storms, and winds that blow;
Besides a hundred wonders more,

Of which we never heard before.
But now, dear doctor, not to flatter,
There is a most important matter,

A matter which our thoughts run much on,
A matter, which you never touch on,

A subject, if we right conjecture,
That well deserves a long, long lecture,
Which all the ladies would approve,-
The natural history of love!

Deny us not, dear doctor Moyce!
Oh, list to our entreating voice!
Tell us why our poor, tender hearts,
So easily admit love's darts.
Teach us the marks-of love's beginning,
What makes us think a beau so winning;
What makes us think a coxcomb, witty,
A black coat, wise, a red coat-pretty!
Why we believe such horrid es,
That we are angels, from the skies,
Our teeth like pearl, oar cheeks like roses,
Our eyes like stars-such charming noses!
Explain our dreams, awake, and sleeping,
Explain our blushing, laughing, weeping.
Teach us, dear doctor, if you can,
To humble that proud creature, man;
To turn the wise ones into fools,
The proud and insolent to tools;
To make them all run, helter-skelter,
Their necks-into the marriage-halter:
Then leave us to ourselves with these;
We'll turn and rule them as we please.
Dear doctor, if you grant our wishes,
We promise you-five-hundred kisses;
And, rather than the affair be blundered.
We'll give you-six-score to the hundred