Intent on home, had turned, and saw the boat
Slipped from her moorings, and now far afloat;
She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call,
It seemed, like thunder, to confound them all.
Their sailor guides, the boatman and his mate,
Had drunk, and slept regardless of their state.
"Awake!" they cried aloud! "Alarm the shore !
Shout all, or never shall we reach it more!"
Alas! no shout the distant land can reach,
Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach:
Again they join in one loud powerful cry,-
Then cease, and eager listen for reply;

None came the rising wind blew sadly by:
They shout once more, and then they turn aside,
To see how quickly flowed the coming tide;
Between each cry they find the waters steal
On their strange prison, and new horrors feel;
Foot after foot on the contracted ground
The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound;
Less and yet less the sinking isle became,

And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame.

Had one been there, with spirit strong and high, Who could observe, as he prepared to die, He might have seen of hearts the varying kind, And traced the movement of each different mind: He might have seen, that not the gentle maid Was more than stern and haughty man afraid; Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress, And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address; While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud, Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd. The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried, "Why would you urge me? I at first denied." Fiercely they answered:-"Why will you complain, Who saw no danger, or were warned in vain ?"

A few essayed the troubled soul to calm,
But dread prevailed, and anguish, and alarm.

Now rose the water through the lessening sand,
And they seemed sinking, while they yet could stand ;
The sun went down, they looked from side to side,
Nor aught except the gathering sea descried;
Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew,
And the most lively bade to hope adieu;
Children, by love then lifted from the seas,
Felt not the waters at the parents' knees,
But wept aloud; the wind increased the sound,
And the cold billows, as they broke around.

"Once more, yet once again, with all our strength Cry to the land—we may be heard at length!" Vain hope, if yet unseen!—but hark !—an oar— That sound of bliss! comes dashing to their shore ; Still, still the water rises; "Haste!" they cry, “Oh, hurry, seamen ; in delay we die !" (Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) And now the keel just cuts the covered sand, Now to the gunwale stretches every hand: With trembling pleasure all confused embark, And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark: While the most giddy, as they reach the shore, Think of their danger, and their God adore.

THE MANIAC.

BY LEWIS.

STAY, jailor, stay, and hear my woe!
She is not mad who kneels to thee:
For what I'm now, too well I know,

And what I was, and what should be.

I'll rave no more in proud despair;
My language shall be mild, though sad:
But yet I firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad, I am not mad.

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, I 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! I,-the child of rank and wealth,-
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,
Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my head; But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad.

Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,
A mother's face, a mother's tongue ?
She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,
Nor round her neck how fast you clung;

Nor how with her 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 me mad.

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 for ever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, 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 woe, 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 eyeballs glare!
He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air.

Horror! -the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; Ay, laugh, ye fiends ;-I feel the truth; Your task is done-I'm mad! I'm mad!

THE TWO WEAVERS.

BY HANNAH MORE.

As at their work two weavers sat
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat!

"What with my babes and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, "I am almost tired of life;
So hard we work, so poor we fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.

"How glorious is the rich man's state !
His house so fine, his wealth so great!
Heaven is unjust, you must agree:
Why all to him, and none to me?

"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the pulpit preaches,

This world, indeed, I've thought so long,Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

"Where'er I look, howe'er I range,

'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and opprest,
And all the wicked are the blest."

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause,
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws,
Parts of His ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see below.

"Seest thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun ? Behold the wild confusion there!

So rude the mass, it makes one stare!