THE Night-mare came to my silent bed,
In the peaceful hour of night,
When at rest was laid my heavy head,
And the ink-horn vanish'd quite.

Oh think of the horrible shape it wore!
It was not a demon grim;

Nor a dragon, with scales and tails a score ;
Nor a head without a limb;

Nor a mocking fiend, with a maddening laugh;

Nor the whirling sails of a mill;

Nor a cup of blood for the lips to quaff,
In despite of the shuddering will;

Nor a monstrous bird with a funeral note;
Nor the black dog on my breast;
Nor the ghost of Burke, with its gripe on
my throat,

That came to disturb my rest:

But my sister Poll, with a grey-goose quill,
And an Album-sight of sorrow!
"Get up," she cried, "and a whole page fill,
For this book must go back to-morrow!

Be not thy tears too harshly chid,
Repine not at the rising sigh ;-
Who, if they might, would always bid
The breast be still, the cheek be dry?

How little of ourselves we know

Before a grief the heart has felt; The lessons that we learn of woe

May brace the mind as well as melt.

The energies too stern for mirth,

The reach of thought, the strength of will,

Mid clouds of tempest have their birth,

Thro' blight and blast their course fulfil.

Love's perfect triumph never crown'd
The hope unchequer'd by a pang;
The gaudiest wreaths with thorns are
bound,

And Sappho wept before she sang.

Tears at each pure emotion flow:
They wait on Pity's gentle claim,
On Admiration's fervid glow,

On Piety's seraphic flame,

"Tis only when it mourns and fears
The loaded spirit feels forgiven,
And through the mist of falling tears
We catch the clearest glimpse of heaven.

WEEP not for him that dieth

For he sleeps, and is at rest;
And the couch whereon he lieth
Is the green earth's quiet breast:
But weep for him who pineth

On a far land's hateful shore,
Who wearily declineth

Where ye see his face no more!

Weep not for him that dieth—

For friends are round his bed, And many a young lip sigheth When they name the early dead: But weep for him that liveth

Where none will know or care, When the groan his faint heart giveth Is the last sigh of despair.

Weep not for him that dieth

For his struggling soul is free,
And the world from which it flieth
Is a world of misery:
But weep for him that weareth
The captive's galling chain;
To the agony he beareth,

Death were but little pain.

Weep not for him that dieth

For he hath ceased from tears, And a voice to his replieth

Which he hath not heard for years: But weep for him who weepeth

On that cold land's cruel shore. Blest, blest is he that sleepeth,Weep for the dead no more!

SHE'S on my heart, she's in my thoughts,
At midnight, morn, and noon;
December's snow beholds her there,
And there the rose of June.

I never breathe her lovely name
When wine and mirth go round;
But oh, the gentle moonlight air
Knows well the silver sound!

I care not if a thousand hear
When other maids I praise;
I would not have my brother by,
When upon her I gaze.

The dew were from the lily gone,
The gold had lost its shine,
If any but my love herself
Could hear me call her mine!

THIS is a busy world, and repose was not made for man, except in his old age. Let philosophers, who know less of themselves than they do of the world, complain of the folly of mankind, in never being satisfied with the situation in which Providence hath placed them, and thus losing the present in the anticipation of the future. Let them sneer at their baffled hopes, when, arriving at the summit they have been toiling for years to gain, they find it a barren waste, dreary and desolate, unlike the peaceful vale below. Why is it that philosophers study to become wiser than they are, since the acquisition of knowledge no more leads to the happiness of themselves or others, than does the acquisition of wealth and honors? It is, that they may become wiser than the rest of mankind, just as a man labors for wealth that he may become richer and more powerful. In short, it is that they may be happier than they are happier than the rest of their fellow-creatures. What a dead sea of a world would this be, if we all knew to a certainty that we were quite as happy as our neighbors! All would then be at ease, and all equally miserable. But let my story exemplify my meaning.

I was born and brought up in the Castle of Indolence. My father was a philosopher in his way, for he hated the world, and despised his fellow creatures, for no other reason that I could ever learn, but that, having toiled the best part of his life to get rich, and, finding that his wealth added nothing to his happiness, he took it in dudgeon,

and quarreled outright with this "Mundane Terrene." I have heard that his first impulse towards money-making was the hope of gaining a young lady who had been long the object of his affections, but who disliked his poverty more than she liked his person. He married her at last, but they had waited too long. My father was forty-five, and my mother only ten years younger. At these years it requires a good deal of rubbing to smooth the asperities of old habits. The first disappointment of my father was in finding that he had been laboring fifteen years to get a wife, who actually sometimes contradicted him, as he verily believed, without reason. What is the use of money, said he, if it don't make a man always right? But though he was not exactly satisfied with his bargain, he loved my mother, and when she died, he was still more disappointed than at his marriage. He shut himself up in an old garret, where he continued to exist, and his money to accumulate, till Í grew almost an old man myself, when he died, leaving me a fortune I knew not what to do with, any more than a child.

I was about twelve years old at the death of my mother, and more than thirty when my father died almost at the period of fourscore and ten. From the time he shut himself up in his garret, I became in some degree my own master in all things, except spending money, which, though my father despised, yet he hoarded with the devotion of a miser. He let me do just as I pleased, provided my bills did not

amount to more than was absolutely necessary. I went to school, but only when and where I pleased; I floated about with the wind and tide like a lazy ship at anchor; I learned no profession; I knew nothing of the business of the world, and I did nothing, except just what I pleased. I hated study-I hated exercise-I hated noise-I hated company-and, above all, I hated trouble. I read, it is true, a piece of a book here, and a piece there, and not unfrequently I had half a dozen works in hand at once, none of which I ever finished. So variable and fastidious was my appetite for books, that I sometimes spent whole mornings at the public library, without being able to select one to my satisfaction.

'If I had any decided taste, it was for drawing; but this, like all my other propensities, was under the dominion of a busy idleness, that would not admit of anything like a constant attention to one object, but led me, by a sort of irresistible influence, from doing nothing in one place, to doing nothing in another. Sometimes, after sitting for hours in a becalmed state in my room, I would suddenly seize my hat with an effort, and sally forth in a quick step, resolutely determined to do something, I knew not what; but before I got to the next corner my impulse evaporated; I became again perfectly becalmed, and, after stopping for a while to consider where under heaven I should go, quietly returned to my room again -again to meditate another sally. It can hardly be conceived, except by a kindred spirit, what a delight it was for me to have anything to do, that did not involve either labor or trouble, both which I received with a horror unsurpassable. Nay, I could not bear to see any person hard at work; and my bones imbibed the same sympathy with his labors that those of Sancho Panza did with the sore bruises his sage master received in his misadventure with the Yanguesian car

riers. It was a relief to me when my pencil wanted cutting-the honing of my razor was a perfect luxury-and helping my landlady to shell peas the delight of my soul. But these could not last forever : my principal resources were to consider what I should do, to do nothing, and to whistle quick tunes to make myself believe that I was in a great hurry. I formed a close intimacy with a middle-aged person, who had left off business, and had much ado to live without it, for the sole purpose of having an antagonist at backgammon; and we used to spend whole days in playing and disputing whether chance or skill had most to do in winning the game, taking different sides just as luck happened to be in favor of one or the other. This was a great relief to me while it lasted, but one day my antagonist gammoned me six times in succession. This was the most serious misfortune that had ever yet befallen me; I fell into a great passion, and made so many bitter reflections on my antagonist for his confounded luck, that he put on his hat, left the room, and never played with me afterwards. He was an irreparable loss to me, being almost the only philosophically idle man of my acquaintance. After this I took to playing by myself, and was for a long time tolerably happy in always taking the winning hand against my old antagonist, who had the cruelty to gammon me six times running. But use wears off the keen edge of pleasure, as it does of a knife, and I grew tired at last, even of being always on the winning side.

Just at this time Providence threw a furious chess-player in my way, which I looked upon as the greatest blessing I ever received. He undertook to teach me, and I accepted his offer with gratitude. The game seemed made on purpose for me, producing, at first, exactly that gentle interest and excitement, so congenial to my soul. It was delightful to have something to do.