O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?

When autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.

When eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;

If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.

Matthew Gregory Lewis.

THE MANIAC.

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—
O 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 forever 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!

Henry Kirke White.

THE STAR OF

WH

BETHLEHEM.

HEN marshalled on the nightly plain,
The glittering host bestud the sky;

One star alone, of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem;
But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,

The storm was loud-the night was dark; The ocean yawned-and rudely blowed

The wind that tossed my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose,

It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall, It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moored—my perils o'er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem,

For ever and for evermore,

The Star-the Star of Bethlehem!

MIL

ΤΟ AN EARLY

PRIMROSE.

ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill Adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,

Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.