THE MANIAC.-MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS.

Stay, jailer, 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, jailer, 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 nevermore 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! yon-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 INDIAN CHIEF TO THE WHITE
SETTLER.-EDWARD EVERETT.

Think of the country for which the Indians fought! Who can blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount Hope, that glorious eminence, that

-"throne of royal state, which far

Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,

Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand,
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,

as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at the summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, the majestic forest,-could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, as he beheld it all passing, by no

tardy process, from beneath his control, into the hands of the stranger?

As the river chieftains-the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains-ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at, if they beheld with bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe, the fishing-place disturbed by his saw-mills? Can we not fancy the feelings with which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, who having ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,) in company with a friendly settler, contemplating the progress already made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say:

White man, there is eternal war between me and thee! I quit not the land of my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide, unrestrained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant my corn.

"Stranger, the land is mine! I understand not these paper rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou sayest, these broad regions were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon? They knew not what they did.

"The stranger came, a timid suppliant,--few and feeble, and asked to lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and children; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out his parchments over the whole, and says, 'It is mine.'

"Stranger! there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not made us to live together. There is poison

before me.

in the white man's cup; the white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land of my fathers whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce Mohawk, the man eater, is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great water is No, stranger; here I have lived, and here I will die; and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. "Thou hast taught that alone I thank thee. the red man is thy foe. my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not discover thy enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, and I will burn, till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. Go thy way for this time in safety; but remember, stranger, there is eternal war between me and thee."

me thy arts of destruction; for And now take heed to thy steps; When thou goest forth by day,

thou shalt sow the

EARLY RISING.-JOHN G. SAXE.

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!"
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I;

And bless him, also, that he didn't keep

His great discovery to himself, nor try
To make it as the lucky fellow might-
A close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes,-bless the man who first invented sleep,
(I really can't avoid the iteration ;)
But blast the man with curses loud and deep,
Whate'er the rascal's name or age or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off,-early rising!

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,"
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;
Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
Pray just inquire about his rise and fall,
And whether larks have any beds at all!
The time for honest folks to be abed

Is in the morning, if I reason right;
And he who cannot keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till it's fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up to knavery, or else—he drinks!

Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
But then he said it-lying-in his bed,
At ten o'clock A. M.,-the very reason

He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.
"Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,—
Awake to duty, and awake to truth,-

But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep!

"Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile

For the soft visions of the gentle night;
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live as only in the angels' sight,
In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin!
So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase

Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, "Served him right!-it's not at all surprising;
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!"

THE KNIGHT'S TOAST.

The feast is o'er! Now brimming wine

In lordly cup is seen to shine

Before each eager guest;