she recovered, she seized the paper, and her eyes wandered over the pages until they were fixed upon the spot; and then pointing eagerly to it, she said to those around her, Harry is dead! and they say he died nobly.-O yes, Harry's soul was noble,-I could not have loved him else!' and then she smiled, it was the old smile, dashed with a curl of melancholy, I shall die too,' she continued, ' and then I shall be in heaven with Harry; they will not divide us there, he will be all mine! Dear Harry! God bless you all,-I shall die soon, and Harry'-her voice sunk to a whisper; her eyes were fixed; and the spirit of the lost maiden departed without a groan."

P. S. The Secretary is directed to state, in order to forestall judgment, that the foregoing paper was written expressly for the perusal of people of taste and feeling; such as are the readers of the Monthly.

THE MANIAC.

H. L. MANSEL.

It was a gloomy prison-house, and drear,
And fraught with horror to the sane man's sight,
Abode of Misery, and Want, and Fear

And moonstruck wanderings, and the mental night
Of those who saw not, as he deemed, aright;
Starting aside to idle visionings,

Who scorned the actual, and fought the fight
Of Mind against the world and worldly things,
And lived a viewless life in their self-communings.

And there were chains and fetters, and "the shriek
Of maniac gladness," raving fearfully

In strong convulsion, or perchance, more meek,
The rayless laugh of gibbering idiocy;

And, to his vain conceit, the misery

Of a mind not like his, a vision dim

To his realities, a frenzied eye

Whose sight mid vain imaginings did swim;

Such was its outward form thus drearisome to him.

But to its denizen the changing roof

Was shaped a thousandfold; each pendent beam

Was dressed in varied web from fancy's woof
Drawn multicolored; every wall did seem
Obedient to the shapings of his dream,
Palace, or forest wild, or rustic lot,
Or star-bespangled sky, to each the gleam
Was some bright feature of his imaged cot;

Fair visionings! albeit the world regards them not.
And one hath grasped within his withered hand
A broken staff, and with majestic air,

Wieldeth the potent sceptre of command

And smiles upon his subjects, and whene'er
The foot of prying visitant draws near
His flashing eye is bright with phantasy;
Heedless of pity's voice or mockery's sneer,
He looks around his grated cell, and “See
My palace vault," he cries, "sculptur'd with blazonry."
Another dreams of scenes of early love

And by-gone joys, which drove his maddened brain
To these wild ravings: in some pleasant grove
He breathes aloud his plighted vows again;

All nature joys with him; the moon doth reign
Above in queenly beauty; gentle rest

Hath lulled the slumbering woods; the very chain
Whose iron hold gripes through his fragile vest,

Seems as his loved one's arm, twining around his breast.

Another through the maze of science strays,
Made mad by too much learning; and his eye
To an imagined heaven with steadfast gaze
And joyous glance is looking fixedly,
For new discovered worlds are rolling by,
And nature's mystic stores are fathomèd
The lustrous crown of immortality
In a world's memories, doth gem his head,
And o'er his placid brows a glorious halo shed.

List to the battle cry! on barbèd steed
A warrior rides o'er prostrate ranks of dead;
Around him heaps of vanquished foemen bleed,
And victory's eagle hovers o'er his head;
And ever, as the clank of fettered tread
Or howl of frenzy from some distant cell
Peals on his car, his clashing steel grows red
Loud on his ear the clarion's thunders swell,
The victim's dying groan, the victor's triumph-yell.
There, all unheard by ears of mortal mould
A poet pours the music of his song;
What heedeth he that worldly hearts be cold,
That lying lips have done the minstrel wrong ?
The plastic mind, his visioned worlds among
Doth of itself, fane, altar, audience grant;
Himself the god that fires his glowing tongue,
Of his own raptures only cognizant,
Inspirer, and inspired, self-breathing Thymomant.
And these are visions! yet the visionings
Of faith's assurance are not idle dreams;
He who beholds the river's gushing springs
Heeds not that others view its turbid streams.
Whate'er the world of Thought's creations deems,
He feels their fulness on himself imprest,
What is to him, he knows; what to them seems,

Is the close secret of another's breast,

Which cannot trouble him, which haunteth not his rest.

Yet there are those in whom the thought has made
The blood run cold within them, thus to lie

Cradled 'mid visions, whilst around them fade,
Unheeded, earth, and earth's reality.

And they have raised the supplicating eye
And prayer of anguish, that their sense may stay,
That the perception of the outward eye,
Which herds in slavery, willing to obey

The Lord of thousands more, may never pass away.
Ye know not what ye ask! ye cannot throw
Your line and plummet on the shoreless mind
And mete it to its verge; ye cannot know
The secret thoughts, the workings undefined
Of him whom men call mad; ye cannot bind
His lips to utter what his raptures see;
Seek ye the import of those words to find,
Which haply, while his trancèd mind may be
Wandering mid other worlds, he speaks unconsciously.
Yon gibbering fool,-his language is not thine!
Yon raving seer,-he speaketh not to thee !

His friends are those whom man cannot define-
The imaged habitants of vacancy.

Think'st thou the immortal mind is never free

To prompt or act, save on the fleshly tongue ?

Speak thou," she cries, "what word beseemeth thee,
But not of me ;-the world will judge awrong.—

Speak thine unmeaning things, thou sharest not my song."
In the same pasture-ground two rills may glide,
Their waters mixing not; whereof the one
Is of a crystal sheen, but by its side
Muddy and dark its brother may flow on.
And that poor being whom ye loath and shun
May own a mind with inborn worlds elate,
Which, linked to clay by no communion,
May brightly dream, may gloriously create,
While the external sense is dark and desolate.
We are not single. There is born with us,
To each and all, a circling atmosphere,
Shrouding us as a garment, luminous,
Making all things, as its own essence, clear,
That come within its cincture; we may here
Mesh in the world, and it will heed our will,
Subservient as it breathes that magic air,
And we may fuse its dross with chymic skill,
And bid the virgin ore flow forth in lucid rill.
Our fathers worshipped at the fountain head;
Why should their sons despise the limpid stream?

Eros and Psyche aye with them were wed,
Love and the soul, united. Do ye deem
The bright foundation of this glorious dream
Was based on aught external? that they knelt
At visible shrines, when first in Fancy's gleam,
Offspring of mind, the imaged muses dwelt
On fair Parnassus' hill, unseen, but not unfelt?
But we have passed the bright ideal by,
Clouding the mind, to satiate yet more
The prurient longings of the fleshly eye;
There is a venomous snake at our heart's core
Gnawing our better selves; we bow before
The form and fashion of the visible

Shapes of this outward world; these we adore,
And cry, o'ermastered by the enslaving spell,
Like Nebat's son, "Behold thy gods, O Israel."
We toil for that whose shaping is not ours,
We bend before the outward beautiful
Unyielding child of independent powers,
Wed to one substance; and our eyes are dull
To that most sweet Parterre, whence we may cull
What form we list for that whose form is nought
In outward feature, shapeless, save the full
Maternal joyancy of teeming thought,

Reflected in the fruit which she to life hath brought.

He who hath loved no form of mortal birth
May there create a fount of living joy:
He who hath loved the loveliness of earth
May mentalise the object, not destroy;
May bid the mind its beauties rarify,

As the fair moon, when morning shineth bright,
Rends not her crescent from the glowing sky,
But pales her present radiance to the sight,
Made one with the blue heaven in loveliness and light.

COALITIONARY JOURNALS.*

BY THE SYNCRETIST.

I AM going, my gracious and inquisitive reader, to introduce myself to your especial patronage, under a new character, that of Journalist. Many a part have I played in the motley tragi-comedy of London lifesome admirably to my taste, in fact, cut out for me express, as Knowles' Virginius for Macready; some, on the other hand, detestable as assafoetida, but thrust upon me nolens volens. This part of Journalist

We have before noticed in what manner our own ideas transcend the notions of our Syncretic correspondent, inasmuch as we require an antecedent oneness where he is content with a consequent unity. In this, however, there is no opposition view, but merely a subordination of the synthetic to the prothetic.-EDITOR.

in the Monthly, however, "likes me well," as Hamlet says of his rapier. Not that I mean, by introducing this remarkably pointed word rapier, to imply even the remotest possibility of stabbing those best natured of mortal men, who read the Monthly, con lietu fronte. No; our's is far too loving and jovial a heart, too full of the "milk of human kindness" to be capable of conceiving such fratricide. It would be crime as entirely unconscionable as Cain's, who did the first murder, were we, in the pages of Apollo himself, to lift up our hand against our sworn and initiated brethren, as we call all those who write or read our pages. Long may our illuminated fraternity flourish, aye, by the name of Apollo, "the god of life and poesy and life," whose jolly countenance is sparkling in our vignette. By Phoebus Apollo, we exclaim, esto perpetua. A gallant and right sociable fraternity is it a grand lodge of literary freemasonry, in which our benignant Editor sits as Master Arch, with the star of the sun-god glittering on his forehead.

Apollo presides at our table,

His beams are brighter than wine;
We planets that are not able

Without his help to shine.

We are his merry fellow-craftsmen-merry and mellow, honest and true. We share his glory, and augment his blaze; and when he sings his best songs, we lend him a chorus that perfectly astonishes the weak nerves of the watchmen.

Then brave Apollo, arise, arise,

With the stalworth bow and thy arrows bright,
And scatter the hosts of darkness far,

With thy glowing shafts of eternal light.

Never doubt it, my boys, never doubt it. The going forth of Apollo in the shape of the Monthly, reminds me of the lines of Göthe's Second Faust, which Bernays has so beautifully translated for us. Ask you which lines I mean ?—I will versify them for you, and shew you how the first genius of Germany describes "the exceeding great noise which announces the approach of the sun :"

"Hark! the trumpet blast of time,
Sounding for a spirit's hearing.

Day is rising on our clime;

Phoebus gives his fire-steed cheering.
Rocky gates of earth and sea
Thunder back his jubilee.

What a din the light is bringing;
How it clarions-how it rings;

Eyes are dazzling—ears are tingling

With the sound that morning flings.

Slip into your flowery petals,
All beneath the pearly dew;

Or wing your way to caves of metals,

Hear it not 'twill deafen you!"

By the by, I know not whether the German critics have noticed that this glorious passage of Göthe is borrowed from a startling paragraph in "Cicero's Somnium Scipionis." I will quote it :-" What is that great