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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;

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Your task is done! I'm mad! I'm mad!

THE GLOVE AND THE LION.

ING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,

K And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;

The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:

And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with

their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another; Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than

there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me: King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild:

The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "In faith," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;

"Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER.

Written by a young lady, who had been accused of being a maniac on the subject of Temperance, because her writings were so full of pathos.

Go, bear what I have borne-
Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt,
And the cold world's proud scorn;
Then suffer on from year to year-
Thy sole relief the scorching tear.

Go, kneel as I have knelt;

Implore, beseech, and pray —
Strive the besotted heart to melt,
The downward course to stay;
Be dashed, with bitter curse, aside;
Your prayers burlesqued, your tears defied.

Go, weep as I have wept,

O'er a loved father's fall

See every promised blessing swept,

Youth's sweetness turned to gall;

Life's fading flowers strewed all the way,
That brought me up to woman's day.

Go, see what I have seen,

Behold the strong man bow,

With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood,
And cold and livid brow;

Go catch his withering glance, and see
There mirrored his soul's misery.

Go, to thy mother's side,

And her crushed bosom cheer;
Thy own deep anguish hide;

Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear;
Mark her worn frame and withered brow,
The gray that streaks her dark hair now;
With fading frame and trembling limb,
And trace the ruin back to him
Whose plighted faith, in early youth,
Promised eternal love and truth;

But who, forsworn, hath yielded up
That promise to the cursed cup,

And led her down through love and light,
And all that made her promise bright,
And chained her there, 'mid want and strife,
That lowly thing-a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild
That withering blight, the drunkard's child.

Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know
All that my soul hath felt and known,
Then look upon the wine-cup's glow,

See if its beauty can atone;

Think if its flavor you will try,

When all proclaim, ""Tis drink, and die."

Tell me I hate the bowl

Hate is a feeble word:

I loathe -- abhor - my very soul

With strong disgust is stirred, Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell Of the dark beverage of hell.

STUART HOLLAND.

"Amidst all the terrible incidents attendant upon the destruction of the Arctic, there is one which impresses us with a feeling of awe and admiration, and shows all the world that the age of heroes is not altogether gone by. We refer to the young man, Stuart Holland, whose post of duty, throughout the trying scene, was the firing of a signal gun, at intervals, in the hope of attracting the attention of vessels in the distance to the scene of the disaster. He was in the very act of firing, as the vessel disappeared below the waters."

EATH on the waters! hark! the cry

DEATH

Of hundreds in their agony,

Who, helpless, crowd the deck;

There manhood sternly marks his tomb,
And woman wails amid the gloom,
As slowly sinks the wreck.
But who is he that calmly stands,
The lighted brand within his hands,
Beside the minute gun?

What quiet grandeur in his air

-

His right arm raised - his forehead bare,
Amid the cannon's quivering glare,

And mist-wreaths rolling dun!

"Save, save thyself!" the captain cried-
"The craven crew have left our side:
I go where goes my glorious bride,
My own majestic bark.

But thou art free-thy mother waits
Her son, beside the cottage gates!"

How answered Holland-hark!

His minute-gun again-and by
The flash that lights the sea and sky,
Behold the hero's form,

Grand as a young Greek god who smiles
When shake the proud Olympian piles,
And quiver all the misty isles

Beneath the bolted storm!

In vain, in vain the loud gun roars--
No more for him the calm green shores-
For him no more the home:

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Of shivering horror rends the sky-
O God! can no one save?

The proud ship sinks- and sinks: again
The cannon thunders to the main-
Then nought but mist and wave,
Where, but a few brief hours ago,
The rider of the billows bore,
In pride, four hundred joyous souls
To an expectant shore!

Soul of the brave! when sounds the trump
'Mid red-browed battle's glorious pomp,
And rolling drum and thrilling fife
Lead on the dark and desperate strife,
While gorgeous banners rise and fall
Majestic o'er the soldier's pall,
And eager nations turn their eyes
Upon the heroes' sacrifice-
Oh, 't is not then, it is not there,
With gory blade and vengeful air,
The grandest wreath is thine:
'Tis when with calm, untrembling breath,
The hero, smiling, faces Death

Upon the land or brine,

And knowing not if e'er his name

Shall murmur from the harp of fame,

But looking from a troubled zone
To God, and to his God alone!

Brave Holland! such a wreath is thine,
And millions shall rejoice that they
May build to thee a glorious shrine,
And round it deathless laurel twine,
Nor let thy memory fade away -
For still, despite the reeling deck,
The yawning wave, the sinking wreck,
The record of thy deed remains,

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