wasn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me, told me to stay a few minutes.

The sooner dead the bet

Pshaw! He could not live. ter for him; as well as for us. Did you mark how he eyed us, when we carried away his wife and daughter? I never cried in my llfe, since I was knee-high, but curse me if I ever felt in better tune for the business than just then. Hey! continued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse, What's wanted? Any body dead?

I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. I was ashamed of my own infirmity; and by vigorous efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. The evening had now advanced, and it behoved me to procure accommodation at some of the inns.

In answer to my parents were sick, I inquired, in vain,

These were easily distinguished by their signs, but many were without inhabitants. At length, I lighted upon one, the hall of which was open, and the windows lifted. After knocking for some time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. question, she answered that both her and that they could receive no one. for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. She knew of none such and left me, on some one's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a moment's pause, I returned, discomforted and perplexed, to the street.

I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At length I reached a spacious building in Fourth street, which the sign-post showed me to be an inn. I knocked loudly and often at the door. At length a female open

ed the window of the second story, and in a tone of peevishness demanded what I wanted? I told her that I wanted lodging.

Go hunt for it somewhere else, said she; you'll find none here. I began to expostulate; but she shut the window with quickness, and left me to my own reflections.

I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the habitations of men; but I was destitute of associate or friend. I had money, but a horse shelter, or a morsel of food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself. Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn; but what would become of me, should this fatal malady be contracted. To hope that an asylum would be afforded to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was unreasonable.

The first impulse which flowed from these reflections, was to hasten back to Malverton ; which, with sufficient diligence, I might hope to regain before the morning light. I could not, methought, return upon my steps with too much speed. I was prompted to run, as if the pest was rushing upon me, and could be eluded only by the most precipitate flight.

MONODY.

BY MORTON M'MICHAEL.

DEPARTED one, farewell!

A long-a last farewell we bid thee now:
Pale Death hath set his signet on thy brow;
And in that dreamless cell,

Where worn Mortality casts off its woes,
In blest oblivion of all earthly throes,
Where but the lifeless dwell,-

Thou hast laid down in everlasting rest:

Care cannot reach thee now, nor grief distract thy breast.

Unfortunate! thy soul

Was nobler far than men's of common mould;
But, through thy heart a tide of feeling roll'd
That might not brook control,

Nor be restrained in its impetuous course,
But onward rushed, as bounds an Arab horse
Seeking his destined goal:

Thy spirit sought renown, and this to gain
Thou didst encounter toil, and penury, and pain.

Alas! that man should bow

So slavishly before the phantom Fame;
Or feverish thirst of an immortal name
Have power to scathe the brow
With the deep lines of premature decay.
Those outward tokens which too well display

What words may not avow

The inly spirit's travail, and the pain

That rolls in floods of fire aross the aching brain.

Thine was a hapless fate!

Though Genius girt thee with his magic spell,
And bright-eyed Fancy loved with thee to dwell,
And thy rapt mind, elate,

Borne upward on its viewless wings would soar
The empyrean through, and all its heights explore;
Yet couldst thou not create,

With all thy gifted skill, the deathless name
For which thy bosom burned with an absorbing flame.

Thou wert but young to die!

Yet brief and transient as thy life hath been,
In gazing o'er its many-coloured scene,
Too much we may descry

Of deep and wasting care, and the keen sense
Of injury and wrong, corroding and intense;
Then better thus to lie

In thine appointed house, the narrow grave,
Than be to this cold world a victim or a slave.

Lamented one! fond eyes

Have wept for thee till all their founts were dry,
And from fond lips hath burst the thrilling cry;
And moans and choking sighs

Have swelled the anguish'd heart, and that deep grief,
To which nor time nor change can bring relief:

Untimely sacrifice!

Friendship hath poured for thee the willing tear,

And strangers mourned thy doom standing beside thy

bier.

Yet, let us not repine:

Thy loss of earth to thee is heavenly gain.
Thou hast exchanged a state of wo and pain,
For one that's all divine ;

And springing from the darkness of thy clay,
Uprisen in a new and glorious day:

The place of rest is thine

Thy race is o'er-thou hast obtained the goal,
Where mortal sin and strife no more possess control.