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In the woods of the North. there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh; *
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die!

Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there was found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them.History of Poland.

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Time, Night. Scene, the Woods.

WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend
My weary way? thus worn with toil and faint,
How through the thorny mazes of this wood
Attain my distant dwelling? That deep cry
That rings along the forest seems to sound
My parting knell: it is the midnight howl
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey!
Again! O save me-save me, gracious Heaven!
I am not fit to die.

Thou coward wretch,

Why heaves thy trembling heart? why shake thy limbs
Beneath their palsied burden? Is there aught

So lovely in existence? wouldst thou drain
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life?
Stamped with the brand of Vice and Infamy,

Why should the villain Frederic shrink from Death?

Death! Where the magic in that empty name
That chills my inmost heart? why at the thought
Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb?
There are no terrors to surround the Grave,
When the calm Mind collected in itself

Surveys that narrow house: the ghastly train
That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt
Then vanish; in that home of endless rest
All sorrows cease. Would I might slumber there!

Why then this panting of the fearful heart?
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose
Its cherished torment? shall the diseased man
Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife,
Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frame
Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch,
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help,
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid?
Oh, it were better far to lay me down

Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast
Seize on his willing victim!

If to die

Were all, it were most sweet to rest my head
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death.
But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul
To phrensy!--Dreams of infancy: fit tales
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes!

What if I warred upon the world? the world
Had wronged me first: I had endured the ills
Of hard injustice; all this goodly earth
Was but to me one waste wilderness;
I had no share in nature's patrimony,
Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth,
Dark DISAPPOINTMENT followed on my ways,
CARE was my bosom inmate, and keen WANT
Gnawed at my heart. ETERNAL ONE, thou knowest
How that poor heart even in the bitter hour
Of lewdest revelry has inly yearned

For peace

MY FATHER! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy righteous will, resigned of soul. O thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! The hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Bursts not with terror on the sober sense. If I have sinned against mankind, on them Be that past sin; they made me what I was. In these extremest climes can Want no more Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length Here shall I rest. What though my hut be poor— The rains descend not through its humble roof: Would I were there again! The night is cold; And what if in my wanderings I should rouse The savage from his thicket!

Hark! the gun!

And lo, the fire of safety! I shall reach

My little hut again! again by toil

Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance, And quick-eared guilt will never start alarmed Amid the well earned meal. This felon's garbWill it not shield me from the winds of Heaven? And what could purple more? O strengthen me, Eternal One, in this serener state!

Cleanse thou mine heart, so PENITENCE and FAITH Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace.

A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE.

Lord Byron.

BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next--for some gracious service unexprest,
And from its wages only to be guess'd-
Raised from the toilet to the table,-where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plates she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie--
The genial confidante, and general spy—
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess-
An only infant's earliest governess!

She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to speil.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows:

What she had made the pupil of her art,
None know-but that high Soul secur'd the heart,

And panted for the truth it could not hear,

With longing breast and undeluded ear.

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which Flattery fooled not-Baseness could not blind,
Deceit infect not-near Contagion soil-
Indulgence weaken-nor Example spoil-

Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown-
Nor Genius swell-nor Beauty render vain-
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain-

Nor Fortune change-Pride raise-nor Passion bow,
Nor Virtue teach austerity-till now.

Serenely purest of her sex that live,

But wanting one sweet weakness-to forgive,
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virtue pardons those she would amend.

But to the theme :-now laid aside too long,
The baleful burthen of this honest song-
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she serv'd before.
If mothers-none know why-before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake:
If early habits-those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind-

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