to conclude, without entering largely into our original design, by remarking briefly what poetry is, and what are its peculiar advantages, while we leave the minutia to be supplied by his own imagination.

Poetry then, is peculiarly the language of feeling--the language of the heart. Whatever excites in us fear or hope, joy or sorrow, wonder or astonishment, pity or disgust, love or despair, is said to come to us in the language of poetry. Would we pour forth our feelings in the bitterest contempt, poetry is the medium through which it must be done.-Would we give vent to the direst feelings of revenge, and imbue others with a portion of our own unhallowed spirit, we must call poetry to our aid.--Would we paint in their own native loveliness, the milder passions-the charms of nature--the winning graces of those around us-or would we excite to "deeds of noble daring," we must do it in the thrilling, touching, and yet simple language of poetry.-Not always in language moulded to the harmony of metrical arrangement, but in the poetry of feeling--when the deep foundations of the heart are moved-when the whole energies of the soul are thrown forth in one impassioned strain.

Poetry is also the language of imagination. It represents life as it should be--stretches far into the depths of future years, and brings events yet to come, before the mind, as present realities--causes us to lose sight of present suffering, in the contemplation of joys yet to come-brings up the past with all its living witcheries, till we fain would forsake

"Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring."

And where is the mind that can be confined within the narrow limits of the present? Where is the individual who would spell out his existence with his views, feelings, and interests centred in the passing moment? It is natural to man to ponder upon the past, and hold converse with the future. Yet every such movement of the mind is a tribute to the worth of poetry: and those, who the most contemn it, are the very persons who do it homage.

The advantages of poetry are these: It conveys instruction to the mind, and especially to the mind of the young, in a manner calculated to make an impression when every other method would fail, It is a fact which needs not proof, that truth, clothed in the novelty which poetry throws around it, will be retained in the mind, which, when brought forward in the cold phlegmatic language of prose, would be unheeded, or soon forgotten. So while poetry pleases, it also instructs--while it delights the fancy, it improves the understanding-while it interests the feelings, it serves to cultivate the heart.

After all that has been, or can be said against it, or in its favor, it stands upon its own foundation,-and that foundation is immovable. The earliest dawnings of society saw its beauties, and the latest generations shall behold it-untainted in its character--unimpeached in its designs--unsurpassed in its benefits conferred upon

man.

They are gone-those mighty ones, whose skilful hands once touched the lyre, and roused the dormant energies of a slumbering world! Milton, Shakspeare, Virgil and Homer, are sleeping in the stillness of death! They lived....acted their part gloriously in the drama of life ;-death came.....where are they?—They still live in the immortality of their works.--Poetry, through them, speaks in language too pure-too cloquent to be despised,--too powerful-too persuasive to be rejected. Coming from such a source, it finds its way into the recesses of the heart, and works its will upon the feelings of the man. While such men shall have a name, poetry, however much it may be despised--however much it may be contemned-however numerous may be the jeers and scoffs lavished upon it, shall live, when all these are forgotten-are mere oblivi on," live in a remembrance, such as the breath of scorn cannot contaminate, nor the hand of time efface. *E*.

THE MANIAC.

He was the maniac. The gleam
His eye shot forth, and his wild scream-
His writhings, as of one in hell,
Were demon-like; and in his cell
Immur'd, he seem'd outcast by heav'n,
From self, and social nature driv❜n,
In clanking chains condemn'd to lie,
To live for vengeance,-then to die.
Yet he would smile so sweetly sad,
That e'en he seem'd with reason clad.
Such melting loveliness, and tears
Of sweet compassion,-such strong fears
Of some calamity, and sighs

Of deep regret, o'er broken ties,-
The care-worn brow-the brow of tho't,
Betoken'd reason's reign, methought.
Forgetfulness of his sad fate,
Would rouse outbursting scorn, and hate
At him who kept him; with his chains,
His with'ring cell, and all his pains,
Him we could curse. But ere the tho't
Was past, with guilty vengeance fraught,
He was himself-the maniac
A fiend, and writhing on the rack
Of rending agony. His breast

Seem'd bursting with the inward hell,

His weight. might,

Then with convulsive

As if before his 'stonish'd sight
Annihilation yawn'd, his chains
He grasp'd, and hugg'd that cause
pains,

And lit the seenery.
Can ye guess
The scene that's acting? View with me
The maniac's final tragedy.

Whence they of boldest spirit shrink,
of He stands upon the dizzy brink,
With flashing eyes and fiendish grin-
Oh! who can tell the soul within?
His panther eye-balls' glare imparts
A terror to the sick'ning hearts
Of torch-lit men, who cluster nigh-
Who shrink to meet his blazing eye.
Look round; and see in ev'ry cheek,
A kindred fear, at ev'ry shriek,
That rings from cliff to cliff, and shake,
The distant silent air, and wakes
The startled echo's shrill reply.
Have ye no life-no courage high
To dare the peril? Can ye fling
Forth from your hearts the fears that
cling

As if it were his hold on time-
A refuge from some vision'd clime.
Then, as with madden'd fiends, he fought
In deep despair--Oh! bitter thought,
That empty space to him should seem
Thus fraught with foes-a waking dream.
When midnight's pall had palsied
The world, and like the buried dead,
In sweet oblivion lay the race
Of captive mortals, and no trace
Of Nature's former being there
Was seen; then on the hollow air
Came noises strange-so piercing, deep,
The jailer started from his sleep,
And wonder'd long, in pale affright,
What fiends disturb'd the tranquil night.
Such noises seem'd the wails of woe,
And cursings of the world below.
Familiar shrieks now pierc'd his
Oh! horrid was the truth-'twas clear.
The maniac, by fury driven,
Had burst his chains--his door-bolts
riven;-

In paralyzing power there?
Group ye in terror pale? despair

Of hope? and seek your coward lair? Hold! one is on the pass: His hand ear;-Uplifted bears a blazing brand,

Scorning all covert save the heaven.
Escap'd, he curs'd, in mockery,
His cell's pent-space. That he was free
He joy'd. High on a mountain-pile
That frown'd afar, he cheer'd the while
With screams. From crag to crag he
leapt

With fearful bound;-the eagle slept
Upon the tow'ring pines;-the deer
Had pillow'd there his head, and fear
Disturb'd them not. But as his cries
Fell on their ears, swift through the
skies

The eagle sped his aimless flight:
The deer rush'd headlong, in affright,
Unseeing. And the still retreat
Re-echo'd shriekings, that did greet
The thicken'd gloom, and wak'd from
sleep

The jailer, whose sad trust, to keep
A maniac-minded skeleton

Unnerv'd, he treads the utmost verge
That frowns above the dismal gurge;
And glitters in his hand, a steel-
For dread emergency. Now reel
His giddy brains; and terror seems
To master all his strength. The gleams,
The fiend darts on him pierce his heart,
And hollow, gutt'ral laughings dart
Cold chills upon his vitals. Mark
The lip now press'd-the deep resolve
To grapple with the maniac.-Hark!
How fierce that cry!--Those eyes re-
volve

Most wildly.Now, both mad, they
spring,

And gripe each by the throat, and cling
With iron grasp. They fall. No sound
Is heard in th' gloom that throws around
A solemn awe. No sound of strife ?....
No breathings heard ?....,No groans ?.....
Is life

Extinguish'd quick as thought?-A cry
Of deepest mortal agony

Uprushes wildly to the sky

Help! Help!--I die!" "No aid is nigh From that pale band. The torch-rays glance

In chains, was broken: a deed was done
Whose consequence would be perchance
E'en death, to whom?....unknown!--Forth from the fatal steel; and chance

The glance

Of thought might picture, but not say, What rock-toru limbs should lifeless lay,

What coursing blood should dye the

clay.

An hour pass'd on; a quiv'ring light

Directs the random-driven knife
Unto the maniac's seat of life.
That stroke imparts a lion's might
To th' demon; with a grasp not quite
Almighty, he his murderer flings
Far from the dripping verge,--the
springs

Was trav❜ling o'er the mountain's height. In headlong madness down.-That yell,
Now o'er the crags, the torches bright, So fearful, is their fun'ral knell.
Flung back surrounding gloominess,

The rock is dy'd with vital blood,
And mangled limbs oppress the sod;
The soul is blasted in the bud-

The spirit hastens to its God.

The maniac once could boast a giant mind,
That wielded men with unresisted sway,-
Now he has left a mangled wreck behind-
A feast for worms that suck his kindred clay

DISAPPOINTED GENIUS.

(Continued from page 68.)

The ship, by which we were rescued, was destined for Gibraltar, and thence our course was directed. We arrived, and soon my companion left me, to visit the coast of Africa. Time passed on, and I remained upon that barren rock, against whose fearless sides, ever since the world was called forth from chaos, or the fountains of the great deep were broken up, have dashed the rock-beating surges of two mighty seas. Nature had there left a grandeur, that fed the meditations of my soul-that made my home, though drear, yet lovely, and full of interest and inspiration. On the Mediterranean side of this immoveable fabric, there was left, down the side of the rock, a moss-covered cleft, where, retired and alone, I loved to recline, and gaze upon the wide waste of waters, now spread out in their beautiful calm--now rising into mountain-waves, and rushing by me, onward to the sandy coasts, where sweeps the blasting Monsoon. Over me hung the cliff, and on its top, moved the branches of a few strong trees, moaning in the sea-breeze, and throwing out a music, in delightful harmony with the fitful waves that dashed beneath. I love music; but richest to me is the " unwritten music" of nature. And there it was, a music which seemed to unite the fearful tones of the distant thunder with the fairy melodies of the harp, that blended the grand and the terrific with the soft and the charming-the roaring of the wave with the gentle rustling of the leaf. And were there no guardian spirits that hung around-that joined in the sweet concert of voice, the various and delicate harmonies of the playful breeze and eddying surge? Did no such spirits immortal live, with me to feel a momentary love,--that could recline upon the sportive gale, and revel unconfined with the songsters of joyous nature? No! my skepticism answered, 'No!' But sometimes I doubted the answer, and felt that the world was a world of spirits, and that after all, this soul was indeed immortal.

Ten months had passed since the departure of my companion, and misery and disappointment had met him at every step. He returned-related his story of adventures, in which every surrounding circumstance had turned a curse, and he said his heart was withered, callous, dead. We sat together upon the moss-bed of the

cleft, conversing upon our miseries and misfortunes, and thus my comrade spoke :

"What is existence, but dark and dreadful fate? Doomed to sorrow, how worthless is hope--how vain is effort! Genius, intellect may aspire, but passion will conquer. What am I ?.....The chain of idea and action shattered into atoms,--the fountains of tho't broken up, I exist a dissevered wreck on the turbid and stormy billows of life. Learning, enthusiasm and hope, are all plunged into the chaos of events, to come forth still more bewildered, restless, and deadening to the soul. Happiness, serenity and love are shadows that cloud the vision of the idealist, but become to man the waves of endless despair. Detested life! Let us close this scene of woe,--let us stop the exultings of avenging spirits, by putting an end to our base existence. Here let us leave these vile, worthless carcasses of flesh, to drench in the briny ocean, to serve as food for the devouring monsters of the deep!"

Stay,' I answered, 'speak not thus. It cannot be.

Man is

not the creature of circumstance. He has a power that almost commands the elements, and bids creation yield. Look forth upon the heaving waters. Man has made them to subserve his interests, --his coffers of wealth are wafted over the world by the breeze, and the elements all submit to bestow him happiness. Wide-extended fields glow in verdure, to crown his enjoyments,--the animal submits to the yoke to make him blessed, the forest falls beneath his stroke, and the wild beast shrinks away at his coming. Say not that outward circumstances are combined for your destruction. My case is far worse than yours. I could breast the unkindness of a frowning world-I would exult in the beauties of nature, and they should add to my interests, and promote my bliss. But it is the world within, this withering soul-immortal, or not immortal?-Heaven answer, --that seals my misery--that makes my fate!'

Then,' returned he, Die!--Die for what cause you will, but let us die together. My soul curdles within me ;—I will no longer live. O! that this spirit may be annihilated, and this body be mangled and torn to infinite atoms!'

Thus continued my companion, and my own spirit now caught the maddening rage. Reason tottered on its helm, and I too resolved to die. We solemnly took our oaths in the name of Deity, if Deity there was, to leap, one after the other, headlong from the rock on which we rested. He volunteered first to consign himself to the bosom of death, and plunged beneath the rolling tide! I saw his body