Sylv. Why, now you're cheerful.

Jeron. Yes; 'tis thus I'd die.

Sylv. Now I must smile.

Jeron. Do so, and I'll smile too.

I do; albeit―ah! now my parting words
Lic heavy on my tongue; my lips obey not,
And-speech-comes difficult from me. While I can,
Farewell. Sylvestra! where's your hand?
Sylv. Ah! cold.

Jeron. 'Tis so: but scorn it not, my own poor girl. They've used us hardly: bless 'em though. Thou wilt Forgive them? One's a mother, and may feel,

When that she knows me dead. Some air-more air:

?—I am blind—my

hands are numb'd:

[Dies.

Where are you
This is a wintry night. So,-cover me.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A VISION.

This is little more than the recollection of an actual dream.

THE night was gloomy. Through the skies of June

Rolled the eternal moon,

'Midst dark and heavy clouds, that bore
A shadowy likeness to those fabled things
That sprung of old from man's imaginings.
Each seem'd a fierce reality: some wore
The forms of sphinx and hippogriff, or seemed
Nourished among the wonders of the deep,
And wilder than the poet ever dreamed :

And there were cars—steeds with their proud necks

bent,

Tower, and temple, and broken continent:

And all, as upon a sea,

In the blue ether floated silently.