CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC.

THE feverous dream is past! and I awake,
Alone and joyless in my prison-cell,

Again to ply the never ending toil,

And bid the task-worn memory weave again
The tangled threads, and ravell'd skein of thought
Disjointed fragments of my care-worn life!
The mirror of my soul,-ah! when again
To welcome and reflect calm joy and hope!—
Again subsides, and smooths its turbid swell,
Late surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast,—
Ard the sad forms of scenes and deeds long past
Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life,
Ard pass in silent, stern procession!—

The storm is past;—but in the pause and hush,
Nor calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine;
My spirit is rebuk'd!—and like a mist,
Despondency, in grey cold mantle clad,
h phantom form gigantic floats!—

That dream,

That dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell, That calls to life the phantoms of the past,

Nakes e'en oblivion memory's register,-

Sill swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain! Again I wildly quaff'd the maddening bowl, Again I stak'd my all,-again the die

Pov'd traitor to my hopes;-and 'twas for her,

Whose love more madden'd than the bowl, whose

love,

More dear than all, was treacherous as the die :Again I saw her with her paramour,

Again I aim'd the deadly blow, again

I senseless fell, and knew not whom I struck,
Myself, or her, or him :-I heard the shriek,
And mingled laugh, and cry of agony :
I felt the whirl of rapid motion,—
And hosts of fiendish shapes, uncertain seen
In murky air, glared fiercely as I pass'd;-
They welcom'd me with bitter laughs of scorn,
They pledged me in the brimming cup of hate.-

sway,

But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts,
Or frenzy must unseat my reason's
Again give license to my lawless will!-
And yet I know not, if that demon rout
Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true;-
Or life itself be but a shadowy dream,
The act and working of an evil will !--
Dread scope of fantasy and passion's power!
Oh God! take back the boon, the precious gift.
Of will mysterious.-Give me, give again,
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs;
Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply
And shield against temptations, that assail
My weak and yielding spirit !-Madness come!
The balm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse,
Make me forget, and save me from myself!

A CHARACTER.

A BIRD, who for his other sins
Had liv'd amongst the Jacobins ;
Tho' like a kitten amid rats,
Or callow tit in nest of bats,
He much abhorr'd all democrats ;
Yet nathless stood in ill report
Of wishing ill to Church and Court,
Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting,
And learnt to pipe God save the King;
Tho' each day did new feathers bring,
All swore he had a leathern wing;
Nor polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail,
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail;
And tho' his tongue devoid of gall—
He civilly assur'd them all :-
"A bird am I of Phœbus' breed,
And on the sunflower cling and feed;
My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit!"
The bats would hail him brother cit,
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german.
At length the matter to determine,
He publicly denounced the vermin;
He spared the mouse, he prais'd the owl;
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl.
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul,
Came in full clatter from his throat,
Till his old nest-mates chang'd their note

To hireling, traitor, and turncoat,-
A base apostate who had sold

His teeth and claws for gold;-
very

And then his feathers !-sharp the jest-
No doubt he feather'd well his nest !
A Tit indeed! aye, tit for tat-
With place and title, brother Bat,
We soon shall see how well he'll play
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay!"
Alas, poor Bird! and ill-bestarred--
Or rather let us say, poor Bard !
And henceforth quit the allegoric
With metaphor and simile,

For simple facts and style historic :-
Alas, poor Bard! no gold had he
Behind another's team he stept,

And plough'd and sow'd, while others reapt;
The work was his, but theirs the glory,

Sic vos non vobis, his whole story.
Besides, whate'er he wrote or said
Came from his heart as well as head;
And tho' he never left in lurch
His king, his country, or his church,
"Twas but to humour his own cynical
Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical;
To his own conscience only hearty,
'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party ;—
The self-same things had said and writ,
Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt;
Content his own applause to win

Would never dash thro' thick and thin,

And he can make, so say the wise,
No claim who makes no sacrifice ;-
And bard still less-what claim had he,
Who swore it vex'd his soul to see
So grand a cause, so proud a realm
With Goose and Goody at the helm ;
Who long ago had fall'n asunder
But for their rivals, baser blunder,
The coward whine and Frenchified
Slaver and slang of the other side ?—
Thus, his own whim his only bribe,
Our bard pursued his old A. B. C.
Contented if he could subscribe
In fullest sense his name "Eσtnoε;

('Tis Punic Greek, for he hath stood !')
Whate'er the men, the cause was good;
And therefore with a right good will,
Poor fool, he fights their battles still.
Tush! squeak'd the Bats ;-a mere bravado
To whitewash that base renegado ;
"Tis plain unless you're blind or mad,
His conscience for the bays he barters;
And true it is- -as true as sad-
These circlets of green baize he had—
But then, alas! they were his garters!
Ah! silly Bard, unfed, untended,
His lamp but glimmer'd in its socket;
He liv'd unhonor'd and unfriended
With scarce a penny in his pocket ;-
Nay-tho' he hid it from the many—
With scarce a pocket for his penny!