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Wild raving to the unfeeling air,
'The fetter'd Maniac foams along,

(Rage the burthen of his jarring song) In rage he grinds his teeth, and rends his

streaming hair.

No pleasing memory left--forgotten quite
All former scenes of dear delight,

Connubial love-parental joy
No sympathies like these his soul employ,-
But all is dark within, all furious black despair.

Not so the love-lorn Maid,
By too much tenderness betray’d;

Her gentle breast no angry passion fires,
But slighted vows possess, and fainting, soft desires.

She yet retains her wonted flame,
All—but in reason-still the same.-

Streaming eyes,
Incessant sighs,

Dim haggard looks, and clouded o'er with care, Point out to Pity's tears, the poor distracted Fair. Dead to the world-her fondest wishes crost

She mourns herself thus early lost.

Now, sadly gay, of sorrows past she sings,
Now, pensive, ruminates unutterable things.

She starts-she flies—who dares so rude
On her sequester'd steps intrude ?--

"T is he-the Momus of the flighty train

„Merry mischief, fills his brain.
Blanket-rob’d, and antic crown'a,
The mimic monarch skips around;

Big with conceit of dignity he smiles,
And plots his frolics quaint, and unsuspected wiles,

Laughter was there- But mark that groan,

Drawn from the inmost soul ! “ Give the knife, Dæmons, or the poison’d bowl, To finish miseries equal to your own.”—

Who's this wretch, with horror wild?--
“T is Devotion's ruin'd child. -
Sunk in the emphasis of grief,
Nor can he feel, nor dares he ask relief.-

*Thou,'fair ReligION, wast design’d,
Duteous daughter of the skies,
To warm and cheer the human mind,
To make men happy, good, and wise.

To point where sits, in love array’d,
Attentive to each suppliant call,

The God of universal aid,
"The God, the FATHER of us all.

First shown by thee, thus glow'd the gracious scene,

Till SUPERSTITION, fiend of woe,

Bade doubts to rise, and tears to flow, And spread deep shades our view and Heaven be

tween.

Drawn by her pencil, the Creator stands,
(His beams of mercy thrown aside)
With thunder arming His uplifted hands,

And hurling vengeance wide.
Hope, at the frown aghast, yet ling’ring, flies,
And dash'd on TERROR's rocks, Faith's best

dependence lies.

But ah!—too thick they crowd,—too close they

throng,

Objects of pity and affright!-Spare farther the descriptive song~

Nature shudders at the sight.

Protract not, curious ears, the mournful tale, But o'er the hapless groupe, low drop COMPAS

· Sion's veil.

BY HAFEZ.

ODE 1. UNLESS my fair-one's check be near, To tinge thee with superior red, How vain, O Rose, thy boasted bloom! Unless, prime season of the year, The grape's rich streams be round thee shed, Alike how vain is thy perfume !

In shrubs which skirt the scented mead,
Or garden's walk embroider'd gay,
Can the sweet voice of Joy be found
Unless, to harmonize the shade,
The nightingale's soft-warbled lay
Pour melting melody around ?

Thou flow'ret trembling to the gale,
And thou, O cypress! waving slow
Thy green head in the summer air ;

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