Thy voice of music wanders by,
Thy form is floating in my view;
And still thy soft and earnest eye
Smiles on me, as 't is wont to do.
Then tell not me-
e-it cannot be,

That Death, my love, can alter thee.

NO. II.

"This is merely the recollection of an actual dream."

I HAD a wondrous dream-methought I stood
Within the threshold of an ancient house,
Which I had loved in childhood-forms well known,
And old, familiar voices were around me,
And happy thoughts, and half-forgotten feelings,
And tearful recollections rose within me,
Bathing each sense in ecstacy. I felt
A gushing at the fountains of my spirit;
My heart dissolved--I was a child again.
Yet as I gazed on each remember'd face,
A freezing pang shot o'er me—a chill sense,
Of longing separation, and I knew

That woe was deeply blended with my dream.

I gazed upon the forms around me. One
(A matron) had methought been beautiful
In other days, but now upon her cheek
Sickness had set his seal, and wasting years,
And sorrow, worst of all-yet still her mien
Held its original sweetness. Piety,
And gentleness, and charity, and faith,

Shone there, and from her soften'd eyes beam'd forth Serenity which was not of the earth.

And all around that venerable form

Beautiful creatures floated-cheeks of bloom,
And eyes of watery light, on her alone

Fix'd with such fond and beaming earnestness,
That I might know their owners had no thought
Beyond that gentle lady's happiness.

My dream was darken'd. In that ancient house
There was a deathlike silence-
-one alone
Of all those young and lovely forms remain'd,
And she was traversing the silent hall,

With wild and hurried footsteps. Very pale
She look'd, and in her tremulous voice was sorrow
Mingled with dread-and yet she shed no tears.
There seem'd a settled spirit at her heart,
Triumphant o'er calamity,--a firm

And holy strength; yet ever and anon
Her lips, compress'd convulsively, betray'd
The struggle of her soul with agony.
Methought one told me that o'er that old house
Disease had spread his pinions, and that she,
That gentle mother, and her youngest child,
Were fading in Death's shadowy arms. Alone
That maid, the ruling image of my dream,
Tended their feverish beds, and sleeplessly
Was comforting the agonies of each.

Oh! 't was most piteous to see that pale form
Gliding from room to room; and when with faint
And tremulous accent either sufferer ask'd
How fared the other, writhing painful smiles,
And striving with deceitful hope to win
Each soul from half its suffering. And then
Methought the tramp of horses, and the whirl
Of chariot wheels kept sounding in my ear;
And, one by one, familiar forms pass'd by me,
In sad succession, to that house of woe.
They were my friends in childhood, and I sigh'd

To see how thus with pallid looks they came

To weep upon that lady's sepulchre.

My dream pass'd darkly on. Methought I stood
With her, the ruling image of the Vision,
Beneath the waning twilight-

*

*

Again my dream grew dark. We stood by night, (I and that maiden) near the old abode,

But a new woe was on us. Doubt, and fear,
And thoughts of death, and undefined forebodings,
Hung heavy on our hearts. Then on a sudden
She had departed, and her wild farewell
Was ringing like a death-knell in my ear,
Which my heart echoed back. I felt, that hour,
As she were gone for ever. My brain reel'd
Giddily, and dim shadows of dark thought
Throng'd through its bursting cells tumultuously.
I look'd up to the Heavens-their face was dark
With gathering tempest, and the silent moon,
In pale and melancholy loveliness,

Peep'd dimly through the clouds, whose shadowy forms
The winds, in rapid and tumultuous flight,

Hurl'd o'er Night's blue and starry firmament.

My dream was brighten'd. Sounds of love and joy, And hymeneal songs, and rustic mirth,

Mix'd with the music of the village bells,
Broke gaily on my ear. From that old house
There pass'd a merry wedding-rout. The bride
Was that young maiden whom I late beheld
Pining in hopeless sickness. Holy love,
And chaste connubial raptures, fill'd her eyes,
Smiling through silent tears. And then I saw

That maid, the ruling image of my dream,
And she was leaning on a young man's arm
Whom I knew not; but in her eyes I read
That each was to the other all in all.

My Vision changed its aspect. Youth's bright hues
Had pass'd from all the faces which I loved,
And the calm pulses of maturity

Throughout my being throbb'd. I stood begirt
By beaming faces of time-honour'd friends,

Whose children play'd around us,-happy creatures,
With cheeks and eyes of brightness, some in youth's
More ripen'd bloom, maidens with downcast looks,
And boys of gallant bearing. Peace and joy
Dwelt with us; the bright soul of other days
Stole, like an exquisite dream, into our hearts,
And childhood's scenes lay round us. And, methought,
There lean'd a radiant form upon my bosom,
Dearer than all, from whose mild eyes I drank
Intoxicating bliss; all pleasant thoughts
Rose up within me, and each giddy sense
Reel'd in its own deep raptures; till, at last,
E'en with the beating of my heart, I woke.

MAD-QUITE MAD!

"Great wits are sure to madness near allied."

DRYDEN.

IT has frequently been observed that Genius and Madness are nearly allied; that very great talents are seldom found unaccompanied by a touch of insanity, and that there are few bedlamites who will not, upon a close examination, display symptoms of a powerful, though ruined, intellect. According to this hypothesis, the

flowers of Parnassus must be blended with the drugs of Anticyra; and the man who feels himself to be in possession of very brilliant wits may conclude that he is within an ace of running out of them. Whether this be true or false, we are not at present disposed to contradict the assertion. What we wish to notice is, the pains which many young men take to qualify themselves for Bedlam, by hiding a good, sober, gentlemanlike understanding beneath an assumption of thoughtlessness and whim. It is the received opinion among many that a man's talents and abilities are to be rated by the quantity of nonsense he utters per diem, and the number of follies he runs into per annum. Against this idea we must enter our protest; if we concede that every real genius is more or less a madman, we must not be supposed to allow that every sham madman is more or less a genius.

66

In the days of our ancestors, the hot-blooded youth who threw away his fortune at twenty-one, his character at twenty-two, and his life at twenty-three, was termed a good fellow," " an honest fellow," " nobody's enemy but his own. In our time the name is altered; and the fashionable who squanders his father's estate, or murders his best friend,-who breaks his wife's heart at the gaming-table, and his own neck at a steeple-chase,— escapes the sentence which Morality would pass upon him, by the plea of lunacy. "He was a rascal," says Common Sense. "True," says the World, "but he was mad, you know, quite mad.”

We were lately in company with a knot of young men who were discussing the character and fortunes of one of their own body, who was, it seems, distinguished for his proficiency in the Art of Madness. "Harry," said a young sprig of nobility, "have you heard that Charles is in the King's Bench ?" "I heard it this morning, drawled the Exquisite, "how distressing! I have not been so hurt since poor Angelica (his bay mare) broke down. Poor Charles has been too flighty." "His wings will be clipped for the future !" observed young