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4. "Tis sure soine dream, some vision vain ;

What! 1,—the child of rank and wealth,
Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health?
Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head :

But 'tis not mad; no, 'tis not mad. 5 Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this,

A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss,

Nor round her neck how fast you clung;
Nor how with her you sued to stay;

Nor how that suit your sire forbade;
Nor how-I'll drive such thoughts away;

They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad 6 His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! None ever bore a lovelier child :

And art thou now for ever gone?
And must I never see thee more, ..

My pretty, pretty, pretty Ind? .
I will be free ! unbar the door!

I am not mad; I am not mad. 7 Oh! hark! what mean those yells and cries?

His chain some furious madman breaks; He comes,- I see his glaring eyes;

Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. Help! help!-He's gone! Oh! fearful wo,

Such screams to hear, such sights to see! "My brain, my brain, -I know, I know,

I am not mad, but soon shall be. 8 Yes, soon ;-for, lo you !--while I speak --

Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare' He sees me; now, with dreadful shriek,

He whirls a serpent high in air.
Horror !-the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ;
Ah, laugh, ye fiends ;--I feel the truth ;

Your task is done--- I'm mad! I'm mad!

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin, trimmed
With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound :
A serving-maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves
To distant shores : and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy, too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death-
And never smiled again !And now she roams
The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak—and hardly hides, a gown
More tattered still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food,
Though pressed with hunger oft,-or comelier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never. Kate is crazed.

Cowper.

LESSON LXI.

The Mocking Bird.Wilson. i The plumage of the mocking bird, though none of the

homeliest, has nothing gaudy or brilliant in it, and, had he nothing else to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice; but his figure is well proportioned, and even handsome. The ease, elegance, and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and the intelligence he displays in listening, and laying up lessons from almost every species of the feathered creation within his hearing, are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. 'To these qualities we may add that of a voice full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modula2 tion, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood thrush, to the savage screams of the bald eagle. In measure and accent, he faithfully follows his originals. In force, and sweetness of expression, he greatly improves upon them. In his native groves, mounted upon the top of a tall bush, or half-grown tree, in the dawn of dewy inorning, while the woods are already vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre-eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music alone, to which that of all the others seeins a more accompaniment. Neither is his 3 strain altogether imitative. His own native notes, which

are easily distinguishable by such as are well acquainted with those of our various birds of song, are bold and full, and varied, seemingly, beyond all limits. They consist of short expressions of two, three, or, at the most, five or six syllables, generally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with great emphasis and rapidity, and contin- i ued, with undiminished ardor, for half an hour, or an hour, at a time. His expanded wings and tail, glistening with white, and the buoyant gayety of his action, arrest the eye, as 4 as his song most irresistibly does the ear. He sweeps

round with enthusiastic ecstasy,--he mounts and descends, as his song swells or dies away, and, as Mr. Bartram has beautifully expressed it, “he bounds alost with the celerity of an arrow, as if to recall his very soul, which expired in the last elevated strain." While ihus exerting himself, a bystander, destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribes had assembled together, on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his utmost effect,--so perfect are his imitations. He many times deceives the sportsman, 5 and sends him in search of birds, that, perhaps, are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed on by this admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied calls of their mates, or dive, with precipitation, into the depths of thickets, at the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk.

The mocking bird loses little of the power and energy of his song by confinement. In his domesticated state, when he commences his career of song, it is impossible to 6 stand by uninterested. He whistles for the dog: Cæsar

starts up, wags his tail, and runs to meet his master. He

squeaks out like a hurt chicken ; and the hen hurries about, with hanging wings and bristled feathers, clucking to pro tect her injured brood. He runs over the quiverings of the canary, and the clear whistlings of the Virginia nightingale or red bird, with such superior execution and effect, that the mortified songsters feel their own inferiority, and become altogether silent, while he seems to triumph in

their defeat, by redoubling his exertions. ?" This excessive fondness for variety, however, in the

opinion of some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown-thrush are frequently interrupted by the erowing of cocks: and the warblings of the blue bird, which he exquisitely manages, are mingled with the screaming of swallows, or the cackling of hens; amidst the sim

ple melody of the robin, we are suddenly surprised by · the shrill reiterations of the whip-poor-will; while the notes of the kildeer, blue jay, martin, baltimore, and twenty

others, succeed with such imposing reality, that we look 8 around for the originals, and discover, with astonishment,

that the sole performer, in this singular concert, is the adsem mirabie hindow hofer

inirable bird now before us During this exhibition of his powers, he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and throws himself around the cage in all the ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming not only to sing, but to dance, keeping time to the measure of his own music. Both in his native and domesticated state, during the solemn stillness of the night, as soon as the moon rises in silent majesty, he begins his delightful solo, and serenades us with a full display of his vocal powers, making the whole neighborhood ring with his inimitable melody.

Why should a man, whose hlood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ?
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice,
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,
(I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,)
There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be dressed in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle !

And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !
O! my Antonio, I do know of those,
That therefore only are reputed wise
For saying nothing. --Shakspeare.

LESSON LXII. The Chi!dren of the very Poor.*_ANONYMOUS. 1 The innocent prattle of his children takes out the sting of a man's poverty. But the children of the very poor de not prattle! It is none of the least frightful features in that condition, that there is no childishness in its dwellings. Poor people, said a sensible old nurse to us once, do not bring up their children; they drag them up. The little careless darling of the wealthier nursery, in their hovel is transformed betimes into a premature reflecting person. No one has time to dandle it, no one thinks it worth while to coax

it, to sooth it, to toss it up and down, to humor it. There 2 is none to kiss away its tears. If it cries, it can only be beaten. It has been prettily said that “ a babe is fed with milk and praise.” But the aliment of this poor babe was thin, unnourishing; the return for its little baby-tricks, and efforts to engage attention, bitter ceaseless objurgation. Il never had a toy, or knew what a coral meant. It grew up without the lullaby of nurses; it was a stranger to the patient fondle, the hushing caress, the attracting novelty, the costlier plaything, or the cheaper off-hand contrivance to divert the child ; the prattled nonsense, (best sense to it,) 3 the wise impertinences, the wholesome fiction, the apt

story interposed, that puts a stop to present sufferings, and awakens the passion of young wonder. It was' never sung tomno one ever told to it a tale of nursery. It was dragged up, to live or to die as it happened. It had no young dreams. It broke at once into the iron realities of life. A child exists not for the very poor as any object of dalliance; it is only another mouth to be fed, a pair of little hands to be betimes inured to labor. Jt is the rival, till it can be the co-operator, for the food with the parent. It is

• The operatives in the manufactories in England are particularly referred to.

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