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,-
And the sad form of scenes and deeds long past
Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life,
And 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 gray cold mantle clad,

In phantom form gigantic floats!—

That dream,

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

Makes e'en oblivion memory's register,—

Still swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain!
Again I wildly quaff'd the maddening bowl,

Again I stak'd my all-again the die

Prov'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.

But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts,
Or frenzy must unseat my reason's sway,—
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 phantasy 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 avai
And tho' his tongue devoid of gall-
He civilly assur'd them all :-

A bird am I of Phoebus' 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 very teeth and claws for gold ;–
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 humor 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 "Eotηus ;
('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!

THE REPROOF AND REPLY.

FIE, Mr. Coleridge !—and can this be you?

Break two commandments? and in church-time too!

Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain,

The birth and parentage-recording strain?

Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown-
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down.
Letter to sweetheart-the last dying speech-
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath breach?
You, that knew better! In broad open day,
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?
What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth, I fear,
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"

Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought
to the Poet's thought.

From fair

Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply :*A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye,— And then:

"Fair dame! a visionary wight,

Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home,
Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam,
And many a morn, on his becharmed sense
So rich a stream of music issued thence
He deem'd himself, as it flowed warbling on,
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon !

But when, as if to settle the concern,

A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,-

Say, can you blame?-No! none that saw and heard Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd;

A muse beholding in each fervent trait,

Took Mary for Polly Hymnia!
Or haply as there stood beside the maid
One loftier form in sable stole array'd,
If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee
his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene!
But most of you, soft warblings, I complain!
'Twas ye
that from the bee-hive of my brain
Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout,

And witched the air with dreams turn'd inside out.

Thus all conspir'd-each power

of eye

and ear,

And this gay month th' enchantress of the year,