Hast ever seen an eagle chain'd to earth?
A restless panther in his cage immur'd?
A swift trout by the wily fisher check'd?
A wild bird hopeless strain its broken wing?
Hast ever felt, at the dark dead of night,
Some undefined and horrid incubus
Press down the very soul, and paralyze
The limbs in their imaginary flight
From shadowy terrors in unhallowed sleep?
Hast ever known the sudden icy chill
Of dreary disappointment as it dashes
The sweet cup of anticipated bliss

From the parched lips of long-enduring hope?

Then thou canst picture, aye, in sober truth,
In real, unexaggerated truth,

The constant, galling, festering chain that binds
Captive my mute interpreter of thought;

The seal of lead enstamp'd upon my lips.

The load of iron on my laboring chest

The mocking demon that at every step

Haunts me, and spurs me on to burst with silence!

Oh! 'tis a sore affliction to restrain,

From mere necessity, the glowing thought;

To feel the fluent cataract of speech

Check'd by some wintry spell, and frozen up,
Just as it's leaping from the precipice!
To be the butt of wordy captious fools,
And see the sneering, self-complacent smile
Of victory on their lips, when I might prove
(But for some little word I dare not utter,,
That innate truth is not a specious lie:
To hear foul slander blast an honored name,
Yet breathe no fact to drive the fiend away;
To mark neglected virtue in the dust,
Yet have no word to pity or console;
To feel just indignation swell my breast,
Yet know the fountain of my wrath is sealed;
To see my fellow-mortals hurrying on

Down the steep cliff of crime, down to perdition,
Yet nave no voice to warn, no voice to win!

And is it not in truth,

A poisoned sting in every social joy,
A thorn that rankles in the writhing flesh,
A drop of gall in each domestic sweet,
An irritating petty misery,

That I can never look on one I love,

And speak the fulness of my burning thoughts?
That I can never with unmingled joy
Meet a long-loved and long-expected friend,
Because I feel, but cannot vent my feelings,
Because I know I ought- but must not speak,
Because I mark his quick impatient eye
Striving in kindness to anticipate

The word of welcome, strangled in its birth!
Is it not sorrow, while I truly love

Sweet social converse, to be forced to shun
The happy circle, from a nervous sense,
An agonizing poignant consciousness
That I must stand aloof, nor mingle with
The wise and good, in rational argument,
The young in brilliant quickness of reply,
Friendship's ingenuous interchange of mind,
Affection's open hearted sympathies,
But feel myself an isolated being,

A very wilderness of widow'd thought!

Aye, 'tis a bitter thing, and not less bitter
Because it is not reckoned in the ills,

"The thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to Yet the full ocean is but countless drops,

"

And misery is an aggregate of tears;
And ife, replete with small annoyances,
Is but one long protracted scene of sorrow.

I scarce would wonder, if a godless man,
(I name not him whose hope is heavenward,)
A man, whom lying vanities hath scath'd
And harden'd from all fear, if such an one,

By this tyrannical Argus goaded on,
Were to be wearied of his very life,

And daily, hourly foiled in social converse,
By the slow simmering of disappointment,
Become a sour'd and apathetic being,

Were to feel rapture at the approach of death,
And long for his dark hope,- annihilation.

BENEVOLENCE.

"It is more blessed to give, than to receive."

THERE is indeed one crowning joy,
A pleasure that can never cloy,
The bliss of doing good;

And to it a reward is given

Most precious in the sight of heaven,
The tear of gratitude.

To raise the fallen from the dust,
To right the poor by judgment just,
The broken heart to heal,

Pour on the soul a stream as bright
Of satisfying deep delight

As happy spirits feel!

Yes, high archangels wing their way
Far from the golden founts of day