Anguish next, with clasped hands,
At the fount unconscious stands,
O'er her neck and shoulders fair
Streams her wild dishevell'd hair,
All seems terror in her soul,
Pangs on pangs in tumult roll,
Madness seems the dread release;
Then, Compassion murmurs,-peace.

Sorrow now comes drooping by,
Oh the langour of her eye,
Mark her cheek, how calm and pale,
Ah! it tells a mournful tale;
As beside the fount she stands,
Tears roll dropping to the sands,
Then Compassion dries her tears,
Whispering comfort in her ears.

Who comes now, with dove-like eyes,
Calmly lifted to the skies,

Whose mild features yet disclose
Traces of a thousand woes;

On whose forehead dwell enshrined
Spiritual triumph! Godlike mind!
Compassion, though almost divine,-
Religion needs no aid of thine.

From "Sacred Poems" a small volume, written and published for the benefit of the Ancoats Bazaar, Manchester, in 1840.

EPITAPH,

FOR THE TABLET IN MEMORY OF THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEY'S LEG.

THOMAS GASPEY.

HERE rests and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer or laugh,

To learn that mouldering in the grave,
Is laid-a British calf,

For he who writes these lines is sure,
That those who read the whole,
Will find such laugh were premature,
For here, too, lies a sole.

And here five little ones repose,
Twin-born with other five;
Unheeded by their brother toes,
Who all are now alive.

A leg and foot, to speak more plain,
Lie here, of one commanding ;
Who, though his wits he might retain,
Lost half his understanding.

Who when the guns, with thunder fraught,
Pour'd bullets thick as hail,

Could only in this way be taught
To give the foe leg-bail.

And now in England, just as gay—
As in the battle brave-

Goes to the rout, review, or play,
With one foot in the grave.

Fortune in vain here shew'd her spite,
For he will still be found,
Should England's sons engage in fight,
Resolved to stand his ground.

But Fortune's pardon I must beg,
She meant not to disarm;

And when she lopp'd the hero's leg,
By no means sought his h-arm.

And but indulged a harmless whim;
Since he could walk with one,

She saw two legs were lost on him,

Who never meant to run.

At Beaudesert, the seat of the Noble Marquis, part of the cloth of the trowsers worn on the leg which was shot off, at the moment when his lordship received his wound, is preserved in which all the marks of the bullets are seen, and it is in the same splashed state as when removed from the noble soldier's person at Waterloo. — ManyColoured Life.

THE SONG OF HEALTH.

EDWIN HENRY BURRINGTON.

My wing is touch'd with rosy light, I fly o'er wave and

strand;

The seamen and the landsmen laugh, to shake me by the

hand;

I have my fancies like a prince, and sup with whom I

please,

I'm changing as the April clouds and fickle as its

breeze.

Sometimes, when men for love of gold desire an old man's

death,

I touch him with my fairy wand and lengthen out his

breath;

For never should the upstart young usurp their father's

chair,

Oh! mine is such a bonny life of sport the new and rare!

I made a child's blue eye more blue, his mother smooth'd

his hair,

And joy came rushing to her heart as she said, "My child, thou'rt fair;"

Faith with the loved and beautiful I cannot always keep, So when the boy laid down his head, I left him in his

sleep;

Then came a spirit from the tomb and flutter'd round his

cheek;

He pass'd his shady pencil there and left the cold deathstreak.

Where on earth can one be found like me, so doubly kind; For when I take the red rose off, I leave the white behind.

An old crone witch'd a peasant girl, so village newsers said,

And I, to share the frolic, from the timid witch'd one fled; Men flung the old dame in a pond, bound tightly with a

chain

She sank, and laughing I return'd unto the maid again.
I smile to see the sickly strive to counterfeit my form,
To make a cold and bloodless cheek look beautiful and

warm ;

But let them mock ue with their rouge, for when I once

depart,

They mimic me upon the cheek, but not so in the heart.

I ride upon the morning air, the whirlwind is my broom, Which sweeps away the pestilence to give me light and room;

When cold rains lie upon the ground, and comes the wildstorm shock,

I

creep into a thick great coat, or in a soft warm sock,

No minstrel ever strung his harp who decks the fields like

I,

K