of an admiring multitude, rushed to his relief with thirsty lancets : apoplexy, oh, of course, apoplexy: and they nodded to each other confidentially

Yes, he was dying: they might not move him now: he must die in his sins, at that dread season, upon that dread spot. Perjury, robbery, and murder, all had fastened on his soul, and were feeding there like harpies at a Strophadian feast, or vultures ravening on the liver of Prometheus. Guilt, vengeance, death, had got hold of him and rent him, as wild horses tearing him asunder different ways; he lay there gurgling, strangling, gasping, panting : Done could help him, none could give him ease : he was going on the dark dull path in the bottom of that awful valley, where Death's cold shadow overclouds it like a canopy; he was sinking in that deep black water, that must some day drown us all-pray Heaven, with hope to cheer us then, and comfort in the fierce extremity --His eye filmed, his lower jaw relaxed, his head dropped back, he was dying, dying, dying

On a sudden he rallied ! his blood had rushed back again from head to heart, and all the doctors were deceived; again he battled and fought, and wrestled, and Aung them from him; again he howled, and his eyes glared lightning :mad ?-Yes—mad! stark mad! quick, quick, we cannot hold him ; save yourselves, there !

But he only broke away from them to stand up free; then he gave one scream, leaped high into the air, and fell down dead in the dock, with a crimson stream of blood issuing from his mouth.

From the “ Crock of Gold."

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

RICHARD MONCKTON MIlves was born in Yorkshire about the year 1806. After graduating at Cambridge he travelled for some time on the continent, and, on his return to England, was elected a member of Parliament for the borough of Pontefract. His poetical work consist of “Poems, Legendary and Historical," “Poems of Many Years,” Muvials of Many Scenes.” « Memorials of a Tour

YOUTH AND MANHOOD.

Youth, that pursuest with such eager pace

Thy even way,
Thou pantest on to win a mournful race:

Then stay! oh, stay!
Pause and luxuriate in thy sunny plain;

Loiter,--enjoy:
Once past, thou never wilt come back again

A second boy.
The hills of manhood wear a noble face,

When seen from far;
The mist of light from which they take their grace

Hides what they are.
The dark and weary path those cliffs between

Thou canst not know,
And how it leads to regions never-green,

Dead fields of snow.
Pause, while thou mayst, nor decm that fate thy gain,

Which, all too fast,
Will drive thee forth from this delicious plain,

A man at last!

LABOR.

Heart of the People! Working men!

Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming time this world of ours;
Hold by that title, -which proclaims

That ye are undismay'd and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.
Yet not on ye alone depend

These offices, or burdens fall;
Labor, for some or other end,

Is lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound,
While industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.
With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye

Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use

Of warm repose and careless joy,-
When, as ye labor to produce,

He strives, as active, to destroy.

But who is this with wasted frame,

Sad sign of vigor overwrought ? What toil can this new victim claim ?

Pleasure, for pleasure's sake besought. How men would mock her flaunting shows,

Her golden promise, if they knew What weary work she is to those

Who have no better work to do! And he who still and silent sits

In closèd room or shady nook, And seems to nurse his idle wits

With folded arms or open book: To things now working in that mind

Your children's children well may owe Blessings that hope has ne'er defined,

Till from his busy thoughts they flow. Thus all must work: with head or hand,

For self or others, good or ill; Life is ordain'd to bear, like land,

Some fruit, be fallow as it will: Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed, And all our choice is this,---to grow

Pasture and grain, or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts,

Unenvious of each other's lot,
For those which seem the easiest parts,

Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,

Who, from the task within his span, Earns for himself his evening rest,

And an increase of good for man.

RICH AND POOR.

When God built up the dome of blue,

And portion'd earth's prolific floor, The measure of his wisdom drew

A line between the rich and poor; And till that vault of glory fall,

Or beauteous earth be scarr'd with flame, Or saving love be all in all,

That rule of life will rest the same.

We know not why, we know not how

Mankind are framed for weal or woBut to the eternal law we bow;

If such things are, they must be so. Yet, let no cloudy dreams destroy

One truth outshining bright and clear, That wealth is only hope and joy,

And poverty but pain and fear.

Behold our children as they play!

Blest creatures, fresh from nature's hand;
The peasant boy as great and gay

As the young heir to gold and land;
Their various toys of equal worth,

Their little needs of equal care,
And halls of marble, huts of earth,

All homes alike endear'd and fair.
They know no better! would that we

Could keep our knowledge safe from worse;
So power should find and leave us free,

So pride be but the owner's curse ;
So, without marking which was which,

Our hearts would tell, by instinct sure,
What paupers are the ambitious rich!

How wealthy the contented poor!
Grant us, O God! but health and heart,

And strength to keep desire at bay,
And ours must be the better part,

Whatever else besets our way.
Each day may bring sufficient ill;

But we can meet and fight it through,
If hope sustains the hand of will,

And conscience is our captain too.

LEIGH HUNT. 1784.

LEIGH IIunt, the journalist and poet, is a son of a clergyman of the Church of England, and was born at Southgate, in Middlesex, October 19, 1784. He received his education at Christ's Hospital, where he continued until his fifteenth year. In 1801, being then clerk to an attorney, he published, under the title of “ Juvenilia,” the poems he had at various times composed. In 1805, he assisted his brother John in writing for a paper called the News;" and three years afterward he established, in connection with his brother, the “Examiner" newspaper.

This was conducted with great independence and spirit, as well as talent and learning, and very soon took a high rank, and exerted a wide influ

For writing, however, with too much freedom against the measures of the no similar attacks should appear; but they were firmly and nobly rejected. Mr. Hunt was not idle in prison; he continued to write and amuse himself in various ways. His independent spirit could not be subdued by such miserable efforts of tyranny, and he proved pretty conclusively that

“ Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage."

Upon his liberation he continued to maintain the “Examiner" as before at the head of the weekly press. In 1810 he commenced a quarterly magazine called “ The Reflector;" but it did not prove successful. Mr. Hunt's chief fame has been won as an essayist, in which character his best pieces are to be found in a collection called the “Round Table," written in conjunction with Hazlitt. His chief works are, “Rimini," an Italian talo in verse; “Classic Tales," “ Feast of the Poets,” “ The Descent of Liberty, a Mask," "The Literary Pocket Book," “ The Legend of Florence," " Hero and Leander," " Imagination and Fancy," “Wit and Humor," " Captain Sword and Captain Pen,” “A Book for a Corner," 2 volumes, &c.

FUNERAL OF THE LOVERS IN “RIMINI."

The days were then at close of autumn still,
A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill;
There was a fitful moaning air abroad ;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose trunks now throng'd to sight, in dark varieties.
The people, who from reverence kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and naught was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr’d,
Till towards the vesper hour; and then 'twas said
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
And others said that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still, nothing came-till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn’d aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.
But of the older people, few could bear
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see