she recovered, she seized the paper, and her eyes wandered over the pages until they were fixed upon the spot; and then pointing eagerly to it, she said to those around her, Harry is dead! and they say he died nobly.-O yes, Harry's soul was noble,-I could not have loved him else!' and then she smiled, it was the old smile, dashed with a curl of melancholy, I shall die too,' she continued, ' and then I shall be in heaven with Harry; they will not divide us there, he will be all mine! Dear Harry! God bless you all,-I shall die soon, and Harry'-her voice sunk to a whisper; her eyes were fixed; and the spirit of the lost maiden departed without a groan." P. S. The Secretary is directed to state, in order to forestall judgment, that the foregoing paper was written expressly for the perusal of people of taste and feeling; such as are the readers of the Monthly. THE MANIAC. H. L. MANSEL. It was a gloomy prison-house, and drear, And moonstruck wanderings, and the mental night Who scorned the actual, and fought the fight And there were chains and fetters, and "the shriek In strong convulsion, or perchance, more meek, And, to his vain conceit, the misery Of a mind not like his, a vision dim To his realities, a frenzied eye Whose sight mid vain imaginings did swim; Such was its outward form thus drearisome to him. But to its denizen the changing roof Was shaped a thousandfold; each pendent beam Was dressed in varied web from fancy's woof Fair visionings! albeit the world regards them not. Wieldeth the potent sceptre of command And smiles upon his subjects, and whene'er And by-gone joys, which drove his maddened brain All nature joys with him; the moon doth reign Hath lulled the slumbering woods; the very chain Seems as his loved one's arm, twining around his breast. Another through the maze of science strays, List to the battle cry! on barbèd steed Is the close secret of another's breast, Which cannot trouble him, which haunteth not his rest. Yet there are those in whom the thought has made Cradled 'mid visions, whilst around them fade, And they have raised the supplicating eye The Lord of thousands more, may never pass away. His friends are those whom man cannot define- Think'st thou the immortal mind is never free To prompt or act, save on the fleshly tongue ? Speak thou," she cries, "what word beseemeth thee, Speak thine unmeaning things, thou sharest not my song." Eros and Psyche aye with them were wed, Shapes of this outward world; these we adore, Reflected in the fruit which she to life hath brought. He who hath loved no form of mortal birth As the fair moon, when morning shineth bright, COALITIONARY JOURNALS.* BY THE SYNCRETIST. I AM going, my gracious and inquisitive reader, to introduce myself to your especial patronage, under a new character, that of Journalist. Many a part have I played in the motley tragi-comedy of London lifesome admirably to my taste, in fact, cut out for me express, as Knowles' Virginius for Macready; some, on the other hand, detestable as assafoetida, but thrust upon me nolens volens. This part of Journalist We have before noticed in what manner our own ideas transcend the notions of our Syncretic correspondent, inasmuch as we require an antecedent oneness where he is content with a consequent unity. In this, however, there is no opposition view, but merely a subordination of the synthetic to the prothetic.-EDITOR. in the Monthly, however, "likes me well," as Hamlet says of his rapier. Not that I mean, by introducing this remarkably pointed word rapier, to imply even the remotest possibility of stabbing those best natured of mortal men, who read the Monthly, con lietu fronte. No; our's is far too loving and jovial a heart, too full of the "milk of human kindness" to be capable of conceiving such fratricide. It would be crime as entirely unconscionable as Cain's, who did the first murder, were we, in the pages of Apollo himself, to lift up our hand against our sworn and initiated brethren, as we call all those who write or read our pages. Long may our illuminated fraternity flourish, aye, by the name of Apollo, "the god of life and poesy and life," whose jolly countenance is sparkling in our vignette. By Phoebus Apollo, we exclaim, esto perpetua. A gallant and right sociable fraternity is it a grand lodge of literary freemasonry, in which our benignant Editor sits as Master Arch, with the star of the sun-god glittering on his forehead. Apollo presides at our table, His beams are brighter than wine; Without his help to shine. We are his merry fellow-craftsmen-merry and mellow, honest and true. We share his glory, and augment his blaze; and when he sings his best songs, we lend him a chorus that perfectly astonishes the weak nerves of the watchmen. Then brave Apollo, arise, arise, With the stalworth bow and thy arrows bright, With thy glowing shafts of eternal light. Never doubt it, my boys, never doubt it. The going forth of Apollo in the shape of the Monthly, reminds me of the lines of Göthe's Second Faust, which Bernays has so beautifully translated for us. Ask you which lines I mean ?—I will versify them for you, and shew you how the first genius of Germany describes "the exceeding great noise which announces the approach of the sun :" "Hark! the trumpet blast of time, Day is rising on our clime; Phoebus gives his fire-steed cheering. What a din the light is bringing; Eyes are dazzling—ears are tingling With the sound that morning flings. Slip into your flowery petals, Or wing your way to caves of metals, Hear it not 'twill deafen you!" By the by, I know not whether the German critics have noticed that this glorious passage of Göthe is borrowed from a startling paragraph in "Cicero's Somnium Scipionis." I will quote it :-" What is that great |