The DEAD FRIEND.

Not to the grave, not to the grave my Soul
Descend to contemplate

The form that once was dear!
Feed not on thoughts so loathly horrible!

The Spirit is not there

That kindled that dead eye,

That throbb'd in that cold heart,

That in that motionless hand

Has met thy friendly grasp.

The Spirit is not there!
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh

That moulders in the grave,

Earth, air and waters ministering particles

Now to the elements

Resolv'd, their uses done.

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul,

Follow thy friend beloved,

The Spirit is not there!

Often together have we talk'd of death,'
How sweet it were to see

All doubtful things made clear,
How sweet it were with powers
Such as the Cherubim,

To view the depth of Heaven!
thou hast first

Begun the travel of Eternity!

I gaze amid the stars,

And think that thou art there, Unfettered as the thought that follows thee.

And we have often said how sweet it were
With unseen ministry of angel power

To watch the friends we loved.

**! we did not err !

Sure I have felt thy presence! thou hast given

A birth to holy thought,

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. **! we did not err !

Our best affections here

They are not like the toys of infancy;

The Soul outgrows them not,

We do not cast them off,

Oh if it could be so

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die!

Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, Follow thy friend beloved!

But in the lonely hour

But in the evening walk,

Think that he companies thy solitude,

Think that he holds with thee

Mysterious intercourse,

And tho' Remembrance wake a tear

There will be joy in grief.

The DANCING BEAR.

Recommended to the Advocates for the SLAVE-TRADE.

Rare music! I would rather hear cat-courtship
Under my bed-room window in the night,

Than this scraped cat-gut's screak. Rare dancing too!
Alas
poor Bruin! How he foots the pole

And waddles round it with unwieldy steps

Swaying from side to side!~The dancing master

Hath had as profitless a pupil in thee

As when he would have tortured my poor toes

To minuet grace, and made them move like clock-work
In musical obedience. Bruin! Bruin!

Thou art but a clumsy biped!--and the mob
With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace,
And laugh to see him led by the nose,-themselves
Led by the nose, embruted, and in the

Of Reason from their Natures purposes
As miserably perverted.

eye

Bruin-Bear,

Now could I sonnetize thy piteous plight,
And prove how much my sympathetic heart
Even for the miseries of a beast can feel,
In fourteen lines of sensibility.

But we are told all things were made for man,
And I'll be sworn there's not a fellow here
Who would not swear 'twere hanging blasphemy
To doubt that truth. Therefore as thou wert born
Bruin! for man, and man makes nothing of thee
In any other way, most logically

It follows, that thou must be born to dance,

That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose
To hold a ring, and that thy fat was given thee
Only to make pomatum !

To demur

Were heresy. And politicians say,

(Wise men who in the scale of reason give
No foolish feelings weight,) that thou art here
Far happier than thy brother bears who roam
O'er trackless snows for food; that being born
Inferiour to thy leader, unto him
Rightly belongs dominion; that the compact
Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet
First fell into the snare, and he gave up