WRITTEN

Death to the very life! not the closed eye,

Not those small paralytic limbs alone,

But every feather tells so mournfully

Thy fate, and that thy little life has flown.

Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet

Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand

Gazing intensely, and with mute regret,

Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.

Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more

Than by the silent admiration? no!

And now I try to praise I must deplore

How feeble is the verse that tells thee so;

But thou art gaining for thyself a fame

Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name!