My poor little bird is dead. I am sorry! I could mourn almost as much over the death of a soulless animal, as I would rejoice at that of a brute with a soul. Life is to these winged things a pure enjoyment; and to see the rapid pinions folded, and the bright eye filmed, conveys sadness to the heart, for 'tis almost like looking on--what indeed is not--utter cessation of existence. Poor little creature! I wished it had not died--I would but have borne it tenderly and carefully to shore, and given it back to the air again! * * * * * I sat down stairs in my cabin all day; the very spirit of doggerel possessed me, and I poured forth rhymes as rapidly as possible, and they were as bad as possible.--Wrote journal; in looking over my papers, fell in with the Star of Seville--some of it is very good. I'll write an English tragedy next. Dined at table--our heroes have drunk wine, and are amicable. After dinner, went on deck, and took a short walk; saw the sun set, which he did like a god, as he is, leaving the sky like a geranium curtain, which overshadowed the sea with rosy light--beautiful! Came down and sat on the floor like a Turkish woman, stitching, singing, and talking, till midnight; supped--and to bed. My appetite seems like the Danaïdes' tub, of credible memory. * * * * * * * * * * _Friday, 30th._ On soundings. A fog and a calm. Sky yellow, sea grey, dripping, damp, dingy, dark, and very disagreeable. Sat working, reading, and talking in our own cabin all day. Read part of a book called Adventures of a Younger Son. The gentlemen amused themselves with fishing, and brought up sundry hake and dog-fish. I examined the heart of one of the fish, and was surprised at the long continuance of pulsation after the cessation of existence. In the evening, sang, talked, and played French blind man's buff;--sat working till near one o'clock, and reading Moore's Fudge Family,--which is good fun. It's too hard to be becalmed within thirty hours of our destination. * * * * * * * * * * Why art thou weeping Over the happy, happy dead, Who are gone away From this life of clay, From this fount of tears, From this burthen of years, From sin, from sorrow, From sad "to-morrow," From struggling and creeping: Why art thou weeping, Oh fool, for the dead? Why art thou weeping Over the steadfast faithful dead, Who can never change, Nor grow cold and strange, Nor turn away, In a single day, From the love they bore, And the faith they swore; Who are true for ever, Will slight thee never, But love thee still, Through good and ill, With the constancy Of eternity: Why art thou weeping, Oh fool, for the dead?