POOR MATTHIAS. Poor Matthias! Found him lying Fallen beneath his perch and dying? Found him stiff, you say, though warm, All convulsed his little form? Poor canary, many a year Well he knew his mistress dear; Now in vain you call his name, Vainly raise his rigid frame. Vainly warm him in your heart, Vainly kiss his golden crest, Smooth his ruffled plumage fine, Touch his trembling beak with wine. One more gasp, it is the end, Dead and mute our tiny friend. Poor Matthias, wouldst thou have More than pity? Claim’st a stave? Friends more near us than a bird We dismissed without a word. Rover with the good brown head, Great Attossa, they are dead; Dead, and neither prose nor rhyme Tells the praises of their prime. · · · · · Thou hast seen Attossa sage Sit for hours beside thy cage; Thou wouldst chirp, thou foolish bird, Flutter, chirp, she never stirred. What were now these toys to her? Down she sank amid her fur; Eyed thee with a soul resigned, And thou deemedst cats were kind. Cruel, but composed and bland, Dumb, inscrutable and grand, So Tiberius might have sat Had Tiberius been a cat. Fare thee well, companion dear, Fare forever well, nor fear, Tiny though thou art, to stray Down the uncompanioned way. We without thee, little friend, Many years have yet to spend; What are left will hardly be Better than we spent with thee. Maclise was one of the intimate associates, if we may use the expression, of Dickens’s celebrated Raven. The letter in which the bereaved owners announced to Maclise the death of this interesting bird has been published, but the reply of the artist is now printed for the first time: “_March 13, 1841._ “MY DEAR DICKENS: I received the mournful intelligence of our friend’s decease last night at eleven, and the shock was great indeed. I have just dispatched the announcement to poor Forster, who will, I am sure, sympathize deeply with our bereavement.