"Here he concluded his discourse, and abruptly went his way. As Tabby closed the door, I asked her if she knew him. Her reply was, that she had never seen him before, nor any one like him. Though I am fully persuaded that he was some fanatical enthusiast, well meaning perhaps, but utterly ignorant of true piety; yet I could not forbear weeping at his words, spoken so unexpectedly at that particular period." Though the date of the following poem is a little uncertain, it may be most convenient to introduce it here. It must have been written before 1833, but how much earlier there are no means of determining. I give it as a specimen of the remarkable poetical talent shown in the various diminutive writings of this time; at least, in all of them which I have been able to read. THE WOUNDED STAG. Passing amid the deepest shade Of the wood's sombre heart, Last night I saw a wounded deer Laid lonely and apart. Such light as pierced the crowded boughs (Light scattered, scant and dim,) Passed through the fern that formed his couch And centred full on him. Pain trembled in his weary limbs, Pain filled his patient eye, Pain-crushed amid the shadowy fern His branchy crown did lie. Where were his comrades? where his mate? All from his death-bed gone! And he, thus struck and desolate, Suffered and bled alone. Did he feel what a man might feel, Friend-left, and sore distrest? Did Pain's keen dart, and Grief's sharp sting Strive in his mangled breast? Did longing for affection lost Barb every deadly dart; Love unrepaid, and Faith betrayed, Did these torment his heart? No! leave to man his proper doom! These are the pangs that rise Around the bed of state and gloom, Where Adam's offspring dies! CHAPTER VI