POETRY
... - - - - * . -- - To Oh, JbAtorsY foul thing, That knows no balmy rest, How doth thy fierce and rankling sting Corrode the lover's breast; Illack'ning Isa soal with horrid spell. And stamping In his heart a hell! Dreading the glare of day, A watcher of the night, Thy victim knows no cheeringray Of pleasure's caln delight: A slave in envy's spiteful thral., Friendless and loee,-distrusling all. ...