worthy of a madman's fate."

The poor fellow promised to do what he could, assured his friends that
he would not be idle, and that if he could not reflect upon them any
extraordinary credit, he would certainly do them no disgrace. Herbert
Knowles had taken an accurate measure of his strength and capabilities,
and soon gave proof that he spoke at the bidding of no uncertain monitor
within him. Two months after his letter to Southey he was laid in his
grave. The fire consumed the lamp even faster than the trembling lad
suspected.

A poem by him, _The Three Tabernacles_, though perhaps familiar to most
of our readers, is so beautiful that we reprint it here:

THE THREE TABERNACLES.

Methinks it is good to be here,
If thou wilt let us build,--but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no:
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
For see, they would pin him below
To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah! no: she forgets
The charms that she wielded before;
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain:
Who hid, in their turns have been hid;
The treasures are squandered again;
And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board,
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah! no: they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above.
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;
Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion