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HYPOCHONDRIANA.

THE LAMENT.

Of all the ills foredoomed by Fate,That haunt and vex this mortal state,None holds such firm and dismal sway,Augmenting night, and darkening day,—As the foul pest—accurst, unholy,Sad-eyed, soul-sinking Melancholy!

The fears that come without a call,The shade that, like a thrice-heaped pall,Drops o'er the shuddering, unstrung sense,In wide and drear omnipotence !The aimless blank, the sightless stare,The nerve, with all its fibres bare;The shapes grotesque that start to view,And, as their victim shrinks, pursue;The sickening languor, " last not least,"That spreads o'er all the damp chill breast,i