EULALIE.

I dwelt alone

In a world of moan,

And my soul was a stagnant tide,

Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride,

Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

Ah, less-less bright

The stars of the night

Than the eyes of the radiant girl;

And never a flake

That the vapor can make

With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl,

Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.

Now Doubt-now Pain

Come never again,

For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,

And all day long

Shines bright and strong,

Astarte within the sky,

While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron

eye,

While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet

eye

ELDORADO.

Gayly bedight,
A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old,—

This knight so bold,

And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim Shadow. "Shadow," said he,

"Where can it be

This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,"

The Shade replied,

"If you seek for Eldorado!"

ISRAFEL.*

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell,
"Whose heartstrings are a lute."
None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above,

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red leven

(With the rapid Pleiades, even,
Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings,—
The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

*And the angel Israfel, whose heartstrings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.- KORAN.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty —
Where Love's a grown-up God,-
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song:
To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute: Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours: Our flowers are merely-flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,—

While a bolder note than this might swel From my lyre within the sky.

FOR ANNIE.

Thank Heaven! the crisis-
The danger-is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last,-

And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know,

I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length;
But no matter!—I feel
I am better at length.

And I rest so composed
Now, in my bed,

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead,

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.