away

To shut her up in a sepulcher

In this kingdom by the sea.

4. The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me—

Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

5. But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

6. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,

In the sepulcher there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

POE.

EDGAR A. POE, born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, was left an orphan by the death of his parents at Richmond, in 1815. He was adopted by John Allen, a wealthy merchant of Virginia, who in the following year took him to England, and placed him at a school near London, from which, in 1822, he was removed to the university of Virginia, where he graduated with distinction in 1826. While at the Military Academy at West Point, in 1830, he published his first work, a small volume of poems. He secured prizes for a poem and a tale at Baltimore, in 1833; in 1835 he was employed to assist in editing "The Southern Literary Gazette," at Richmond; in 1838 he removed to Philadelphia, where he was connected as editor with Burton's Magazine one year, and with Graham's a year and a half; and subsequently, while in that city, published several volumes of tales, besides many of his finest criticisms, tales, and poems, in periodicals. He went to New York in 1844, where he wrote several months for the "Evening Mirror." In 1845 appeared his very popular poem of "The Raven," and the same year he aided in establishing the "Broadway Journal" of which he was afterward the sole editor. His wife, to whom he had been married about twelve years, died in the spring of 1849. In the summer of that year he returned to Virginia, where it was supposed he had mastered his previous habits of dissipation; but he died from his excesses, at Baltimore, on the 7th of October, at the age of thirty-eight years. In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. He had a great deal of imagination and fancy, and his mind was highly analytical. His poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity, and finished with consummate art.

I

II.

41. THE MESSAGE.

HAD a message to send her,
To her whom my soul loves best,
But I had my task to finish,
And she had gone to rest;
To rest in the far bright Heaven-
Oh! so far away from here!
It was vain to speak to my darling,
For I knew she could not hear.

2. I had a message to send her,

So tender, and true, and sweet,
I longed for an angel to bear it,
And lay it down at her feet.
I placed it, one summer's evening,
On a little white cloud's breast;
But it faded in golden splendor,
And died in the crimson west.

3. I gave it the lark next morning,
And I watched it soar and soar;
But its pinions grew faint and weary,
And it fluttered to earth once more.
I cried, in my passionate longing,
"Has the earth no angel friend
Who will carry my love the message
My heart desires to send ?"

4. Then I heard a strain of music,
So mighty, so pure, so dear,
That my věry sorrow was silent,
And my heart stood still to hear.
It rose in harmonious rushing

Of mingled voices and strings,
And I tenderly laid my message
On music's outspread wings.

5. And I heard it float farther and farther, In sound more perfect than speech,

Farther than sight can follow,

Farther than soul can reach.
And I know that at last my message
Has passed through the golden gate;
So my heart is no longer restlèss,

And I am content to wait.

MISS PROCTER.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, daughter of the distinguished English poet, B. W. Procter, published "Legends and Lyrics, a Book of Verse," in 1858, and A Second Volume of Legends and Lyrics" in 1861. Her poetry, without imitation, has much of the paternal grace and manner. She died in 1864.

BE

III.

42. EVELYN HOPE.

EAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead—
Sit and watch by her side an hour,

That is her book-shelf, this her bed;

She plucked that piece of geranium flower,
Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think-
The shutters are shut, no light may pass,
Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

2. Sixteen years old when she died!

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name-
It was not her time to love: beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,

Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir

Till God's hand beckoned unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

3. Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,1
Made you of spirit, fire, and dew-
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

1 Hor o scōpe, an observation made of the aspect of the heavens at the moment of a person's birth,

foretell the events of his life; especially, the sign of the zodiac rising above the horizon at such a mo

by which the astrologer claimed to ment.

Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?

4. No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love-
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for mōre lives yět,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few—
Much is to learn and much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.

5. But the time will come-at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red-
And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 6. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Given up myself so many times,

Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yět one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me-
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!

7. I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold-
There was space and to spare for the frank young smile,
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So hush-I will give you this leaf to keep—

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

BROWNING.

ROBERT BROWNING, one of the most remarkable English poets of the age, was born in Camberwell, a suburb of London, in 1812, and educated at the London University, At the age of twenty he went to Italy, where he passed some time studying the medieval history of the country, and making himself acquainted with the life, habits, and charac

teristics of its people. The effect of his Italian life is distinctly perceivable in the selection of subjects for his poems and his treatment of them. His first work, "Paracelsus," a dramatic poem of great power, appeared in 1835. Mr. Browning was married to Elizabeth Barrett, in November, 1846. His collective poems, in two volumes, appeared in London in 1849, and since then three additional volumes were published, all of which have been republished in this country. Though a true poet, of original genius, both dramatic and lyrical, his poems are not popular among the masses. Much of his poetry is written for poets, requiring careful study, and repaying all that is given to it. A few of his dramatic lyrics, however, such as "The Pied Piper of Hamelin,' "The Lost Leader," "Incident of the French Camp," and "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," are unrivaled in elements of popularity. "Herve Riel," the latest of his poems, first appeared in the "Cornhill Magazine " in 1871.

IV.

43. BARBARA.

1.

N the Sabbath-day, through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms;

'Mong the gorgeous storms of music-in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mong the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood heedless, Barbara!

2.

My heart was otherwhere while the organ filled the air,

And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine— Gleamed and vanished in a moment. Oh, the face was like to thine, Ere you perished, Barbara!

3.

Oh, that pallid face! those sweet, earnest eyes of grace!
When last I saw them, dearest, it was in another place;

You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist,
And a cursed river killed thee, aided by a murderous mist.

Oh, a purple mark of agony was on the mouth I kissed,

When last I saw thee, Barbara !

4.

These dreary years eleven have you pined within your heaven,
And is this the only glimpse of earth that in that time was given ?
And have you passed unheeded all the fortunes of your race—
Your father's grave, your sister's child, your mother's quiet face—
To gaze on one who worshiped not within a kneeling place'?

Are you happy, Barbara ?