even those which possess the refrain-have a distinct character, and bear the Edgar Poe impress just as Clarence Mangan's bear his. I speak of Mangan on the merit of some lyrics solely,

which are to be found in two or three Irish ballad books published by Duffy of Dublin, and which, besides the splendid and pathetic “Times of the Barmecides" and "Dark Rosaleen," the "Lament for the Tironian Princes," and "Cahal Mor of the Wine Red Hand," are equally worthy of special remark. The most of these lyrics are professedly translations, for which profession there may just possibly be a groundwork of fact; but setting aside these, and judging him upon the pieces which were all his own, he was a sublime lyrist, but unfortunately one who, like his more famous brother bard of "The Bells" and "The Raven "-in whose veins also, by-the-by, the wild Irish blood ran— was unhappy in his life and unhappy in his death. He was born in Dublin, 1803, and died there 1849, the same year that was also made memorable by the death of America's finest and most brilliant bard, the flower of whose genius is contained in this volume.

JOSEPH SKIPSEY.

PREFACE TO THE POEMS.

HESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption

from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random "the rounds of the press." I am naturally anxious that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making at any time serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must-they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind.

E. A. P.

dered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, [chamber door. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my "Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow-vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

-filled me with fantastic terrors never

Thrilled me—f

felt before:

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door

Some late visitor entreating entrance

chamber door

This it is and nothing more."

at my

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

-But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you” Here I opened wide the door

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token.

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore ! "—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore