And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed, My tantalized spirit Of myrtles and roses : For now, while so quietly A holier odor About it, of pansies, A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie, Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie, With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. EDGAR ALLAN POE. THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. [Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.] To make my lady's obsequies My love a minster wrought, And, in the chantry, service there And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, And round about, in quaintest guise, Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies Above her lieth spread a tomb Of gold and sapphires blue : When gracious God with both his hands He framed her in such wondrous wise, No more, no more! my heart doth faint Of her who lived so free from taint, That in herself was so complete By God to deck his paradise, And with his saints to reign; Whom while on earth each one did prize, But naught our tears avail, or cries; All soon or late in death shall sleep; CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS (French). Trans- DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. UNDERNEATH the sod low-lying, FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: Fear no more the lightning flash Thou hast finished joy and moan: SHAKESPEARE ROCK ME TO SLEEP. BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! - Man's doom, in death that we and ours O, can it be, that o'er the grave It cannot be; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery, thought were woe, Heaven were a coinage of the brain; Then be to us, O dear, lost child! A star, death's uncongenial wild Soon, soon thy little feet have trod Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair, That heaven is God's, and thou art there, There past are death and all its woes; Farewell, then, - for a while, farewell, Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell, Thus torn apart. Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy! At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. VIII. [This was Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!" sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.] I. DEAD! one of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. And some one came out of the cheers in the street With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. - My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. IX. I bore it ;-friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. X. And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your One loved me for two... would be with me erelong : Who forbids our complaint." XI. My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware imprest bells low, And burn your lights faintly! - My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, XIX. It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, Forgive me. Some women bear children in And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, strength, |