"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, "my welcome gift at the Gates of Light! Though foul are the drops that oft distil on the field of warfare, blood like this for Liberty shed, so holy is, it would not stain the purest rill that sparkles among the flowers of bliss! Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, a boon, an offering, Heaven holds dear, 'tis the last libation Liberty draws, from the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause." "Sweet," said the angel, as she gave the gift into the guardian's hand; Sweet is our welcome to the brave, who die thus for their native land. But see-alas!-the crystal bar of Eden moves not :-holier far than even this drop the boon must be, that opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!"

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Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, now among Afric's lunar mountains (far to the south) the Peri lighted, and sleek'd her plumes in Nile's far fountains. Beneath a fragrant orange bower, close to a lake, she heard the moan of one, who, at this silent hour had hither stolen, to die alone! But see-who yonder comes by stealth, this melancholy bower to seek-like a young envoy sent by Health, with rosy gifts upon her cheek? "Tis she! far off, through moonlight dim, he knew his own betrothed brideshe, who would rather die with him, than live, to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now-his livid cheek to hers she presses, and dips, to bind his burning brow, in the cool lake her loosened tresses. She fails -she sinks!-as dies the lamp in charnel airs, or cavern damp ;-so quickly do his baleful sighs quench all the sweet light of her eyes! One struggle -and his pain is past-the stricken is no longer living! one prayer maiden breathes-one last deep prayer-which she expires in giving!

the

"Sleep!" said the Peri, as softly she stole the farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, with morn still blushing in the sky: again the Peri soars above, bearing to heaven that precious sigh of pure self-sacrificing love! But, alas! even Peris' hopes are vain-the immortal barrier must closed remain. "True was the maiden," the angel said, and her story is written o'er Alla's head: But, Peri, see-the crystal bar of Eden moves not-holier far than even this sigh the boon must be, that opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!" Ah! nought can charm the luckless Peri: her soul is sad-her wings are weary-when, o'er the vale of Balbec, winging slowly, she sees a child at play among the rosy wild flowers singing, as rosy and as wild as they and watchful near him darkly stood a man of hardened crime and blood: when hark! the vesper call to prayer is rising sweetly on the air: the boy has started from the bed of flowers, where he had laid his head, and, down upon the fragrant sod, kneels with his forehead to the south, lisping the eternal name of "God!" from Purity's own cherub mouth! The wretched man then said, in mild heart-humbled tones: Thou blessed child! there was a time, when, pure as thou, I look'd, and pray'd like thee-but now- -" he hung his head:-each nobler aim, and hope, and feeling, which had slept from boyhood's hour, that instant came fresh o'er him-and he wept!-he wept!

Sudden, a light, more lovely far than ever came from sun or star, fell on the tear, that, warm and meek, dewed that repentant sinner's cheek; and well the enraptured Peri knew 't was a bright smile the angel threw from Heaven's gate, to hail that tear her harbinger of glory near!

Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-the gates are passed-and Heaven is won! Farewell, ye odours of earth, that die, passing away like a lover's sigh! Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone in my fairy wreath so bright and brief:-Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown to the lote-tree, springing by Alla's throne, whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! Joy, joy for ever!-my task is done!-the Gates are pass'd, and

Heaven is won!"

THE RAVEN.-Edgar Allan Poe

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping-rapping at my chamber door;
"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
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never 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 at my chamber door:
This it is, and nothing more."

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 mortal 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,

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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—
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;-

Open here I flung the sbutter.

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door-

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no

craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's Plutonian shore:" Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door—
With such name as "Never more."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Never more!"

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never-never more."

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy; thinking, what this ominous bird of yore

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore,

Meant in croaking, "Never more."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er,—
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, thy God hath lent thee, by these angels He hath

sent thee,

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!

Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tost thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil;
By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ?"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!-
Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming;
And the lamplight o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor:-
And my soul, from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted-never more!

III. THE BELLS.-Edgar A. Poe.

HEAR the sledges with the bells-silver bells! what a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, in the icy air of night! while the stars, that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem to twinkle with a crystalline delight; keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the tintinnabulation that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-from the jingling and the tinkling of the

bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells! what a world of happiness their harmony fortells! Through the balmy air of night how they ring out their delight! from the molten-golden notes, and all in tune, what a liquid ditty floats to the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats on the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, what a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! how it dwells on the future! how it tells of the rapture that impels to the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells; of the bells, bells! bells, bells! bells, bells! bells!-to the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum-bells-brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night how they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek, out of tune; in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire! in a mad

expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher! with a desperate desire, and a resolute endeavour, now-now to sit or never, by the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! what a tale their terror tells of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour on the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, by the twanging, and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows; ay! the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling, and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking, or the swelling, in the anger of the bells; of the bells-of the bells, bells! bells, bells, bells! bells! bells!-in the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells-iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan! And the people-ah, the people-they that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone-they are neither man nor woman-they are neither brute nor human-they are ghouls: and their king it is who tolls; and he rolls, rolls, rolls,-a pæan from the bells! and his bosom proudly swells with the pean of the bells! -And he dances and he yells; keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the pean of the bells-of the bells!-to the throbbing of the bells-of the bells!-to the sobbing of the bells-of the bells!-keeping time, time, time, as he knells! knells! knells! to the rolling of the bells!-of the bells!-to the tolling of the bells-of the bells! bells! bells!- -to the moaning, and the groaning, of the bells!

IV. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.-Thomas Hood.

'Twas in the prime of summer-time, an evening calm and cool,-
And four-and-twenty happy boys came bounding out of school;
There were some that ran, and some that leapt like troutlets in a pool.
Like sportive deer they coursed about, and shouted as they ran,-
Turning to mirth all things of earth, as only boyhood can:-
But the Usher sat remote from all-a melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow, and his bosom ill at ease:
So he leaned his head or his hands, and read the Book upon his knees!
At last he shut the ponderous tome; with a fast and fervent grasp,
He strained the dusky covers close, and fixed the brazen hasp:
"O heaven! could I so close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp!"
Then leaping on his feet upright, some moody turns he took,
Now up the mead, then down the mead, and past a shady nook,—
And, lo! he saw a little Boy that pored upon a book!

"My gentle lad, what is't you read, romance, or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page, of kings and crowns unstable ?"
The young Boy gave an upward glance,-" It is "The Death of Abel.""
The Usher took six hasty strides, as smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place, then slowly back again;
And down he sat beside the lad, and talked with him-of Cain;