Love's Burial-place: a Madrigal.

Lady. If Love be dead-(and you aver it!)

Tell me, Bard, where Love lies buried.
Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born:
Ah, faithless nymph! think it no scorn,
If in my fancy I presume

To call thy bosom poor Love's tomb.

And on that tomb to read the line,—

"Here lies a Love that once seemed mine,

But took a chill, as I divine,

And died at length of a decline!"

Coleridge thus condenses Courtship into a couple of stanzas:

We pledged our hearts, my love and I,
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,
But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went, but shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man-in vain!

We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

EDGAR A. POE, whose minstrelsy sounds like the "echoes of strange, unearthly music," is best known by that remarkable production, The Raven, which, like The Ancient Mariner, holds the reader spell-bound by its mystic fascination. Lee is a general favourite :

His song of Annabel

It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden lived, whom you may know by the name of Anna-

bel Lee:

And this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love, and

be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee,

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee:
So that her high-born kinsman came, and bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre in this kingdom by the sea.

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.

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 sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea!

Poe's Bells are full of ringing melody. Listen:

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,

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells-golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!

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 volumi

nously 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,
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, belis! 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!

MRS. HEMANS's poetry has been compared to a cathedral chantdeep, solemn, and impressive; entrancing rather than exciting the spirit. The feeling of gloom and sadness which characterizes many of her fine poems, causes little surprise to those who are familiar with the history of her domestic sorrows and sufferings. Her numerous productions, it is well known, are marked by religious purity and womanly tenderness and grace. The last contribution of her muse was a fine sonnet on The Sabbath,—a soul-full effusion"

of despondency and aspiration, written three weeks before she died. Her death was serene, and illustrative of one of her own beautiful dirges,-fittingly, indeed, inscribed over her tomb :-

Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair Spirit, rest thee now;

Even while with us thy footsteps trod,

His seal was on thy brow.

Dust to its narrow house beneath,

Soul to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death,

No more may fear to die.

How full of touching beauty is her poem entitled The Hour of Death!

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer;

But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!

*

What a charming description has she given us of the Homes of England:

The stately homes of England, how beautiful they stand!

Amidst their tall ancestral trees, o'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound through shade and sunny

gleam,

And the swan glides past them, with the sound of some rejoicing

stream.

The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, or childhood's tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along some glorious page of old.

*

Among her best productions we class her Greek Song of Exile, Treasures of the Deep, and The Forest Sanctuary; but they must be perused entire, to enjoy their touching beauty.