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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,
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
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beau
tiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful
Of my darling, my darling, my life and
Poe's Bells are full of ringing melody. Listen :
Hear the sledges with the bells—silver bells !
While the stars that oversprinkle
From the bells, bells, bells,
Hear the mellow wedding-bells—golden bells !
What a liquid ditty floats
nously wells !
To the swinging and the ringing of the bells, bells, bells,
Hear the loud alarum-bells—brazen bells !
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
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;
His seal was on thy brow.
Dust to its narrow house beneath,
Soul to its place on high !
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 stars to set; but all,
Day is for mortal care,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ;
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.
Familiar as they are to us, from their home interest, yet we never grow weary of her admirable stanzas on the Landing of the Pilgrims :
The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast,
Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,
Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard and the sea !
the free! The ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared—this was their welcome
There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band-
land ? There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, and the fiery heart of
What sought they thus afar? bright jewels of the mine?
shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod; They have left unstained, what there they found—freedom to wor