A shriek that echoed from its joisted roof,
And

up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof

It ceased its tale of murther!

The wood-louse dropped and rolled into a ball,

Touched by some impulse, occult or mechanic; And nameless beetles ran along the wall, In universal panic.

The subtle spider, that from overhead

Hung like a spy on human guilt and error, Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread Ran with a nimble terror.

Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread,

But through one gloomy entrance pointing mostly,
The while some secret inspiration said,

"That chamber is the ghostly!"

Across the door no gossamer festoon

Swung pendulous,—no web, no dusty fringes,

No silky chrysalis or white cocoon,

About its nooks and hinges.

The spider shunned the interdicted room,

The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banished,
And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom,
The very midge had vanished.

One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed,

As if with awful aim direct and certain,
To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red,
Embroidered on the curtain.

Here is a sweet passage from The Fairies:

--

Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night!
Stealthy companions of the downy moth-
Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light,

Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth:

These be the feasters on night's silver cloth,-
The gnat, with shrilly trump, is their convener,
Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loath,
With lulling tunes to charm the air serener,
Or dance upon the grass, to make it greener.

These be the pretty genii of the flowers,
Daintily fed with honey and pure dew—
Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming hours,
King Oberon, and all his merry crew,
The darling puppets of Romance's view;

!

Fairies and sprites, and goblin elves we call them,
Famous for patronage of lovers true;

No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them,
So do not thus with crabbed frowns appall them.

For these are kindly ministers of nature

To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress;
Pretty they be, and very small of stature,
For mercy still consorts with littleness:
Wherefore the sum of good is still the less,
And mischief grossest in this world of wrong:
So do these charitable dwarfs redress
The tenfold ravages of giants strong,
To whom great
malice and great might belong.

Here are two gems:

We watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak, so slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers to eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears, our fears our hopes belied-
We thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came, dim and sad, and chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed-she had another morn than ours.

Love thy mother, little one! kiss and clasp her neck again,Hereafter she may have a son will kiss and clasp her neck in vain : Love thy mother, little one.

Gaze upon her living eyes, and mirror back her love for thee,Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs to meet them when they cannot

see:

Gaze upon her living eyes!

Press her lips the while they glow with love that they have often

told,

Hereafter thou mayst press in woe, and kiss them till thine own are cold.

Press her lips the while they glow!

It is the glory of Hood, that he was not only a master poet, but a philanthropist he remembered the forgotten. It has been well remarked, that his greatest work is that which his poems will do for the poor. The critic already referred to remarks: "Hood was not one of those lofty and commanding minds that rise but once in an age, on the mountain ranges of which light first smiles and last lingers. He does not keep his admirers standing at gaze in distant reverence and awe. He is no cold, polished, statuesque idol of the intellect, but one of the darlings of the English heart. You never think of Hood as dead and turned to marble statue or bust could never represent him to the imagination. It is always a real human being, with the quaintest, kindliest smile, that looks into your face, and straightway your heart is touched to open and let him in. Few names will call forth so tender a familiarity of affection as that of rare Tom Hood." His last lines were these :

Farewell, Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim ;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night-
Colder, colder, colder still,

Upward steals a vapour chill;

Strong the earthy odour

grows-
I smell the mould above the rose!

Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives;

The subjoined plaintive and beautiful lines are part of MRS. MACLEAN'S (L. E. L.) poem on Night at Sea :

The lovely purple of the noon's bestowing
Has vanished from the waters, where it flung
A royal colour, such as gems are throwing
Tyrian or regal garniture among.

'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming;

Through the slight vapour trembles each dim star;

I turn away—my heart is sadly dreaming

Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar.

My friends, my absent friends! do you think of me as I think of you?

The world, with one vast element omitted

Man's own especial element, the earth;

Yet o'er the waters is his rule transmitted

By that great knowledge wherein power has birth.
How oft, on some strange loveliness while gazing,
Have I wished for you-beautiful as new,

The purple waves, like some wild army, raising

Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through.

My friends, my absent friends! do you think of me as I think

of you?

Bearing upon its wings the hues of morning,

Up springs the flying-fish, like life's false joy,