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 angels in heaven above

1

Nor the demon down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee. And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of--my darling--my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea.

HEAR

IX. THE BELLS.

EDGAR A. POE.

EAR 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 -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, 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 ryming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alaru n-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!

X. THE RAVEN.

EDGAR A. POE.

NCE 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 forevermore.

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,
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,-

'Tis the wind, and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, 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 shore.
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,-
With such name as 66 Nevermore."

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, "Nevermore.'

Startled by 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-nevermore.'"

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, "Nevermore."

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! nevermore!

Then methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls 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, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

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Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.”

Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil !-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed 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, "Nevermore.”

16

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, "Nevermore."

"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, "Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my cha nber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light 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-nevermore!

XI. THE FATE OF VIRGINIA.

T. B. MACAULAY.

In order to render the commencement less abrupt, six lines of introduction have been added to the extract from the fine ballad by Macaulay.

"WHY

HY is the Forum crowded? What means this stir in Rome ?"

"Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home.

On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight;

The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right,

O, shame on Roman manhood! Was ever plot more clear?

But look! the maiden's father comes! Behold Virginius here!''

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space asidc,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide

Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down,

Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!

The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,-
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.

"The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way;
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey;
With all his wit, he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath in his despair, one fearful refuge left ;

He little deems that, in this hand, I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave ;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow,-
Foul outrage, which thou knowest not,-which thou shalt never know.
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss;
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this !"

With that, he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.
Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath;
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment brake forth from one and all

A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall;
Till with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high :
“O, dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain,
And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"
So spake the slayer of his child; then, where the body lay,
Pausing, he cast one haggard glance, and turned and went his way.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!
Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head !"
He looked upon his clients,-but none would work his will;
He looked upon his lictors,-but trembled and stood still.
And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left;

And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deed was done in Rome.

XII. DORKINS' NIGHT.

ANONYMOUS.

THE theatre was full, it was Dorkins' night, that is, Dorkins was going to appear At night in a favorite comedy part, for he was comedian here.

Funny? why, he'd make you laugh till the tears ran down your cheeks like rain, And as long as Dorkins was on the stage you'd try to stop laughing in vain. A family? yes, he'd a family, and he loved them as dear as life,

And you'd scarcely find a happier lot than Dorkins' children and wife.

There came one night, and I was in front, and Dorkins was going to play
A character new to himself and the stage that he'd trod for so many a day.
By eight the theatre was perfectly crammed all waiting a pleasant surprise,
For they knew they would laugh till their sides would ache,
And they longed for the curtain to rise. The play soon began:

Each neck was stretched forth, and eagerly watched each eye

For Dorkins to make his "first entrance," and then to give him a cheerful "Hi, hi!"
He soon appeared amid loud applause, but something was wrong you could see,
"Dorkins is playing quite badly to-night," the people said sitting around me.
A hiss? yes, it was. I saw Dorkins start as though stung by a serpent's fang;
Then he'd cast a beseeching glance all around and his head on his breast would hang.
He's drunk, and really I thought so myself. For to me it was awful at times

To see how he'd struggle along with his part, and continually stick in his lines.
The footlights at last he approached very slow, and “Ladies and Gentlemen," said,
"If I cannot please you to-night, the fault's not the heart, but the head.
There's many a night I've made you all laugh when I could scarcely well stand,
And every effort was pain to me then, yes, even if I raised but my hand.
You hiss me to-night, and think that I'm drunk

(From his heart came a sob and a moan); I'll tell you the reason—-I know you won't laugh-I've a little one dying at home."