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From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—

From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.

VIII.

And, ah! let it never

Be foolishly said,
That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;
For man never slept

In a different bed — And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalised spirit
Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses—

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies A holier odour

About it, of pansies—

A rosemary odour,

Commingled with pansies— With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

XI.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many
A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie—
Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

XII.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast— Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm—
To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.

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And I lie so composedly.

Now, in my bed
(Knowing her love),

That you fancy me dead;
And I rest so contentedly

Now in my bed
(With her love at my breast),

That you fancy me dead—
That you shudder to look at me,

Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter

Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie—
It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie—
With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.

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ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.

Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione. Sad !—not I.

Oh, I 'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

• "Politian" was a juvenile production, and is the least meritorious work Poe has left.—Ed.

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Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing Thy happiness! What ails thee, cousin of mine? Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas. Did I sigh?

I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
A silly—a most silly fashion, I have
When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (Sighing.)

Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou
hast indulged
Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
Will ruin thee! Thou art already altered—
Thy looks are haggard: nothing so wears away
The constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow—r Wears it away like evil hours and wine. I will amend.

Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir And Alessandra's husband.

Cas. I will drop them.

Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more To thy dress and equipage,—they are over-plain

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