And flash'd in the noontide bright and dark,

And a fisher was casting his nets from a bark;

How marvell'd the Shadow !" Where then is the plain?

And where be the acres of golden grain?"

But the fisher dash'd off the salt spray from his brow—

"The waters begirdle the earth alway, The sea ever roll'd as it rolleth now:

What babblest thou about grain and fields?
By night and day

Man looks for what Ocean yields."

And after a thousand years were o'er

The Shadow paused over the spot once more.

And the ruddy rays of the eventide
Were gilding the skirts of a forest wide;
The moss of the trees look'd old, so old!
And valley and hill, the ancient mould,
Was robed in sward, an evergreen cloak;
And a woodman sang as he fell'd an oak.
Him ask'd the Shadow—" Rememberest thou

Any trace of a sea where wave those trees?"
But the woodman laugh'd: said he, " I trow,

If oaks and pines do flourish and fall,
It is not amid seas ;—

The earth is one forest all."

And after a thousand years were o'er,

The Shadow paused over the spot once more.

And what saw the Shadow? A city again,

But peopled by pale mechanical men,

With workhouses fill'd, and prisons, and marts,

And faces that spake exanimate hearts.

"Strange pictures and sad!" was the Shadow's thought;

And turning to one of the Ghastly, he sought

For a clue in words to the When and the How

Of the ominous change he now beheld; But the man uplifted his care-worn brow—

"Change? What was life ever but conflict and change? From the ages of old

Hath affliction been widening its range."

"Enough!" said the Shadow, and pass'd from the spot:— "At last it is vanish'd, the beautiful youth

Of the earth, to return with no to-morrow;
All changes have chequer'd mortality's lot;

But this is the darkest—for knowledge and truth
Are but golden gates to the temple of sorrow!'


This is one of the many beautiful compositions of Mrs. Hemans, whose poetry has this remarkable character, that, beautiful as it is in portions, it will not bear to be read continuously in a volume. Perhaps this is the consequence of the perfection of its mechanism, for in rhythm and rhyme—in the music of verse—she is unrivalled. Pleasing at first, this unbroken smoothness palls by repetition and becomes monotony. Nevertheless, many of her minor poems are full of the truest poetry of thought, and the strain is in exquisite harmony with the sentiment. Such a poem is the following.

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour—the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds

A faint and starry radiance through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,

And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd at night, in prayer.

Gaze on,—'tis lovely!—childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought—

Gaze—yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,

What Death must fashion for eternity!

Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,

As buds with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd,
'Midst the dim folded leaves at set of sun—

Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies

Dark in the summer heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs

Of nope make melody where'er ye tread;
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman tenderness—how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you—silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sunless riches, from affections deep,

To pour on broken reeds a wasted shower;
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!

Her lot is on you—to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain—

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,

And oh ! to love through all things—therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,
With its low murmuring sounds of silvery light,

On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight.

Earth will forsake—oh! happy to have given

The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.


Edgar Allan Poe, an American, is the author of this fanciful lyric, which is thoroughly original in its structure, turn of thought and expression—a sportive and almost careless composition, but a flash of true genius.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

/ 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.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me—
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

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 he 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.


Under this title we purpose to string together short passages of peculiar beauty, scattered among the larger productions of the poets. Where italic is used it is with intent to direct the particular attention of the reader to some fine thought for which it is remarkable.


On his shoulders Night
Throwing his ebon mantle rent with storms
Grimly retired, as up th' ethereal steep
The heavenly coursers mounted of the sun
And bade the stars withdraw.

J. F. Pexxie.

'Twas one of those ambrosial eves
A day of storm so often leaves
At its calm setting—when the west
Opens her golden bowers of rest,
And a moist radiance from the skies
Shook trembling down, as from the eyes
Of some meek penitent, whose last
Bright hours atone for dark ones past,
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven,
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven.



She was a form of life and light
That seen, became a part of sight,
And rose where'er I turn'd my eye,
The morning star of memory.



Among the ruin'd temples there, Stupendous columns, and wild images Of more than man, where marble demons watch The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around.



!Ko tear
Hath fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things
Press'd on his soul too busily: his voice,
If, in the earnestness of childish sports,
Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force,
As if it fear'd to break its being's law,
Andfalier'd into music: when the forms
Of guilty passion have been made to live,

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