"All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep;
My fever'd eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep;
For Sin had render'd unto her
The keys of hell to keep.

"All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint

That rack'd me all the timeA mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime.

"One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation crave

Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave.

"Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye,

And I saw the dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing,
But I never mark'd its morning flight,
I never heard it sing:

For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing.

The Dream of Eugene Aram.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,

I took him up and ran;

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

I hid the murder'd man.

"And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there:

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare.

"Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,

For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep;

Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones;
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,
The world shall see his bones.

"O God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake!
Again-again, with a dizzy brain,

The human life I take,

And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.

33

"And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow;

The horrid thing pursues my soul-
It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy look'd up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,

Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

THE

Evening.

HE summer sea now darkly sleeps Beneath the wild and rocky shore, And not a breeze its bosom sweeps,

Nor sound but that of yonder oar, Now slowly in the calm wave dipping, Now with a thousand sea-stars dripping.

Who has not seen in such a night,

When aught hath broke the ocean's rest,

The purest gems of liquid light

Burst forth upon its ruffled breast, And, as they rise and spread, appear

Like a new sky just forming there?

Evening.

It is the hour when Fancy loves

To shadow forth her forms sublime; It is the hour when Memory moves

Back through the cloudy paths of time,Recalling many a joy gone by,

And many a grief that will not die.

It is the hour when lovers walk

Along the sea-beach lone and slow,
To sigh forth sacred names, and talk
Of all their fears and all their woe,

To yon pale star through thin clouds beaming,
And on the waters dimly gleaming.

Yon lonely star,-o'er all beside

A mantle of black clouds is spread,-
What can its glimmering light betide,
That shines so sweetly o'er my head?
My Guardian Spirit-can it be
A star of hope, of joy, to me?

Oh tell me for thy voice I hear

In that low night-wind's bursting sigh

Oh tell me, can the hour be near

When from my troubled heart shall fly
That bird of grief, whose raven wing
My brightest hopes is shadowing?

Spirit! again I hear thee speak;

Say if my waking dreams are true,
If o'er my soul again shall break

That light of peace which once I knew,
Ere hopeless love assumed its reign,
And turn'd my pleasures all to pain.

35

The Last Song.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

MUST it be? Then farewell,

Thou whom my woman's heart cherish'd so long!

Farewell, and be this song

The last, wherein I say, "I love thee well."

Many a weary strain

(Never yet heard by thee) hath this poor breath

Utter'd of Love and Death,

And maiden grief, hidden and chid in vain.

Oh, if in after years

The tale that I am dead shall touch thy heart,

Bid not the pain depart;

But shed over my grave a few sad tears.

Think of me-still so young,

Silent, though fond, who cast my life away,

Daring to disobey

The passionate spirit that around me clung.

Farewell again; and yet

Must it indeed be so-and on this shore

Shall you and I no more

Together see the sun of summer set?

For me, my days are gone;

No more shall I in vintage times prepare
Chaplets to bind my hair,

As I was wont: oh, 'twas for you alone.