Upon the upturned faces of a thousand Fell on the upturned faces of these roses I saw but them--they were the world to me. But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with beauty (which is hope), And are far up in Heaven, the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still-two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun! THE BELLS. I. Hear the sledges with the bells Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! To the tintinabulation that so musically wells Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II. Hear the mellow wedding-bells Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Ob, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III. Hear the loud alarum 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, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, By the side of the pale-faced moon. What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! A pæan from the bells! With the pean of the bells! To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells To the sobbing of the bells; As he knells, knells, knells, To the rolling of the bells- To the tolling of the bells- Bells, bells, bells To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. THE RAVEN. Once 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 doorOnly this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, And the silken, sad, uncertain Rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic Terrors never felt before; 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, To the fowl whose fiery eyes now With the lamplight gloating o'er, Then, methought, the air grew denser, "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, From thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore!" 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 enchantedOn this home by Horror hauntedTell me truly, I imploreIs there is there balm in Gilead? Tell me tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- By that heaven that bends above us- Whom the angels name LenoreClasp 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, Just above my chamber door; TO FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. Thou wouldst be loved?-then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love a simple duty. John Stuart Blackie. Blackie, the son of a banker, was born in Glasgow in 1809. He was educated partly at Aberdeen and partly at the University of Edinburgh. In 1829 he went to the Continent, studied at Göttingen and Berlin, and passed fifteen months in Italy. In 1834 appeared his translation of Goethe's "Faust." He contributed to various periodicals, and wrote a deeply earnest article on Jung Stilling, the German Spiritualist. In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. In 1853 he travelled in Greece, and learned to speak modern Greek fluently. In 1857 he published "Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems;" in 1861, "Lyrical Poems;" and in 1866 a translation of Homer's "Iliad." His "Natural History of Atheism" (1878) shows high culture, breadth, and insight. His volume entitled "Songs of Religion and Life" (1876) was republished in New York. In versatility he stood conspicuous among the literary men of his day. His writings evince deep religious feeling, earnestness, and simplicity, united to great liberality of thought. O pious quack! thy pills are good; Thought is a busy bee, Nor honey less what it doth brew, Though very gall to thee. Oh no! no! no! Though Councils decree and declare, Like a tree in open air, The soul its foliage fair Spreads forth, O God, to Thee! THE HOPE OF THE HETERODOX. In thee, O blesséd God, I hope, In Thee, in Thee, in Thee! Though banned by Presbyter and Pope, My trust is still in Thee. Thou wilt not cast thy servant out Because he chanced to see With his own eyes, and dared to doubt What praters preach of Thee. Oh no! no! no! For ever and ever and aye, (Though Pope and Presbyter bray), Thou wilt not cast away An honest soul from Thee. I look around on earth and sky, How can I fail to see? My ear drinks in from field and fell Where finds the priest his private hell Oh no! no! no! Though flocks of geese Give Heaven's high ear no peace: I still enjoy a lease Of happy thoughts from Thee. My faith is strong; out of itself No Talmud on the Rabbi's shelf Gives amulets to me. Small Greek I know, nor Hebrew much, But this I plainly see: Two legs without the Bishop's crutch God gave to thee and me. Oh no! no! no! The Church may loose and bind, But Mind, immortal Mind, As free as wave or wind, Came forth, O God, from thee! |