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Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-

Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death--
Fell on the upturned faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the faces of the upturned roses,
And on thine own, upturned-alas! in sorrow.
Was it not Fate that, on this July midnight-
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred; the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. I paused-I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared,
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more; the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs;
All, all expired save thee-save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them--they were the world to me.
I saw but them-saw only them for hours---
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep-.
How fathomless a capacity for love!

But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud,
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained.
They would not go-they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me, they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers-yet I their slave.
Their office is to illumine and enkindle-
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire-

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!
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 tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

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!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

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 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 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,
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 endeavor
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,

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A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom 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 pæans of the bells-
Of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells—

Of the bells, bells, bells

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells;

To the tolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, 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,
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 tried 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 for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain Rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic

Terrors never felt before;

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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 lamplight gloated o'er;
But whose velvet violet lining

With the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser,
Perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by angels whose faint footfalls
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, 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-
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 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,
Still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming.
And the lamplight 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!

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;
But mine as good may be,
And healthy men on healthy food
Live without you or me.
Good lady! let the doer do!

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,
And Thee, and ever Thee,
With open heart and open eye

How can I fail to see?

My ear drinks in from field and fell
Life's rival floods of glee:

Where finds the priest his private hell
When all is full of Thee?

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
It grows erect and free;

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!

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