He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand! A tear burst from the sleeper's lids, And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyæna scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, That he started in his sleep, and smiled He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE THE DAY IS DONE. HE day is done, and the darkness As a feather is wafted downward I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Not from the grand old masters, For, like strains of martial music, Read from some humbler poet, Who, through long days of labour, Such songs have power to quiet Then read from the treasured volume And lend to the rhyme of the poet And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. EDGAR ALLAN POE. Born 1811. Died 1849. LENORE. AH, broken is the golden bowl, the spirit flown for ever! Let the bell toll! A saintly soul floats on the Stygian river; And Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear? Weep now or nevermore! See on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come, let the burial-rite be read-the funeral song be sung!An anthem for the queenliest dead, that ever died so youngA dirge for her the doubly dead, in that she died so young! 'Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride; And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her-that she died! How shall the ritual then be read? the requiem, how be sung By you by yours, the evil eye-by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young!' Peccavimus: but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, 'Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise, To friends above, from fields below, the indignant ghost is riven From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.' L THE CONQUEror Worm. O! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully Mimes, in the form of God on high, And hither and thither fly Mere puppets they, who come and go That motley drama !—oh, be sure With its Phantom chased for evermore, |