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He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They held him by the hand !-
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank ;
And, with a martial clank,
Smiting his stallion's flank.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyæna scream,
Beside some hidden stream ;
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty,
With a voice so wild and free,
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
And his lifeless body lay
Had broken and thrown away!
THE DAY IS DONE.
THE day is done, and the darkness
1 Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.
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,
That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavour ;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
The beauty of thy voice.
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.
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
The sweet Lenore hath 'gone before,' with Hope that flew beside,
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
*Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise,
earth. To friends above, from fields below, the indignant ghost is
riven From hell unto a high estate far up within the heavenFrom grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of
THE CONQUEROR WORM.
L Within the lonesome latter years !
In veils, and drowned in tears,
A play of hopes and fears,
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
Mere puppets they, who come and go
That shift the scenery to and fro,
That motley drama !-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
By a crowd that seize it not,