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
Along the Niger's bank;

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,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,

And the hyæna scream,

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty,

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

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
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,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
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,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
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.

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
Go up to God so solemnly, the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath 'gone before,' with Hope that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy
bride-

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but now within her eyes-
The life still there, upon her hair-the death upon her eyes.

'Avaunt! to-night my heart is light, no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a pæan of old days!
Let no bell toll!-lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float-up from the damnèd
earth.

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!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre and see

A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly

Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama !—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,