"Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, "my welcome gift at the Gates of Light! Though foul are the drops that oft distil on the field of warfare, blood like this for Liberty shed, so holy is, it would not stain the purest rill that sparkles among the flowers of bliss! Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere, a boon, an offering, Heaven holds dear, 'tis the last libation Liberty draws, from the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause." "Sweet," said the angel, as she gave the gift into the guardian's hand; Sweet is our welcome to the brave, who die thus for their native land. But see-alas!-the crystal bar of Eden moves not :-holier far than even this drop the boon must be, that opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!" 66 Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, now among Afric's lunar mountains (far to the south) the Peri lighted, and sleek'd her plumes in Nile's far fountains. Beneath a fragrant orange bower, close to a lake, she heard the moan of one, who, at this silent hour had hither stolen, to die alone! But see-who yonder comes by stealth, this melancholy bower to seek-like a young envoy sent by Health, with rosy gifts upon her cheek? "Tis she! far off, through moonlight dim, he knew his own betrothed brideshe, who would rather die with him, than live, to gain the world beside! Her arms are round her lover now-his livid cheek to hers she presses, and dips, to bind his burning brow, in the cool lake her loosened tresses. She fails -she sinks!-as dies the lamp in charnel airs, or cavern damp ;-so quickly do his baleful sighs quench all the sweet light of her eyes! One struggle -and his pain is past-the stricken is no longer living! one prayer maiden breathes-one last deep prayer-which she expires in giving! the "Sleep!" said the Peri, as softly she stole the farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, with morn still blushing in the sky: again the Peri soars above, bearing to heaven that precious sigh of pure self-sacrificing love! But, alas! even Peris' hopes are vain-the immortal barrier must closed remain. "True was the maiden," the angel said, and her story is written o'er Alla's head: But, Peri, see-the crystal bar of Eden moves not-holier far than even this sigh the boon must be, that opes the Gates of Heaven for thee!" Ah! nought can charm the luckless Peri: her soul is sad-her wings are weary-when, o'er the vale of Balbec, winging slowly, she sees a child at play among the rosy wild flowers singing, as rosy and as wild as they and watchful near him darkly stood a man of hardened crime and blood: when hark! the vesper call to prayer is rising sweetly on the air: the boy has started from the bed of flowers, where he had laid his head, and, down upon the fragrant sod, kneels with his forehead to the south, lisping the eternal name of "God!" from Purity's own cherub mouth! The wretched man then said, in mild heart-humbled tones: Thou blessed child! there was a time, when, pure as thou, I look'd, and pray'd like thee-but now- -" he hung his head:-each nobler aim, and hope, and feeling, which had slept from boyhood's hour, that instant came fresh o'er him-and he wept!-he wept! Sudden, a light, more lovely far than ever came from sun or star, fell on the tear, that, warm and meek, dewed that repentant sinner's cheek; and well the enraptured Peri knew 't was a bright smile the angel threw from Heaven's gate, to hail that tear her harbinger of glory near! Joy, joy for ever! my task is done-the gates are passed-and Heaven is won! Farewell, ye odours of earth, that die, passing away like a lover's sigh! Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone in my fairy wreath so bright and brief:-Oh! what are the brightest that e'er have blown to the lote-tree, springing by Alla's throne, whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! Joy, joy for ever!-my task is done!-the Gates are pass'd, and Heaven is won!" THE RAVEN.-Edgar Allan Poe ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 66 Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. Open here I flung the sbutter. 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's Plutonian shore:" Quoth the Raven, "Never more!" Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 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, "Never more." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim, whose 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! Quoth the Raven, "Never more!" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil; "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! And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting III. THE BELLS.-Edgar A. Poe. 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 tintinnabulation that so musically wells from the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells-from the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells, golden bells! what a world of happiness their harmony fortells! 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! Oh, 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! 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 endeavour, 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, by the twanging, and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows; ay! the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling, and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking, or the swelling, in the anger of the bells; of the bells-of the bells, bells! bells, bells, bells! bells! bells!-in the clamour and the clangour of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells-iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan! And the people-ah, the people-they that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone-they are neither man nor woman-they are neither brute nor human-they are ghouls: and their king it is who tolls; and he rolls, rolls, rolls,-a pæan from the bells! and his bosom proudly 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 pean of the bells-of the bells!-to the throbbing of the bells-of the bells!-to the sobbing of the bells-of the bells!-keeping time, time, time, as he knells! knells! knells! to the rolling of the bells!-of the bells!-to the tolling of the bells-of the bells! bells! bells!- -to the moaning, and the groaning, of the bells! IV. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.-Thomas Hood. 'Twas in the prime of summer-time, an evening calm and cool,- His hat was off, his vest apart, to catch heaven's blessed breeze; "My gentle lad, what is't you read, romance, or fairy fable? |