The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;

Yes!-that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling-my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

TO MARY

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

POE.

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

TWIST YE, TWINE YE

TWIST ye, twine ye! even so,
Mingle shades of joy and woe,

Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending!

Passions wild, and follies vain,

Pleasures soon exchanged for pain;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,

In the magic dance appear.

Now they wax, and now they dwindle,
Whirling with the whirling spindle.

Twist ye, twine ye! even so,

Mingle human bliss and woe.

C. WOLFE.

SCOTT.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO
THE WARS

TELL me not (sweet) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True: a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, Dear, so much,

Lov'd I not Honour more.

O WHERE have you been, my long, long love,
This long seven years and mair ?

O I'm come to seek my former vows
Ye granted me before.'

'O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For they will breed sad strife;

O hold your tongue of your former vows,
For I am become a wife.'

He turned him right and round about,
And the tear blinded his e'e:

'I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground
If it had not been for thee.

'I might hae had a king's daughter,
Far, far beyond the sea;

I might have had a king's daughter,
Had it not been for love o' thee.'

'If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yer sel ye had to blame;

Ye might have taken the king's daughter, For ye kend that I was nane.'

O faulse are the vows o' womankind,
But fair is their faulse bodie;

I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground,
Had it not been for love o' thee.'

'If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my two babes also,

O what have you to take me to,
If with you I should go ? '

'I hae seven ships upon the sea,
The eighth brought me to land;
With four-and-twenty bold mariners,
And music on every hand.'

She has taken up her two little babes,
Kissed them baith cheek and chin;
'O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes,
For I'll never see you again.'

She set her foot upon the ship,

No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o' the taffetie

And the masts o' the beaten gold.

She had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When dismal grew his countenance,
And drumlie grew his e'e.