Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my

door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light, o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the

floor,

Ex. 157.

Shall be lifted-nevermore!

Poe.

Somebody's Darling.

Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,

Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day—
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould-
Somebody's Darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride, you know :
Somebody's hand had rested there,

Was it a mother's soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptized in the waves of light?
God knows best; he has somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above

Night and morn on the wings of prayer.

Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's watching and waiting for him—
Yearning to hold him again to their heart
And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And the smiling childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,-
Somebody's Darling slumbers here.'

Mrs. Lacoste.

Ex. 158.

The Two Weavers.

As at their work two weavers sat
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat!
'What with my babes and sickly wife,'
Quoth Dick, I am almost tired of life;
So hard we work, so poor we fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.
'How glorious is the rich man's state!
His house so fine, his wealth so great!
Heaven is unjust, you must agree:
Why all to him, and none to me?
'In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the pulpit preaches,

This world, indeed, I've thought so, long,—
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

'Where'er I look, howe'er I range,

'Tis all confused, and hard, and strange !
The good are troubled and opprest,
And all the wicked are the blest.'

Quoth John, 'Our ignorance is the cause
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws,
Part of His ways alone we know,
"Tis all that man can see below.

Seest thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun ?
Behold the wild confusion there!

So rude the mass, it makes one stare!

Ex. 159.

'A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle, where's the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder.'

Quoth Dick, 'My work is yet in bits;
But still in every part it fits :
Besides, you reason like a lout-

Why, man, that carpet's inside out.'

Says John, Thou sayest the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen :

This world, which clouds the soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.

'As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.
'No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.

'But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own, the Workman is Divine.

'What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;

Then shall we praise what erst we spurned,

For then the carpet will be turned.'

6

'Thou'rt right,' quoth Dick, 'no more I'll grumble That this world is so strange a jumble;

My impious doubts are put to flight,

For my own carpet sets me right.'

Lord Ullin's Daughter.

Hannah More.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry.'

'Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?'

'Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

'And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For, should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.
'His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover!'
Out spoke the hardy island wight,
I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady :
'And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
'Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover ;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

6 Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your highland chief,
My daughter!--oh! my daughter!'

Ex. 160.

"Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

The Dying Gladiator.

Campbell.

The seal is set.-Now welcome, thou dread power!
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour,

With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear;
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
The ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear,
That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all seeing but unseen.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran

In murmured pity, or loud roared applause,

As man was slaughtered by his fellow man.

And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such was the bloody circus' genial laws,

And the imperial pleasure-Wherefore not? What matter where we fall to fill the maws

Of worms-on battle plains or listed spot?

Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.

I see before me the Gladiator lie :

He leans upon his hand; his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony;

And his droop'd head sinks gradually low !
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,

Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch

who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize,

But where his rude hut by the Danube lay-
There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother-he their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday :

All this rushed with his blood.-Shall he expire,
And unavenged?—Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

Byron.