And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass
Or forester unmoved;

Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Lewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear;
And oft, as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

LEIGH HUNT.

[Born Oct. 19, 1784, and educated at Christ's Hospital. He commenced writing at twenty-one, and finished only at his death, August 28, 1859.]

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court:
The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side.

And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride:

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled one on another,
Till all the pit, with and and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;
The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;
Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame,
With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the

same:

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then looked on him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild!

The leap was quick, return was quick; he soon regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat:

'No love," quoth he, "but vanity sets love a task like that!"

THE RAVEN.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

[See p. 202.]

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door;
""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor;
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ;-
This it is, and nothing more."

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Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the

door ;

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken, was the whispered word
"Lenore!"-

Thus I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before; "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore;Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind, and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore:
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door-
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 shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is, on the night's Plutonian shore!”— Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast
upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as 66
Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered-" Other friends have flown
before-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of "Never-nevermore."

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 into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore,
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

66

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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! Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

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'Prophet," said I; "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me! tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!"—
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

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 ; Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken, 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, Shall be lifted-nevermore.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

THOMAS HOOD.

[Thomas Hood was the son of a bookseller, one of the firm of Vernor and Hood, of the Poultry, City of London, where he was born on the 23rd May, 1799. He was apprenticed to an engraver; but his health failing, was sent to a relation in Scotland. On his return to London, in 1821, he became subeditor of the "London Magazine," and from this time his literary avocations commenced. His collected works have enjoyed a large sale since his death. but in his lifetime he was constantly struggling with want and difficulties. He died in 1845, and was buried in Kensal Green, where a handsome monument erected by public subscription, is placed over his remains.]

ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.
Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing:
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully:
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family,

Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses,

Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?