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The Sleeper.

T midnight in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon: An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim; And softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain-top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave;


Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All beauty sleeps !—and, lo, where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her destinies !

O lady bright, can it be right,
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs from the tree-top
Laughing through the lattice drop;
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through the chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully, so fearfully,

Above the closed and fringèd lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
O lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden-trees!
Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! O, may her sleep,


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Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie,

For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim-sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep,

As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals;
Some sepulchre remote, alone,
Against whose portal she had thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone;
Some tomb, from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
It was the dead who groaned within.


[For gorgeousness of fancy and harmoniousness of versification, the unfortunate EDGAR ALLAN POE ranks foremost among the American poets. Never was poem hailed with such a spontaneous burst of admiration as that which greeted the appearance of the weird, mournful plaint, "The Raven." The beautiful ballad, "Annabel Lee," has also been read and admired by thousands, on both sides the Atlantic. But the gifts of the poet were neutralised by the unconquerable propensities of the man. Reckless dissipation weakened and wasted his great powers; and it was in an hospital that Edgar Allan Poe died, friendless and alone, in 1847.]

Ode for an Agricultural Celebration.


AR back in the ages,

The plough with wreaths

was crowned;

The hands of kings and


Entwined the chaplet round; Till men of spoil disdained the toil

By which the world was nourished,
And dews of blood enriched the soil
Where green their laurels flou-

Now the world her fault repairs-
The guilt that stains her story;
And weeps her crimes amid the cares
That formed her earliest glory.

The proud throne shall crumble,
The diadem shall wane,

The tribes of earth shall humble
The pride of those who reign;
And War shall lay his pomp away—
The fame that heroes cherish,
The glory earned in deadly fray,
Shall fade, decay, and perish.
Honour waits, o'er all the Earth,

Through endless generations,
The art that calls her harvests forth,
And feeds the expectant nations.


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What is a mother's love?

A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould:

The warmest love that can grow cold-
This is a mother's love.

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