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 hath 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 ANNIE.

HANK Heaven! the crisis

The danger is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last

And the fever called " Living"

Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,

And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length

But no matter !-I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead—

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea-

The pitiless pain

Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain

With the fever called "Living"

That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated-the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:

I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few Feet under ground

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed:

My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :

For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odour

About it, of pansies—

A rosemary odour,