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The Raven and Other Poems:
Electronic Edition.

Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809-1849.

Funding from the University of North Carolina Library supported the electronic publication of this title.

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First edition, 2004
ca. 300K
Academic Affairs Library, UNC-Chapel Hill
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,

No Copyright in US

Source Description:

(title page) The Raven And Other Poems.
(half-title page) Wiley and Putnam's Library of American Books. The Raven And Other Poems.
Edgar A. Poe.
[i]-[viii], [1]-[96]p.

Call number C-7 P743N (Duke University Rare Book, Manuscript and Special Collections Library)

        The electronic edition is a part of the UNC-Chapel Hill digitization project, Documenting the American South.

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Revision History:


[Half-Title Page Image]


[Title Page Image]


[Title Page Image Verso]

Page iii





Page verso

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York. T. B. SMITH, STEREOTYPER,
216 William Street.

Page [v]


E. A. P.

Page [vii]


        THESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected while going at random "the rounds of the press." If what I have written is to circulate at all, I am naturally anxious that it should circulate as I wrote it. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me to say, that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must not--they cannot at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of mankind.

E. A. P.

Page [viii]



Page [1]



                         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 visiter," 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
                         Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
                         This it is, and nothing more."

Page 2

                         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 darkness gave no token,
                         And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
                         This 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 I heard again a tapping somewhat 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 an instant stopped or stayed he;
                         But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
                         Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
                         Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Page 3

                         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 "Nevermore."

                         But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
                         That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
                         Nothing farther 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.'"

Page 4

                         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 unto 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
                         But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
                         She shall press, ah, nevermore!

                         Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
                         Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls 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."

                         "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."

Page 5

                         "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--
                         Clasp a rare and radiant 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!

Page 6


                         Once it smiled a silent dell
                         Where the people did not dwell;
                         They had gone unto the wars,
                         Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
                         Nightly, from their azure towers,
                         To keep watch above the flowers,
                         In the midst of which all day
                         The red sun-light lazily lay.
                         Now each visiter shall confess
                         The sad valley's restlessness.
                         Nothing there is motionless--
                         Nothing save the airs that brood
                         Over the magic solitude.
                         Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
                         That palpitate like the chill seas
                         Around the misty Hebrides!
                         Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
                         That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
                         Uneasily, from morn till even,
                         Over the violets there that lie
                         In myriad types of the human eye--
                         Over the lilies there that wave
                         And weep above a nameless grave!
                         They wave:--from out their fragrant tops
                         Eternal dews come down in drops.
                         They weep:--from off their delicate stems
                         Perennial tears descend in gems.

Page 7


                         THE ring is on my hand,
                         And the wreath is on my brow;
                         Satins and jewels grand
                         Are all at my command,
                         And I am happy now.

                         And my lord he loves me well;
                         But, when first he breathed his vow,
                         I felt my bosom swell--
                         For the words rang as a knell,
                         And the voice seemed his who fell
                         In the battle down the dell,
                         And who is happy now.

                         But he spoke to re-assure me,
                         And he kissed my pallid brow,
                         While a reverie came o'er me,
                         And to the church-yard bore me,
                         And I sighed to him before me,
                         Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
                         "Oh, I am happy now!"

                         And thus the words were spoken,
                         And this the plighted vow,
                         And, though my faith be broken,
                         And, though my heart be broken,

Page 8

                         Behold the golden token
                         That proves me happy now!

                         Would God I could awaken!
                         For I dream I know not how,
                         And my soul is sorely shaken
                         Lest an evil step be taken,--
                         Lest the dead who is forsaken
                         May not be happy now.

Page 9


                         AT 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!

                         Oh, lady bright! can it be right--
                         This window open to the night?
                         The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
                         Laughingly through the lattice drop--
                         The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
                         Flit through thy chamber in and out,

Page 10

                         And wave the curtain canopy
                         So fitfully--so fearfully--
                         Above the closed and fringed 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!
                         Oh, 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! Oh, may her sleep,
                         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
                         Forever with unopened eye,
                         While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

                         My love, she sleeps! Oh, 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 pannels fluttering back,
                         Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,
                         Of her grand family funerals--
                         Some sepulchre, remote, alone,

Page 11

                         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.

Page 12


                         TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reli quary
                         Of lofty contemplation left to Time
                         By buried centuries of pomp and power!
                         At length--at length--after so many days
                         Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
                         (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
                         I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
                         Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
                         My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

                         Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
                         Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
                         I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength--
                         O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
                         Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
                         O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
                         Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

                         Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
                         Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
                         A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
                         Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
                         Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
                         Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
                         Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Page 13

                         Lit by the wanlight of the hornéd moon,
                         The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

                         But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades--
                         These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened shafts--
                         These vague entablatures--this crumbling frieze--
                         These shattered cornices--this wreck--this ruin--
                         These stones--alas! these gray stones--are they all--
                         All of the famed, and the colossal left
                         By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

                         "Not all"--the Echoes answer me--"not all!
                         Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
                         From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
                         As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
                         We rule the hearts of mightiest men--we rule
                         With a despotic sway all giant minds.
                         We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
                         Not all our power is gone--not all our fame--
                         Not all the magic of our high renown--
                         Not all the wonder that encircles us--
                         Not all the mysteries that in us lie--
                         Not all the memories that hang upon
                         And cling around about us as a garment,
                         Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

Page 14


                         AH, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
                         Let the bell toll!--a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
                         And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?--weep now or never more!
                         See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
                         Come! let the burial rite be read--the funeral song be sung!--
                         An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young--
                         A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

                         "Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
                         And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died!
                         How shall the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung
                         By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue
                         That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

                         Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
                         Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
                         The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
                         Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride--

Page 15

                         For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
                         The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes--
                         The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.

                         Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
                         But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days!
                         Let no bell toll!--lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
                         Should catch the note, as it doth float--up from the damnéd Earth.
                         To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven--
                         From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven--
                         From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.


                         AT morn--at noon--at twilight dim--
                         Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
                         In joy and wo--in good and ill--
                         Mother of God, be with me still!
                         When the Hours flew brightly by,
                         And not a cloud obscured the sky,
                         My soul, lest it should truant be,
                         Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
                         Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
                         Darkly my Present and my Past,
                         Let my Future radiant shine
                         With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

Page 16


        * And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.--KORAN.

                         IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell
                         "Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
                         None sing so wildly well
                         As the angel Israfel,
                         And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
                         Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
                         Of his voice, all mute.

                         Tottering above
                         In her highest noon,
                         The enamoured moon
                         Blushes with love,
                         While, to listen, the red levin
                         (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
                         Which were seven,)
                         Pauses in Heaven.

                         And they say (the starry choir
                         And the other listening things)
                         That Israfeli's fire
                         Is owing to that lyre
                         By which he sits and sings--
                         The trembling living wire
                         Of those unusual strings.

Page 17

                         But the skies that angel trod,
                         Where deep thoughts are a duty--
                         Where Love's a grown up God--
                         Where the Houri glances are
                         Imbued with all the beauty
                         Which we worship in a star.

                         Therefore, thou art not wrong,
                         Israfeli, who despisest
                         An unimpassioned song;
                         To thee the laurels belong,
                         Best bard, because the wisest!
                         Merrily live, and long!

                         The ecstasies above
                         With thy burning measures suit--
                         Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
                         With the fervour of thy lute--
                         Well may the stars be mute!

                         Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
                         Is a world of sweets and sours;
                         Our flowers are merely--flowers,
                         And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
                         Is the sunshine of ours.

                         If I could dwell
                         Where Israfel
                         Hath dwelt, and he where I,
                         He might not sing so wildly well
                         A mortal melody,
                         While a bolder note than this might swell
                         From my lyre within the sky.

Page 18


                         BY a route obscure and lonely,
                         Haunted by ill angels only,
                         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
                         On a black throne reigns upright,
                         I have reached these lands but newly
                         From an ultimate dim Thule--
                         From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
                         Out of SPACE--out of TIME.

                         Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
                         And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
                         With forms that no man can discover
                         For the dews that drip all over;
                         Mountains toppling evermore
                         Into seas without a shore;
                         Seas that restlessly aspire,
                         Surging, unto skies of fire;
                         Lakes that endlessly outspread
                         Their lone waters--lone and dead,--
                         Their still waters--still and chilly
                         With the snows of the lolling lily.

                         By the lakes that thus outspread
                         Their lone waters, lone and dead,--

Page 19

                         Their sad waters, sad and chilly
                         With the snows of the lolling lily,--
                         By the mountains--near the river
                         Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
                         By the grey woods,--by the swamp
                         Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
                         By the dismal tarns and pools
                         Where dwell the Ghouls,--
                         By each spot the most unholy--
                         In each nook most melancholy,--
                         There the traveller meets aghast
                         Sheeted Memories of the Past--
                         Shrouded forms that start and sigh
                         As they pass the wanderer by--
                         White-robed forms of friends long given,
                         In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.

                         For the heart whose woes are legion
                         'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
                         For the spirit that walks in shadow
                         'Tis--oh 'tis an Eldorado!
                         But the traveller, travelling through it,
                         May not--dare not openly view it;
                         Never its mysteries are exposed
                         To the weak human eye unclosed;
                         So wills its King, who hath forbid
                         The uplifting of the fringed lid;
                         And thus the sad Soul that here passes
                         Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

                         By a route obscure and lonely,
                         Haunted by ill angels only,

Page 20

                         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
                         On a black throne reigns upright,
                         I have wandered home but newly
                         From this ultimate dim Thule.


                         FAIR, isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
                         Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take!
                         How many memories of what radiant hours
                         At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
                         How many scenes of what departed bliss!
                         How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes!
                         How many visions of a maiden that is
                         No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes!
                         No more! alas, that magical sad sound
                         Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more--
                         Thy memory no more! Accurséd ground
                         Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
                         O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
                         "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"

Page 21


                         Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
                         In a strange city lying alone
                         Far down within the dim West,
                         Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
                         Have gone to their eternal rest.
                         There shrines and palaces and towers
                         (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
                         Resemble nothing that is ours.
                         Around, by lifting winds forgot,
                         Resignedly beneath the sky
                         The melancholy waters lie.

                         No rays from the holy heaven come down
                         On the long night-time of that town;
                         But light from out the lurid sea
                         Streams up the turrets silently--
                         Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
                         Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
                         Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
                         Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
                         Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
                         Up many and many a marvellous shrine
                         Whose wreathéd friezes intertwine
                         The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Page 22

                         Resignedly beneath the sky
                         The melancholy waters lie.
                         So blend the turrets and shadows there
                         That all seem pendulous in air,
                         While from a proud tower in the town
                         Death looks gigantically down.

                         There open fanes and gaping graves
                         Yawn level with the luminous waves;
                         But not the riches there that lie
                         In each idol's diamond eye--
                         Not the gaily-jewelled dead
                         Tempt the waters from their bed;
                         For no ripples curl, alas!
                         Along that wilderness of glass--
                         No swellings tell that winds may be
                         Upon some far-off happier sea--
                         No heavings hint that winds have been
                         On seas less hideously serene.

                         But lo, a stir is in the air!
                         The wave--there is a movement there!
                         As if the towers had thrust aside,
                         In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
                         As if their tops had feebly given
                         A void within the filmy Heaven.
                         The waves have now a redder glow--
                         The hours are breathing faint and low--
                         And when, amid no earthly moans,
                         Down, down that town shall settle hence.
                         Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
                         Shall do it reverence.

Page 23


                         THOU wast all that to me, love,
                         For which my soul did pine--
                         A green isle in the sea, love,
                         A fountain and a shrine,
                         All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
                         And all the flowers were mine.

                         Ah, dream too bright to last!
                         Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
                         But to be overcast!
                         A voice from out the Future cries,
                         "On! on!"--but o'er the Past
                         (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
                         Mute, motionless, aghast!

                         For, alas! alas! with me
                         The light of Life is o'er!
                         No more--no more--no more--
                         (Such language holds the solemn sea
                         To the sands upon the shore)
                         Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
                         Or the stricken eagle soar!

                         And all my days are trances,
                         And all my nightly dreams
                         Are where thy dark eye glances,
                         And where thy footstep gleams--
                         In what ethereal dances,
                         By what eternal streams.

Page 24


                         I DWELT alone
                         In a world of moan,
                         And my soul was a stagnant tide,
                         Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride--
                         Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

                         Ah, less--less bright
                         The stars of the night
                         Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
                         And never a flake
                         That the vapour can make
                         With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
                         Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl--
                         Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.

                         Now Doubt--now Pain
                         Come never again,
                         For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
                         And all day long
                         Shines, bright and strong,
                         Astarté within the sky,
                         While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye--
                         While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.

Page 25

To F--s S. O----d.

                         THOU wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart
                         From its present pathway part not!
                         Being everything which now thou art,
                         Be nothing which thou art not.
                         So with the world thy gentle ways,
                         Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
                         Shall be an endless theme of praise,
                         And love--a simple duty.

To F--.

                         BELOVED! amid the earnest woes
                         That crowd around my earthly path--
                         (Drear path, alas! where grows
                         Not even one lonely rose)--
                         My soul at least a solace hath
                         In dreams of thee, and therein knows
                         An Eden of bland repose.

                         And thus thy memory is to me
                         Like some enchanted far-off isle
                         In some tumultuous sea--
                         Some ocean throbbing far and free
                         With storms--but where meanwhile
                         Serenest skies continually
                         Just o'er that one bright island smile.

Page 26


                         THERE are some qualities--some incorporate things,
                         That have a double life, which thus is made
                         A type of that twin entity which springs
                         From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
                         There is a two-fold Silence--sea and shore--
                         Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
                         Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
                         Some human memories and tearful lore,
                         Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
                         He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
                         No power hath he of evil in himself;
                         But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
                         Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
                         That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
                         No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!

Page 27


                         Lo! 'tis a gala night
                         Within the lonesome latter years!
                         An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
                         In veils, and drowned in tears,
                         Sit in a theatre, to see
                         A play of hopes and fears,
                         While the orchestra breathes fitfully
                         The music of the spheres.

                         Mimes, in the form of God on high,
                         Mutter and mumble low,
                         And hither and thither fly--
                         Mere puppets they, who come and go
                         At bidding of vast formless things
                         That shift the scenery to and fro,
                         Flapping from out their Condor wings
                         Invisible Wo!

                         That motley drama--oh, be sure
                         It shall not be forgot!
                         With its Phantom chased for evermore,
                         By a crowd that seize it not,
                         Through a circle that ever returneth in
                         To the self-same spot,
                         And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
                         And Horror the soul of the plot.

Page 28

                         But see, amid the mimic rout
                         A crawling shape intrude!
                         A blood-red thing that writhes from out
                         The scenic solitude!
                         It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
                         The mimes become its food,
                         And the angels sob at vermin fangs
                         In human gore imbued.

                         Out--out are the lights--out all!
                         And, over each quivering form,
                         The curtain, a funeral pall,
                         Comes down with the rush of a storm,
                         And the angels, all pallid and wan,
                         Uprising, unveiling, affirm
                         That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
                         And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Page 29


                         IN the greenest of our valleys
                         By good angels tenanted,
                         Once a fair and stately palace--
                         Radiant palace--reared its head.
                         In the monarch Thought's dominion--
                         It stood there!
                         Never seraph spread a pinion
                         Over fabric half so fair!

                         Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
                         On its roof did float and flow,
                         (This--all this--was in the olden Time long ago,)
                         And every gentle air that dallied,
                         In that sweet day,
                         Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
                         A wingéd odour went away.

                         Wanderers in that happy valley,
                         Through two luminous windows, saw
                         Spirits moving musically,
                         To a lute's well-tunéd law,
                         Round about a throne where, sitting
                         In state his glory well befitting,
                         The ruler of the realm was seen.

Page 30

                         And all with pearl and ruby glowing
                         Was the fair palace door,
                         Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
                         And sparkling evermore,
                         A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
                         Was but to sing,
                         In voices of surpassing beauty,
                         The wit and wisdom of their king.

                         But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
                         Assailed the monarch's high estate.
                         (Ah, let us mourn!--for never sorrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
                         And round about his home the glory
                         That blushed and bloomed,
                         Is but a dim-remembered story
                         Of the old time entombed.

                         And travellers, now, within that valley,
                         Through the red-litten windows see
                         Vast forms, that move fantastically
                         To a discordant melody,
                         While, like a ghastly rapid river,
                         Through the pale door
                         A hideous throng rush out forever
                         And laugh--but smile no more.

Page 31



    ROME.--A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.


                         Thou art sad, Castiglione.


                         Sad!--not I.
                         Oh, I'm the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
                         A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
                         Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!


                         Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
                         Thy happiness!--what ails thee, cousin of mine?
                         Why didst thou sigh so deeply?


                         Did I sigh?
                         I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
                         A silly--a most silly fashion I have
                         When I am very happy. Did I sigh?      (sighing.)


                         Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
                         Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
                         Late hours and wine, Castiglione,--these
                         Will ruin thee! thou art already altered--
                         Thy looks are haggard--nothing so wears away
                         The constitution as late hours and wine.


     (musing.) Nothing, fair cousin, nothing--not even deep sorrow--
                         Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
                         I will amend.


                         Do it! I would have thee drop
                         Thy riotous company, too--fellows low born--
                         Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio's heir
                         And Alessandra's husband.


                         I will drop them.


                         Thou wilt--thou must. Attend thou also more
                         To thy dress and equipage--they are over plain
                         For thy lofty rank and fashion--much depends
                         Upon appearances.


                         I'll see to it.


                         Then see to it!--pay more attention, sir,
                         To a becoming carriage--much thou wantest
                         In dignity.


                         Much, much, oh much I want
                         In proper dignity.


     (haughtily.) Thou mockest me, sir!


     (abstractedly.) Sweet, gentle Lalage!


                         Heard I aright?
                         I speak to him--he speaks of Lalage!
                         Sir Count!

    (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? he's not well!
                         What ails thee, sir?


     (starting.) Cousin! fair cousin!--madam!
                         I crave thy pardon--indeed I am not well--
                         Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
                         This air is most oppressive!--Madam--the Duke!

    Enter Di Broglio.

    Di Broglio.

                         My son, I've news for thee!--hey?--what's the matter?     (observing Alessandra.)
                         I' the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
                         You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!

Page 33

                         I've news for you both. Politian is expected
                         Hourly in Rome--Politian, Earl of Leicester!
                         We'll have him at the wedding. 'Tis his first visit
                         To the imperial city.


                         What! Politian
                         Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

    Di Brog.

                         The same, my love.
                         We'll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
                         In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
                         But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
                         Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
                         And high descent. We'll have him at the wedding.


                         I have heard much of this Politian.
                         Gay, volatile and giddy--is he not?
                         And little given to thinking.

    Di Brog.

                         Far from it, love.
                         No branch, they say, of all philosophy
                         So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
                         Learned as few are learned.


                         'Tis very strange!
                         I have known men have seen Politian
                         And sought his company. They speak of him
                         As of one who entered madly into life,
                         Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.


                         Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
                         And know him well--nor learned nor mirthful he.
                         He is a dreamer and a man shut out
                         From common passions.

    Di Brog.

                         Children, we disagree.
                         Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
                         Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
                         Politian was a melancholy man?


Page 34


    ROME. A Lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the back ground Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.


                         Jacinta! is it thou?


     (pertly.) Yes, Ma'am, I'm here.


                         I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
                         Sit down!--let not my presence trouble you--
                         Sit down!--for I am humble, most humble.


     (aside.) 'Tis time.

    (Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read.


                         "It in another climate, so he said,
                         "Bore a bright golden flower, but not i' this soil!"

    (pauses--turns over some leaves, and resumes.)

                         "No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower--
                         But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
                         Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind."
                         Oh, beautiful!--most beautiful!--how like
                         To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
                         O happy land!

     (pauses.) She died!--the maiden died!
                         O still more happy maiden who couldst die!

    (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)

                         Again!--a similar tale
                         Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
Page 35

                         Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play--

                         "She died full young"--one Bossola answers him--
                         "I think not so--her infelicity
                         "Seemed to have years too many"--Ah luckless lady!

     (still no answer.) Here's a far sterner story
                         But like--oh, very like in its despair--
                         Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
                         A thousand hearts--losing at length her own.
                         She died. Thus endeth the history--and her maids
                         Lean over her and weep--two gentle maids
                         With gentle names--Eiros and Charmion!
                         Rainbow and Dove!--Jacinta!


     (pettishly.) Madam, what is it?


                         Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
                         As go down in the library and bring me
                         The Holy Evangelists.


                         Pshaw!      (exit.)


                         If there be balm
                         For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!
                         Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
                         Will there be found--"dew sweeter far than that
                         Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill."

     (re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)

                         There, ma'am, 's the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.     (aside.)



                         What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
                         To grieve thee or to vex thee?--I am sorry.
                         For thou hast served me long and ever been
                         Trust-worthy and respectful.     (resumes her reading.)


                         I can't believe
                         She has any more jewels--no--no--she gave me all.     (aside.)

Page 36


                         What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
                         Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
                         How fares good Ugo?--and when is it to be?
                         Can I do aught?--is there no farther aid
                         Thou needest, Jacinta?


                         Is there no farther aid!
                         That's meant for me. (aside) I'm sure, Madam, you need not
                         Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.


                         Jewels! Jacinta,--now indeed, Jacinta,
                         I thought not of the jewels.


                         Oh! perhaps not!
                         But then I might have sworn it. After all,
                         There's Ugo says the ring is only paste,
                         For he's sure the Count Castiglione never
                         Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
                         And at the best I'm certain, Madam, you cannot
                         Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it.


    (Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table--after a short pause raises it.)


                         Poor Lalage!--and is it come to this?
                         Thy servant maid!--but courage!--'tis but a viper
                         Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!

    (taking up the mirror.)

                         Ha! here at least's a friend--too much a friend
                         In earlier days--a friend will not deceive thee.
                         Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
                         A tale--a pretty tale--and heed thou not
                         Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
                         It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
                         And Beauty long deceased--remembers me
                         Of Joy departed--Hope, the Seraph Hope,
                         Inurned and entombed!--now, in a tone
                         Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
Page 37

                         Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
                         For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!--thou liest not!
                         Thou hast no end to gain--no heart to break--
                         Castiglione lied who said he loved--
                         Thou true--he false!--false!--false!

    (while she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches unobserved.)


                         Refuge thou hast,
                         Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
                         Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!


     (arising hurriedly.) I cannot pray!--My soul is at war with God!
                         The frightful sounds of merriment below
                         Disturb my senses--go! I cannot pray--
                         The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
                         Thy presence grieves me--go!--thy priestly raiment
                         Fills me with dread--thy ebony crucifix
                         With horror and awe!


                         Think of thy precious soul!


                         Think of my early days!--think of my father
                         And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
                         And the rivulet that ran before the door!
                         Think of my little sisters!--think of them!
                         And think of me!--think of my trusting love
                         And confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think
                         Of my unspeakable misery!--begone!
                         Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer
                         And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
                         And vows before the throne?


                         I did.


                         'Tis well.
                         There is a vow were fitting should be made--

Page 38

                         A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
                         A solemn vow!


                         Daughter, this zeal is well!


                         Father, this zeal is anything but well!
                         Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
                         A crucifix whereon to register
                         This sacred vow?     (he hands her his own.)

                         Not that--Oh! no!--no!--no!      (shuddering.)

                         Not that! Not that!--I tell thee, holy man,
                         Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
                         Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,--
                         I have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting
                         The deed--the vow--the symbol of the deed--
                         And the deed's register should tally, father!
    (draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.)
                         Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
                         Is written in Heaven!


                         Thy words are madness, daughter,
                         And speak a purpose unholy--thy lips are livid--
                         Thine eyes are wild--tempt not the wrath divine!
                         Pause ere too late!--oh be not--be not rash!
                         Swear not the oath--oh swear it not!


                         'Tis sworn!

Page 39


    An apartment in a palace. Politian and Baldazzar.


                         --Arouse thee now, Politian!
                         Thou must not--nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
                         Give way unto these humours. Be thyself!
                         Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
                         And live, for now thou diest!


                         Not so, Baldazzar!
                         Surely I live.


                         Politian, it doth grieve me
                         To see thee thus.


                         Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
                         To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
                         Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
                         At thy behest I will shake off that nature
                         Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
                         Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe,
                         And be no more Politian, but some other.
                         Command me, sir!


                         To the field then--to the field--
                         To the senate or the field.


                         Alas! alas!
                         There is an imp would follow me even there!
                         There is an imp hath followed me even there!
                         There is--what voice was that?


                         I heard it not.
                         I heard not any voice except thine own,
                         And the echo of thine own.

Page 40


                         Then I but dreamed.


                         Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp--the court
                         Befit thee--Fame awaits thee--Glory calls--
                         And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
                         In hearkening to imaginary sounds
                         And phantom voices.


                         It is a phantom voice!
                         Didst thou not hear it then?


                         I heard it not.


                         Thou heardst it not!--Baldazzar, speak no more
                         To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
                         Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
                         Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
                         Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
                         We have been boys together--school-fellows--
                         And now are friends--yet shall not be so long--
                         For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
                         A kind and gentle office, and a Power--
                         A Power august, benignant and supreme--
                         Shall then absolve thee of all farther duties
                         Unto thy friend.


                         Thou speakest a fearful riddle
                         I will not understand.


                         Yet now as Fate
                         Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
                         The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
                         And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
                         I cannot die, having within my heart
                         So keen a relish for the beautiful
                         As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
                         Is balmier now than it was wont to be--
                         Rich melodies are floating in the winds--
                         A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth--

Page 41

                         And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
                         Sitteth in Heaven.--Hist! hist! thou canst not say
                         Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?


                         Indeed I hear not.


                         Not hear it!--listen now--listen!--the faintest sound
                         And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
                         A lady's voice!--and sorrow in the tone!
                         Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
                         Again!--again!--how solemnly it falls
                         Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
                         Surely I never heard--yet it were well
                         Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
                         In earlier days!


                         I myself hear it now.
                         Be still!--the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
                         Proceeds from yonder lattice--which you may see
                         Very plainly through the window--it belongs,
                         Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
                         The singer is undoubtedly beneath
                         The roof of his Excellency--and perhaps
                         Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
                         As the betrothed of Castiglione,
                         His son and heir.


                         Be still!--it comes again!

     (very faintly.)
                         "And is thy heart so strong
                         As for to leave me thus
                         Who hath loved thee so long
                         In wealth and wo among?
                         And is thy heart so strong
                         As for to leave me thus?
                         Say nay--say nay!"


                         The song is English, and I oft have heard it
                         In merry England--never so plaintively--

Page 42

                         Hist! hist! it comes again!

     (more loudly.)
                         "Is it so strong
                         As for to leave me thus
                         Who hath loved thee so long
                         In wealth and wo among?
                         And is thy heart so strong
                         As for to leave me thus?
                         Say nay--say nay!"


                         'Tis hushed and all is still!


                         All is not still.


                         Let us go down.


                         Go down, Baldazzar, go!


                         The hour is growing late--the Duke awaits us,--
                         Thy presence is expected in the hall
                         Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

                         "Who hath loved thee so long,
                         In wealth and wo among,
                         And is thy heart so strong?
                         Say nay--say nay!"


                         Let us descend!--'tis time. Politian, give
                         These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
                         Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness
                         Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!


                         Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.     (going.)
                         Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
                         Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
                         To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice--
                         "To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
                         Once more that silent tongue."


                         Let me beg you, sir,
                         Descend with me--the Duke may be offended.
                         Let us go down, I pray you.

Page 43

    (Voice loudly.)
                         Say nay!--say nay!


     (aside.) 'Tis strange!--'tis very strange--methought the voice
                         Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!

     (approaching the window.)
                         Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
                         Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
                         Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
                         Apology unto the Duke for me;
                         I go not down to-night.


                         Your lordship's pleasure
                         Shall be attended to. Good night, Politian.


                         Good night, my friend, good night.

Page 44


    The gardens of a palace--Moonlight. Lalage and Politian.


                         And dost thou speak of love
                         To me, Politian?--dost thou speak of love
                         To Lalage?--ah wo--ah wo is me!
                         This mockery is most cruel--most cruel indeed!


                         Weep not! oh, sob not thus!--thy bitter tears
                         Will madden me. Oh mourn not, Lalage--
                         Be comforted! I know--I know it all,
                         And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
                         And beautiful Lalage!--turn here thine eyes!
                         Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
                         Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
                         Thou askest me that--and thus I answer thee--
                         Thus on my bended knee I answer thee.     (kneeling.)
                         Sweet Lalage, I love thee--love thee--love thee;
                         Thro' good and ill--thro' weal and wo I love thee.
                         Not mother, with her first born on her knee,
                         Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
                         Not on God's altar, in any time or clime,
                         Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
                         Within my spirit for thee. And do I love?      (arising.)
                         Even for thy woes I love thee--even for thy woes--
                         Thy beauty and thy woes.


                         Alas, proud Earl,
                         Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
                         How, in thy father's halls, among the maidens
                         Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,

Page 45

                         Could the dishonoured Lalage abide?
                         Thy wife, and with a tainted memory--
                         My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
                         With the ancestral honours of thy house,
                         And with thy glory?


                         Speak not to me of glory!
                         I hate--I loathe the name; I do abhor
                         The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
                         Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?
                         Do I not love--art thou not beautiful--
                         What need we more? Ha! glory!--now speak not of it!
                         By all I hold most sacred and most solemn--
                         By all my wishes now--my fears hereafter--
                         By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven--
                         There is no deed I would more glory in,
                         Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
                         And trample it under foot. What matters it--
                         What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
                         That we go down unhonoured and forgotten
                         Into the dust--so we descend together.
                         Descend together--and then--and then perchance--


                         Why dost thou pause, Politian?


                         And then perchance
                         Arise together, Lalage, and roam
                         The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
                         And still--


                         Why dost thou pause, Politian?


                         And still together--together.


                         Now Earl of Leicester!
                         Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
                         I feel thou lovest me truly.


                         Oh, Lalage!     (throwing himself upon his knee.)
                         And lovest thou me?

Page 46


                         Hist! hush! within the gloom
                         Of yonder trees methought a figure past--
                         A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless--
                         Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
     (walks across and returns.)
                         I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
                         Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!


                         My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
                         Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self,
                         Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
                         Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
                         Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
                         Throw over all things a gloom.


                         Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
                         With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
                         Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
                         A thousand leagues within the golden west?
                         A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
                         And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
                         And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
                         Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
                         Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
                         In days that are to come?


                         O, wilt thou--wilt thou
                         Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
                         Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
                         And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
                         And life shall then be mine, for I will live
                         For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
                         No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
                         Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
                         Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee

Page 47

                         And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
                         My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
                         My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
                         Fly thither with me?


                         A need is to be done--
                         Castiglione lives!


                         And he shall die!     (exit.)

     (after a pause.) And--he--shall--die!--alas!
                         Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
                         Where am I?--what was it he said?--Politian!
                         Thou art not gone--thou art not gone, Politian!
                         I feel thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
                         Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
                         With those words upon thy lips--O, speak to me!
                         And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
                         To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
                         To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
                         My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone--
                         O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!
                         I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
                         Villain, thou art not gone--thou mockest me!
                         And thus I clutch thee--thus!--He is gone, he is gone--
                         Gone--gone. Where am I?--'tis well--'tis very well!
                         So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
                         'Tis well, 'tis very well--alas! alas!      (exit.)

Page 48


    The suburbs. Politian alone.


                         This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
                         And much I fear me ill--it will not do
                         To die ere I have lived!--Stay--stay thy hand,
                         O Azrael, yet awhile!--Prince of the Powers
                         Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
                         O pity me! let me not perish now,
                         In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
                         Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
                         'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
                         Demanded but to die!--what sayeth the Count?

    Enter Baldazzar.


                         That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
                         Between the Earl Politian and himself,
                         He doth decline your cartel.


                         What didst thou say?
                         What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
                         With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
                         Laden from yonder bowers!--a fairer day,
                         Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
                         No mortal eyes have seen!--what said the Count?


                         That he, Castiglione, not being aware
                         Of any feud existing, or any cause
                         Of quarrel between your lordship and himself
                         Cannot accept the challenge.


                         It is most true--
                         All this is very true. When saw you, sir,

Page 49

                         When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
                         Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
                         A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
                         From the evil taint of clouds?--and he did say?


                         No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
                         The Count Castiglione will not fight,
                         Having no cause for quarrel.


                         Now this is true--
                         All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
                         And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
                         A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
                         Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
                         Hold him a villain?--thus much, I prythee, say
                         Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
                         He should have cause for quarrel.


                         My lord!--my friend!--

     (aside.) 'Tis he--he comes himself!      (aloud.) thou reasonest well.
                         I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message--
                         Well!--I will think of it--I will not send it.
                         Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
                         With whom affairs of a most private nature
                         I would adjust.


                         I go--to-morrow we meet,
                         Do we not?--at the Vatican.


                         At the Vatican.     (exit Bal.)

    Enter Castiglione.


                         The Earl of Leicester here!


                         I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
                         Dost thou not? that I am here.


                         My lord, some strange,
                         Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
                         Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged

Page 50

                         Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
                         Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
                         To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
                         Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
                         Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
                         Having given thee no offence. Ha!--am I right?
                         'Twas a mistake?--undoubtedly--we all
                         Do err at times.


                         Draw, villain, and prate no more!


                         Ha!--draw?--and villain? have at thee then at once,
                         Proud Earl!     (draws.)

     (drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
                         Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
                         In the name of Lalage!

    (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the stage.)
                         Of Lalage!
                         Hold off--thy sacred hand!--avaunt I say!
                         Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.


                         Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
                         Shall I be baffled thus?--now this is well;
                         Didst say thou darest not? Ha!


                         I dare not--dare not--
                         Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
                         So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
                         I cannot--dare not.


                         Now by my halidom
                         I do believe thee!--coward, I do believe thee!


                         Ha!--coward!--this may not be!

    (clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of the Earl.)

                         Alas! my lord,
Page 51

                         It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
                         I am the veriest coward. O pity me!

     (greatly softened.) Alas!--I do--indeed I pity thee.


                         And Lalage----


                         Scoundrel!--arise and die!


                         It needeth not be--thus--thus--O let me die
                         Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
                         That in this deep humiliation I perish.
                         For in the fight I will not raise a hand
                         Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--
    (baring his bosom.)
                         Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon--
                         Strike home. I will not fight thee.


                         Now s'Death and Hell!
                         Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
                         To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir!
                         Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
                         For public insult in the streets--before
                         The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee--
                         Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
                         Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest--
                         Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee,
                         Dost hear? with cowardice--thou wilt not fight me?
                         Thou liest! thou shalt!



                         Now this indeed is just!
                         Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!


Page 55


        * Private reasons--some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson's first poems--have induced me, after some hesitation, to re-publish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood. They are printed verbatim--without alteration from the original edition--the date of which is too remote to be judiciously acknowledged.

E. A. P.


                         SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
                         Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
                         Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
                         Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
                         How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
                         Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
                         To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
                         Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
                         Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
                         And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
                         To seek a shelter in some happier star?
                         Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
                         The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
                         The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

Page 56


        * A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared suddenly in the heavens--attained, in a few days, a brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter--then as suddenly disappeared, and has never been seen since.


                         O! NOTHING earthly save the ray
                         (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
                         As in those gardens where the day
                         Springs from the gems of Circassy--
                         O! nothing earthly save the thrill
                         Of melody in woodland rill--
                         Or (music of the passion-hearted)
                         Joy's voice so peacefully departed
                         That like the murmur in the shell,
                         Its echo dwelleth and will dwell--
                         Oh, nothing of the dross of ours--
                         Yet all the beauty--all the flowers
                         That list our Love, and deck our bowers--
                         Adorn yon world afar, afar--
                         The wandering star.

                         'Twas a sweet time for Nesace--for there
                         Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
                         Near four bright suns--a temporary rest--
                         An oasis in desert of the blest.

Page 57

                         Away--away--'mid seas of rays that roll
                         Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul--
                         The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
                         Can struggle to its destin'd eminence--
                         To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
                         And late to ours, the favour'd one of God--
                         But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
                         She throws aside the sceptre--leaves the helm,
                         And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
                         Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

                         Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
                         Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
                         (Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
                         Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
                         It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
                         She look'd into Infinity--and knelt.
                         Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled--
                         Fit emblems of the model of her world--
                         Seen but in beauty--not impeding sight
                         Of other beauty glittering thro' the light--
                         A wreath that twined each starry form around,
                         And all the opal'd air in color bound.

                         All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
                         Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
                         *On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang

        * On Santa Maura--olim Deucadia.

                         So eagerly around about to hang
                         Upon the flying footsteps of--deep pride--
                         **Of her who lov'd a mortal--and so died.

        ** Sappho.

                         The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
                         Uprear'd its purple stem around her knees:
Page 58

                         *And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd--

        * This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort. The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.

                         Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
                         All other loveliness: its honied dew
                         (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
                         Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
                         And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
                         In Trebizond--and on a sunny flower
                         So like its own above that, to this hour,
                         It still remaineth, torturing the bee
                         With madness, and unwonted reverie:
                         In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
                         And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
                         Disconsolate linger--grief that hangs her head,
                         Repenting follies that full long have fled,
                         Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
                         Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
                         Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
                         She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
                         **And Clytia pondering between many a sun,

        ** Clytia--The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a better-known term, the turnsol--which turns continually towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its flowers during the most violent heat of the day.--B. de St. Pierre.

                         While pettish tears adown her petals run:
                         ***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth--

        *** There is cultivated in the king's garden at Paris, a species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla, during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It does not blow till towards the month of July--you then perceive it gradually open its petals--expand them--fade and die.--St. Pierre.

                         And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
                         Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
                         Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
Page 59

                         *And Valisnerian lotus thither flown

        * There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of three or four feet--thus preserving its head above water in the swellings of the river.

                         From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
                         **And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!

        ** The Hyacinth.

                         Isola d'oro!--Fior di Levante!
                         ***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever

        *** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges--and that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.

                         With Indian Cupid down the holy river--
                         Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
                         ****To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:

        ****And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints.--Rev St. John.

                         "Spirit! that dwellest where,
                         In the deep sky,
                         The terrible and fair,
                         In beauty vie!
                         Beyond the line of blue--
                         The boundary of the star
                         Which turneth at the view
                         Of thy barrier and thy bar--
                         Of the barrier overgone
                         By the comets who were cast
                         From their pride, and from their throne
                         To be drudges till the last--
                         To be carriers of fire
                         (The red fire of their heart)
                         With speed that may not tire
                         And with pain that shall not part--

Page 60

                         Who livest--that we know--
                         In Eternity--we feel--
                         But the shadow of whose brow
                         What spirit shall reveal?
                         Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
                         Thy messenger hath known
                         Have dream'd for thy Infinity
                         *A model of their own--

        * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as having really a human form.--Vide Clarke's Sermons, vol. 1, page 26, fol. edit.

        The drift of Milton's argument, leads him to employ language which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their doctrine; but it will be seen immediately, that he guards himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church.--Dr. Sumner's Notes on Milton's Christian Doctrine.

        This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary, could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples were called Anthropmorphites.--Vide Du Pin.

        Among Milton's minor poems are these lines:--

                         Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, &c.
                         Quis ille primus eujus ex imagine
                         Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
                         Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
                         Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.--And afterwards,
                         Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
                         Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &c.

                         Thy will is done, Oh, God!
                         The star hath ridden high
                         Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
                         Beneath thy burning eye;
                         And here, in thought, to thee--
                         In thought that can alone
                         Ascend thy empire and so be
                         A partner of thy throne--

Page 61

                         *By winged Fantasy,

                         * Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
                         Seinem Schosskinde
                         Der Phantasie.--Göethe.

                         My embassy is given,
                         Till secrecy shall knowledge be
                         In the environs of Heaven."

                         She ceas'd--and buried then her burning cheek
                         Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
                         A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
                         For the stars trembled at the Deity.
                         She stirr'd not--breath'd not--for a voice was there
                         How solemnly pervading the calm air!
                         A sound of silence on the startled ear
                         Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
                         Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
                         "Silence"--which is the merest word of all.
                         All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
                         Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings--
                         But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
                         The eternal voice of God is passing by,
                         And the red winds are withering in the sky!

                         **"What tho' in worlds which sightless cycles run,

        ** Sightless--too small to be seen.--Legge.

                         Link'd to a little system, and one sun--
                         Where all my love is folly and the crowd
                         Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
                         The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath--
                         (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
                         What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
                         The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Page 62

                         Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
                         To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven.
                         Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
                         With all thy train, athwart the moony sky--
                         *Apart--like fire-flies in Sicilian night,

        * I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies;--they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common centre, into innumerable radii.

                         And wing to other worlds another light!
                         Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
                         To the proud orbs that twinkle--and so be
                         To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
                         Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"

                         Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
                         The single-mooned eve!--on Earth we plight
                         Our faith to one love--and one moon adore--
                         The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
                         As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
                         Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
                         And bent o'er sheeny mountain and dim plain
                         **Her way--but left not yet her Therasæan reign.

        ** Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca, which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of astonished mariners.

Page 63


                         HIGH on a mountain of enamell'd head--
                         Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
                         Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
                         Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
                         With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
                         What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
                         Of rosy head, that towering far away
                         Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
                         Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
                         While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
                         Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
                         Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
                         Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
                         Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
                         And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
                         *Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall

                         * Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
                         Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance, did fall.--Milton.

                         Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
                         Of their own dissolution, while they die--
                         Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
                         A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
                         Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
                         A window of one circular diamond, there,
                         Look'd out above into the purple air,

Page 64

                         And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
                         And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
                         Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
                         Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
                         But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
                         The dimness of this world: that greyish green
                         That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
                         Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
                         And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
                         That from his marble dwelling peeréd out,
                         Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
                         Achaian statues in a world so rich?
                         *Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis--
                         From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
                         **Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
                         Is now upon thee--but too late to save!

        * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, "Je connois bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais erigé au pied d'une chaine des rochers sterils--peut il être un chef d'oeuvre des arts!"

        ** "Oh! the wave"--Ula Deguisi is the Turkish appellation; but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more than two cities engulphed in the "dead sea." In the valley of Siddim were five--Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteen, (engulphed)--but the last is out of all reason.

        It is said, [Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau, Maundrel!, Troilo, D'Arvieux] that after an excessive drought, the vestiges of columns, walls, &c. are seen above the surface. At any season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of many settlements in the space now usurped by the 'Asphaltites.'

                         Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
                         Witness the murmur of the grey twilight

Page 65

                         *That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
                         Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
                         That stealeth ever on the ear of him
                         Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.
                         And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
                         **Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?

        * Eyraco--Chaldea.

        ** I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon.

                         But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
                         A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
                         A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain
                         And Nesace is in her halls again.
                         From the wild energy of wanton haste
                         Her checks were flushing, and her lips apart;
                         And zone that clung around her gentle waist
                         Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
                         Within the centre of that hall to breathe
                         She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
                         The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
                         And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

                         ***Young flowers were whispering in melody
                         To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
                         Fountains were gushing music as they fell
                         In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
                         Yet silence came upon material things--
                         Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
                         And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
                         Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

        *** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.--Merry Wives of Windsor.

Page 66

                         "'Neath blue-bell or streamer--
                         Or tufted wild spray
                         That keeps, from the dreamer,
                         *The moonbeam away--

        * In Scripture is this passage--"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night." It is perhaps not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes.

                         Bright beings! that ponder,
                         With half closing eyes,
                         On the stars which your wonder
                         Hath drawn from the skies,
                         Till they glance thro' the shade, and
                         Come down to your brow
                         Like--eyes of the maiden
                         Who calls on you now--
                         Arise! from your dreaming
                         In violet bowers,
                         To duty beseeming
                         These star-litten hours--
                         And shake from your tresses
                         Encumber'd with dew
                         The breath of those kisses
                         That cumber them too--
                         (O! how, without you, Love!
                         Could angels be blest?)
                         Those kisses of true love
                         That lull'd ye to rest!
                         Up!--shake from your wing
                         Each hindering thing:
                         The dew of the night--
                         It would weigh down your flight;
                         And true love caresses--
                         O! leave them apart!
Page 67

                         They are light on the tresses,
                         But lead on the heart.

                         Ligeia! Ligeia!
                         My beautiful one!
                         Whose harshest idea
                         Will to melody run,
                         O! is it thy will
                         On the breezes to toss?
                         Or, capriciously still,
                         *Like the lone Albatross,
                         Incumbent on night
                         (As she on the air)
                         To keep watch with delight
                         On the harmony there?

        * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.

                         Ligeia! wherever
                         Thy image may be,
                         No magic shall sever
                         Thy music from thee.
                         Thou hast bound many eyes
                         In a dreamy sleep--
                         But the strains still arise
                         Which thy vigilance keep--
                         The sound of the rain
                         Which leaps down to the flower,
                         And dances again
                         In the rhythm of the shower--
                         **The murmur that springs

        ** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory:--"The verie essence and, as it were, springeheade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."

                         From the growing of grass
Page 68

                         Are the music of things--
                         But are modell'd, alas!--
                         Away, then my dearest,
                         O! hie thee away
                         To springs that lie clearest
                         Beneath the moon-ray--
                         To lone lake that smiles,
                         In its dream of deep rest,
                         At the many star-isles
                         That enjewel its breast--
                         Where wild flowers, creeping,
                         Have mingled their shade,
                         On its margin is sleeping
                         Full many a maid--
                         Some have left the cool glade, and
                         * Have slept with the bee--

        * The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.

        The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:

                         O! were there an island,
                         Tho' ever so wild
                         Where woman might smile, and
                         No man be beguil'd, &c.

                         Arouse them my maiden,
                         On moorland and lea--
                         Go! breathe on their slumber,
                         All softly in ear,
                         The musical number
                         They slumber'd to hear--
                         For what can awaken
                         An angel so soon

Page 69

                         Whose sleep hath been taken
                         Beneath the cold moon,
                         As the spell which no slumber
                         Of witchery may test,
                         The rhythmical number
                         Which lull'd him to rest?"

                         Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
                         A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
                         Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
                         Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
                         That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar
                         O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
                         Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
                         Sweet was that error--ev'n with us the breath
                         Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
                         To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
                         For what (to them) availeth it to know
                         That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
                         Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
                         With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
                         Beyond that death no immortality--
                         But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
                         And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
                         *Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell!

        * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.

                         Un no rompido sueno--
                         Un dia puro--allegre--libre
                         Libre de amor--de zelo--
                         De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.--Luis Ponce de Leon.

        Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.

Page 70

                         What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
                         Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
                         But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
                         To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
                         A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
                         O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
                         Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
                         *Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan."

                         * There be tears of perfect moan
                         Wept for thee in Helicon.--Milton.

                         He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
                         A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well--
                         A gazer on the lights that shine above--
                         A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
                         What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
                         And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
                         And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
                         To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
                         The night had found (to him a night of wo)
                         Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
                         Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
                         And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
                         Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
                         With eagle gaze along the firmament:
                         Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
                         It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.

                         "Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
                         How lovely 'tis to look so far away!

Page 71

                         She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
                         I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourn'd to leave.
                         That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
                         The sun-ray dropp'd, in Lemnos, with a spell
                         On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
                         Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
                         And on my eye-lids--O the heavy light!
                         How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
                         On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
                         With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
                         But O that light!--I slumber'd--Death, the while,
                         Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
                         So softly that no single silken hair
                         Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.

                         The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
                         *Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon--
                         More beauty clung around her column'd wall
                         **Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
                         And when old Time my wing did disenthral
                         Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
                         And years I left behind me in an hour.
                         What time upon her airy bounds I hung
                         One half the garden of her globe was flung
                         Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
                         Tenantless cities of the desert too!
                         Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
                         And half I wish'd to be again of men."

        * It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.

                         ** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
                         Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.--Marlowe.

                         "My Angelo! and why of them to be?
                         A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--

Page 72

                         And greener fields than in you world above,
                         And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."

                         "But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
                         *Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
                         Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
                         I left so late was into chaos hurl'd--
                         Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
                         And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
                         Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
                         And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
                         But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
                         Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
                         Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
                         For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
                         Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
                         A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.

                         * Pennon--for pinion.--Milton.

                         "We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
                         Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
                         We came, my love; around, above, below,
                         Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
                         Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
                         She grants to us, as granted by her God--
                         But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
                         Never his fairy wing o'er fairier world!
                         Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
                         Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
                         When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
                         Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
                         But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
                         As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,

Page 73

                         We paus'd before the heritage of men,
                         And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"

                         Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
                         The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
                         They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
                         Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.

Page 74


                         KIND solace in a dying hour!
                         Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
                         I will not madly deem that power
                         Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
                         Unearthly pride hath revell'd in--
                         I have no time to dote or dream:
                         You call it hope--that fire of fire!
                         It is but agony of desire:
                         If I can hope--Oh God! I can--
                         Its fount is holier--more divine--
                         I would not call thee fool, old man,
                         But such is not a gift of thine.

                         Know thou the secret of a spirit
                         Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
                         O yearning heart! I did inherit
                         Thy withering portion with the fame,
                         The searing glory which hath shone
                         Amid the Jewels of my throne,
                         Halo of Hell! and with a pain
                         Not Hell shall make me fear again--
                         O craving heart, for the lost flowers
                         And sunshine of my summer hours!
                         The undying voice of that dead time,
                         With its interminable chime,

Page 75

                         Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
                         Upon thy emptiness--a knell.

                         I have not always been as now:
                         The fever'd diadem on my brow
                         I claim'd and won usurpingly--
                         Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
                         Rome to the Cæsar--this to me?
                         The heritage of a kingly mind,
                         And a proud spirit which hath striven
                         Triumphantly with human kind.

                         On mountain soil I first drew life:
                         The mists of the Taglay have shed
                         Nightly their dews upon my head,
                         And, I believe, the winged strife
                         And tumult of the headlong air
                         Have nestled in my very hair.

                         So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
                         ('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
                         Upon me with the touch of Hell,
                         While the red flashing of the light
                         From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
                         Appeared to my half-closing eye
                         The pageantry of monarchy,
                         And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
                         Came hurriedly upon me, telling
                         Of human battle, where my voice,
                         My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
                         (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
                         And leap within me at the cry)
                         The battle-cry of Victory!

Page 76

                         The rain came down upon my head
                         Unshelter'd--and the heavy wind
                         Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
                         It was but man, I thought, who shed
                         Laurels upon me: and the rush--
                         The torrent of the chilly air
                         Gurgled within my ear the crush
                         Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
                         The hum of suitors--and the tone
                         Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

                         My passions, from that hapless hour,
                         Usurp'd a tyranny which men
                         Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
                         My innate nature--be it so:
                         But, father, there liv'd one who, then,
                         Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
                         Burn'd with a still intenser glow
                         (For passion must, with youth, expire)
                         E'en then who knew this iron heart
                         In woman's weakness had a part.

                         I have no words--alas!--to tell
                         The loveliness of loving well!
                         Nor would I now attempt to trace
                         The more than beauty of a face
                         Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
                         Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
                         Thus I remember having dwelt
                         Some page of early lore upon,
                         With loitering eye, till I have felt
                         The letters--with their meaning--melt
                         To fantasies--with none.

Page 77

                         O, she was worthy of all love!
                         Love--as in infancy was mine--
                         'Twas such as angel minds above
                         Might envy; her young heart the shrine
                         On which my every hope and thought
                         Were incense--then a goodly gift,
                         For they were childish and upright--
                         Pure--as her young example taught:
                         Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
                         Trust to the fire within, for light?

                         We grew in age--and love--together--
                         Roaming the forest, and the wild;
                         My breast her shield in wintry weather--
                         And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
                         And she would mark the opening skies,
                         I saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.

                         Young Love's first lesson is--the heart:
                         For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
                         When, from our little cares apart,
                         And laughing at her girlish wiles,
                         I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
                         And pour my spirit out in tears--
                         There was no need to speak the rest--
                         No need to quiet any fears
                         Of her--who ask'd no reason why,
                         But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

                         Yet more than worthy of the love
                         My spirit struggled with, and strove,
                         When, on the mountain peak, alone,
                         Ambition lent it a new tone--

Page 78

                         I had no being--but in thee:
                         The world, and all it did contain
                         In the earth--the air--the sea--
                         Its joy--its little lot of pain
                         That was new pleasure--the ideal,
                         Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
                         And dimmer nothings which were real--
                         (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
                         Parted upon their misty wings,
                         And, so, confusedly, became
                         Thine image and--a name--a name!
                         Two separate--yet most intimate things.

                         I was ambitious--have you known
                         The passion, father? You have not:
                         A cottager, I mark'd a throne
                         Of half the world as all my own,
                         And murmur'd at such lowly lot--
                         But, just like any other dream,
                         Upon the vapor of the dew
                         My own had past, did not the beam
                         Of beauty which did while it thro'
                         The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
                         My mind with double loveliness.

                         We walk'd together on the crown
                         Of a high mountain which look'd down
                         Afar from its proud natural towers
                         Of rock and forest, on the hills--
                         The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
                         And shouting with a thousand rills.

                         I spoke to her of power and pride,
                         But mystically--in such guise

Page 79

                         That she might deem it nought beside
                         The moment's converse; in her eyes
                         I read, perhaps too carelessly--
                         A mingled feeling with my own--
                         The flush on her bright cheek, to me
                         Seem'd to become a queenly throne
                         Too well that I should let it be
                         Light in the wilderness alone.

                         I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then
                         And donn'd a visionary crown--
                         Yet it was not that Fantasy
                         Had thrown her mantle over me--
                         But that, among the rabble--men,
                         Lion ambition is chain'd down--
                         And crouches to a keeper's hand--
                         Not so in deserts where the grand--
                         The wild--the terrible conspire
                         With their own breath to fan his fire.

                         Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
                         Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
                         Above all cities? in her hand
                         Their destinies? in all beside
                         Of glory which the world hath known
                         Stands she not nobly and alone?
                         Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
                         Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
                         And who her sovereign? Timour--he
                         Whom the astonished people saw
                         Striding o'er empires haughtily
                         A diadem'd outlaw!

Page 80

                         O, human love! thou spirit given,
                         On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
                         Which fall'st into the soul like rain
                         Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
                         And, failing in thy power to bless,
                         But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
                         Idea! which bindest life around
                         With music of so strange a sound
                         And beauty of so wild a birth--
                         Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

                         When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
                         No cliff beyond him in the sky,
                         His pinions were bent droopingly--
                         And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
                         'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
                         There comes a sullenness of heart
                         To him who still would look upon
                         The glory of the summer sun.
                         That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
                         So often lovely, and will list
                         To the sound of the coming darkness (known
                         To those whose spirits harken) as one
                         Who, in a dream of night, would fly
                         But cannot from a danger nigh.

                         What tho' the moon--the white moon
                         Shed all the splendor of her noon,
                         Her smile is chilly--and her beam,
                         In that time of dreariness, will seem
                         (So like you gather in your breath)
                         A portrait taken after death.

Page 81

                         And boyhood is a summer sun
                         Whose waning is the dreariest one--
                         For all we live to know is known
                         And all we seek to keep hath flown--
                         Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
                         With the noon-day beauty--which is all.

                         I reach'd my home--my home no more--
                         For all had flown who made it so.
                         I pass'd from out its mossy door,
                         And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
                         A voice came from the threshold stone
                         Of one whom I had earlier known--
                         O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
                         On beds of fire that burn below,
                         An humbler heart--a deeper wo.

                         Father, I firmly do believe--
                         I know--for Death who comes for me
                         From regions of the blest afar,
                         Where there is nothing to deceive,
                         Hath left his iron gate ajar,
                         And rays of truth you cannot see
                         Are flashing thro' Eternity--
                         I do believe that Eblis hath
                         A snare in every human path--
                         Else how, when in the holy grove
                         I wandered of the idol, Love,
                         Who daily scents his snowy wings
                         With incense of burnt offerings
                         From the most unpolluted things,
                         Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
                         Above with trellic'd rays from Heaven

Page 82

                         No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
                         The light'ning of his eagle eye--
                         How was it that Ambition crept,
                         Unseen, amid the revels there,
                         Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
                         In the tangles of Love's very hair?

Page 83


                         IN visions of the dark night
                         I have dreamed of joy departed--
                         But a waking dream of life and light
                         Hath left me broken-hearted.

                         Ah! what is not a dream by day
                         To him whose eyes are cast
                         On things around him with a ray
                         Turned back upon the past?

                         That holy dream--that holy dream,
                         While all the world were childing,
                         Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
                         A lonely spirit guiding.

                         What though that light, thro' storm and night,
                         So trembled from afar--
                         What could there be more purely bright
                         In Truth's day-star?

Page 84


                         ROMANCE, who loves to nod and sing,
                         With drowsy head and folded wing,
                         Among the green leaves as they shake
                         Far down within some shadowy lake,
                         To me a painted paroquet
                         Hath been--a most familiar bird--
                         Taught me my alphabet to say--
                         To lisp my very earliest word
                         While in the wild wood I did lie,
                         A child--with a most knowing eye.

                         Of late, eternal Condor years
                         So shake the very Heaven on high
                         With tumult as they thunder by,
                         I have no time for idle cares
                         Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
                         And when an hour with calmer wings
                         Its down upon my spirit flings--
                         That little time with lyre and rhyme
                         To while away--forbidden things!
                         My heart would feel to be a crime
                         Unless it trembled with the strings.

Page 85


                         DIM vales--and shadowy floods--
                         And cloudy-looking woods,
                         Whose forms we can't discover
                         For the tears that drip all over
                         Huge moons there wax and wane--
                         Every moment of the night--
                         Forever changing places--
                         And they put out the star-light
                         With the breath from their pale faces.
                         About twelve by the moon-dial
                         One more filmy than the rest
                         (A kind which, upon trial,
                         They have found to be the best)
                         Comes down--still down--and down
                         With its centre on the crown
                         Of a mountain's eminence,
                         While its wide circumference
                         In easy drapery falls
                         Over hamlets, over halls,
                         Wherever they may be--
                         O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
                         Over spirits on the wing--
                         Over every drowsy thing--
                         And buries them up quite
                         In a labyrinth of light--

Page 86

                         And then, how deep!--O, deep!
                         Is the passion of their sleep.
                         In the morning they arise,
                         And their moony covering
                         Is soaring in the skies,
                         With the tempests as they toss,
                         Like--almost any thing--
                         Or a yellow Albatross.
                         They use that moon no more
                         For the same end as before--
                         Videlicet a tent--
                         Which I think extravagant:
                         Its atomies, however,
                         Into a shower dissever,
                         Of which those butterflies,
                         Of Earth, who seek the skies,
                         And so come down again
                         (Never-contented things!)
                         Have brought a specimen
                         Upon their quivering wings.

Page 87

TO --.

                         THE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
                         The wantonest singing birds,
                         Are lips--and all thy melody
                         Of lip-begotten words--

                         Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
                         Then desolately fall,
                         O God! on my funereal mind
                         Like starlight on a pall--

                         Thy heart--thy heart!--I wake and sigh,
                         And sleep to dream till day
                         Of the truth that gold can never buy--
                         Of the baubles that it may.

Page 88


                         FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow
                         Of crystal, wandering water,
                         Thou art an emblem of the glow
                         Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
                         The playful maziness of art
                         In old Alberto's daughter;

                         But when within thy wave she looks--
                         Which glistens then, and trembles--
                         Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
                         Her worshipper resembles;
                         For in his heart, as in thy stream,
                         Her image deeply lies--
                         His heart which trembles at the beam
                         Of her soul-searching eyes.

Page 89


                         IN spring of youth it was my lot
                         To haunt of the wide world a spot
                         The which I could not love the less--
                         So lovely was the loneliness
                         Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
                         And the tall pines that towered around.

                         But when the Night had thrown her pall
                         Upon that spot, as upon all,
                         And the mystic wind went by
                         Murmuring in melody--
                         Then--ah then I would awake
                         To the terror of the lone lake.

                         Yet that terror was not fright,
                         But a tremulous delight--
                         A feeling not the jewelled mine
                         Could teach or bribe me to define--
                         Nor Love--although the Love were thine.

                         Death was in that poisonous wave,
                         And in its gulf a fitting grave
                         For him who thence could solace bring
                         To his lone imagining--
                         Whose solitary soul could make
                         An Eden of that dim lake.

Page 90


                         I SAW thee on thy bridal day--
                         When a burning blush came o'er thee,
                         Though happiness around thee lay,
                         The world all love before thee:

                         And in thine eye a kindling light
                         (Whatever it might be)
                         Was all on Earth my aching sight
                         Of Loveliness could see.

                         That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
                         As such it well may pass--
                         Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
                         In the breast of him, alas!

                         Who saw thee on that bridal day,
                         When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
                         Though happiness around thee lay,
                         The world all love before thee.

Page 91


                         HELEN, thy beauty is to me
                         Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
                         That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
                         The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
                         To his own native shore.

                         On desperate seas long wont to roam,
                         Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
                         Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
                         To the glory that was Greece,
                         And the grandeur that was Rome.

                         Lo! in you brilliant window-niche
                         How statue-like I see thee stand,
                         The agate lamp within thy hand!
                         Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
                         Are Holy-Land!

Page 93

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        "The style of the author is remarkably forcible, chaste, and elegant."--N. Y. True Sun.


        Tales of the Kings of England: Stories of Camps and Battle-Fields, Wars and Victories; from the Old Historians. By Stephen Percy. 2 very neat volumes, 18mo., with engravings. Each, 50 cents.

        "These works are constructed on a plan which is novel, and we think well chosen; and we are glad to find that they are deservedly popular, for they cannot be too strongly recommended, as adapted for the perusal of youth."--Journal of Education.

        "The design of these pretty volumes is excellent."--Atlas.

        "We know of no other books which so charmingly blend amusement with instruction. No juvenile books have been published in our time more entitled to praise."--Examiner.

        "These pleasing and simple stories are well adapted to the capacity of children."--Christ. Mag.

        "As amusing as they are instructive."--N. Y. Post.

Page 95


        Anastasis: or the Doctrine of the Resurrection; in which it is shown that the Doctrine of the Resurrection of the Body is not sanctioned by Reason or Revelation. By George Bush, Professor of Hebrew, N. Y. University. SECOND EDITION. 1 thick vol. 12mo., well printed. $1 00.

        CONTENTS.--Introduction.--The knowledge of revelation progressive.--Part 1. The rational argument--Objections to the common view--Distinction of personal and bodily identity--The true body of the Resurrection, as inferred by reason.--Part 2. The Scriptural argument--Preliminary remarks--The Old Testament doctrine of the Resurrection--Onomatology; definition of terms--Examination of particular passages--New-Testament doctrine of the Resurrection--Origin and import of the word "Resurrection," as used in the New Testament--The Resurrection of Christ--Examination of particular passages--The Resurrection viewed in connection with the Judgment--The First Resurrection and the Judgment of the Dead--"The Times of the Restitution of all things"--Christ's "delivering up the kingdom"--The conclusion.

        "The author occupies an important station in the University of New York, and is advantageously known as a learned commentator on some books of the Old Testament. It would be wrong to depreciate either his attainments or his general orthodoxy; and all that the most earnest and careful exertion of his powers could enable him to do, he has evidently done, to recommend the sentiments unfolded in this volume. Much patient labor and uncommon ingenuity have been brought to bear upon it. There is also a spirit that cannot fail to be attractive--a spirit of candor and modesty, combined with independence. Educated young men, fond of novel and critical disquisitions, and students of divinity who are anxious to prove all things, will wish to make themselves acquainted with its contents."--London Baptist Magazine.

        "The deep and universal interest excited by the appearance of this most able work, has already demanded the issue of a second edition. The promulgation of the theory maintained so learnedly and cogently by the author, has given birth to a sharp and somewhat bitter controversy among theologians; and we are sorry to see that the ill-will engendered has, in some instances, led to the impeachment of the motives of the writer. This can never be justifiable, and is, in this case, most unfounded and unjust. No one who knows Professor Bush, will doubt for an instant the perfect conscientiousness of all that he has written or said: and the very strong and well-considered argument by which he supports his position, will require something more, by way of answer, than the aspersions to which we have alluded."--N. Y. Courier.

        "Prof. Bush deserves the highest commendation, for giving publicity to his views of this important Scriptural truth. These views differ widely from those commonly received by the religious world; and it is rare, indeed, to meet with the boldness which has been exhibited on this occasion. We believe the author must possess, in no common degree, that rare and precious quality--fidelity to one's own convictions of truth, and we heartily commend the work to the philosophical and the pious."--N Y. Mirror.

        "What we have read convinces us that Prof. Bush is a deeply-serious believer in the Scriptures, in the soul's immortality, and in future eternal rewards and punishments, and his theories, if adopted, are not calculated to endanger any one's spiritual interests."--Boston Recorder.

        "An able and learned work."--Christian Observer.

Page 96


        Gardening for Ladies; and Companion to the Flower-Garden. Being an Alphabetical arrangement of all the ornamental Plants usually grown in gardens and shrubberies; with full directions for their culture. By Mrs. Loudon. First American, from the second London edition. Revised and edited by A. J. Downing. 1 thick vol. 12mo., with engravings representing the processes of grafting, budding, layering, &c., &c. $1 50.

        "A truly charming work, written with simplicity and clearness. It is decidedly the best work on the subject, and we strongly recommend it to all our fair countrywomen, as a work they ought not to be without."--N. Y. Courier.

        "Mr. Downing is entitled to the thanks of the fair florists of our country for introducing to their acquaintance this comprehensive and excellent manual, which must become very popular. Besides an instructive treatment on the best modes of culture, transplanting, bedding, training, destroying insects, &c., and the management of plants in pots and green-houses, illustrated with numerous plates; the work comprises a Dictionary of the English and Botanic names of the most popular flowers, with directions for their culture. Altogether we should judge it to be the most valuable work in the department to which it belongs."--Newark Advertiser.

        "This is a full and complete manual of instruction upon the subject of which it treats. Being intended for those who have little or no previous knowledge of gardening, it presents, in a very precise and detailed manner, all that is necessary to be known upon it, and cannot fail to awaken a more general taste for these healthful and pleasant pursuits among the ladies of our country."--N. Y. Tribune.

        "This truly delightful work cannot be too highly commended to our fair countrywomen."--N. Y. Journal of Commerce.

        "We cordially welcome, and heartily commend to all our fair friends, whether living in town or country, this very excellent work."--N. Y. Tribune.


        Containing a description of the habits, plumage, &c., of all the species now known to visit that section, comprising the larger number of birds found throughout the State of New York, and the neighboring States. By T. P. Giraud, jr. 1 vol. 8vo. Price $2 00.

        This work, though designed chiefly for the use of the gunners and sportsmen residing on Long Island, will still serve as a book of reference for amateurs and others collecting ornithological specimens in various sections of the United States, particularly for those persons residing on the sea-coasts of New Jersey and the Eastern States.