ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discre. tion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 't were any nightingale.

QUIN. You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyra mus is a sweet-faced man-- a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day-a most lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore, you must needs play Pyramus. Now, masters, here are your parts: and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there we will rehearse: for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known. In the meantime, I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail

me not.

BOT. We will meet; and there we may rehearse more obscurely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect; adieu.

QUIN. At the duke's oar we meet.
BOT. Enough; hold or cut bow-strings.

THE BELLS.

EDGAR A. POE.

HEAR the sledges with the bells

Silver bells

What a world of merriment their melody' retells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme.

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding-bells,

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen belis!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright !

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic firc.

Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor.
Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells '

What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!

How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging

And the clanging,

How the danger ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear distinctly tells,

In the jangling

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells,

By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells

Of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells

In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the tolling of the bells—

Iron bells!

What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright

At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.

And the people-ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,

And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,

Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:

And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells—
Of the bells;

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells

Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,

In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bel's, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells,

To the moaning and the groaning of the bellr.

THE VAGABONDS.

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

WE are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog :-come here, you scamp Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye! Over the table,--look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and we the? And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank--and starved together,

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I a e exceedingly moral

Aren't we, Roger ?—see him wink ;—

Well, something hot, then,—we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too,—see him nod his head ?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly g ven to grog,

i wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets,