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I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE VOLUNTEER'S WIFE.

"An' sure I was tould to come to your Honor,
To see if ye'd write a few words to me Pat.
He's gone for a soldier, is Misther O'Connor,
With a sthripe on his arm and a band on his hat.

"An' what'll ye tell him? It ought to be aisy
For sich as yer Honor to spake wid the pen,—
Jist say I'm all right, and that Mavoorneen Daisy
(The baby, yer Honor,) is betther again.

"For when he went off it's so sick was the childer
She never held up her blue eyes to his face;
And when I'd be cryin' he'd look but the wilder,
An' say, 'Would you wish for the counthry's disgrace?'

"So he left her in danger, and me sorely gratin', To follow the flag with an Irishman's joy ;

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O, it's often I drame of the big drums a batin',
An' a bullet gone straight to the heart of me boy.

An' say

will he send a bit of his money,

For the rint an' the docther's bill due in a wake;Well, surely, there's tears on yer eye-lashes, honey! Ah, faith, I've no right with such freedom to spake.

"You've overmuch trifling, I'll not give you trouble,
I'll find some one willin'-O, what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer Honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me.

"What, Patrick O'Connor! No, no, 't is some other!
Dead! dead! no, not him! 'Tis a wake scarce gone by.
Dead! dead! why, the kiss on the cheek of his mother,
It hasn't had time yet, yer Honor, to dry.

"Don't tell me! It's not him! O God, am I crazy?
Shot dead! O for love of sweet Heaven, say no.
O, what'll I do in the world wid poor Daisy!
O, how will I live, an' O, where will I go!

"The room is so dark, I'm not seein' yer Honor,
I think I'll go home-" And a sob thick and dry
Came sharp from the bosom of Mary O'Connor,
But never a tear-drop welled up to her eye.

M. A. DENNISON.

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee,—

With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre,
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels not so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me,

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)

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In this kingdom by the sea,

That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR A. POE.

'THE VAGABONDS.

We are two travelers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog:-come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman,-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 weather, 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 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 are 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.

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