She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast, Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm,-
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly
Now in my bed,
(Knowing her love,)

That you fancy me dead;
And I rest so contentedly

Now in my bed,

(With her love at my breast,)

It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie,

With the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.

[Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.]

To make my lady's obsequies

My love a minster wrought,

And, in the chantry, service there
Was sung by doleful thought;
The tapers were of burning sighs,
That light and odor gave ;

And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,
Enluminéd her grave;

And round about, in quaintest guise,

Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies
The fairest thing in mortal eyes."

Above her lieth spread a tomb

Of gold and sapphires blue:
The gold doth show her blessedness,
The sapphires mark her true;
For blessedness and truth in her

Were livelily portrayed,

When gracious God with both his hands
Her goodly substance made.

He framed her in such wondrous wise,
She was, to speak without disguise,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

No more, no more! my heart doth faint
When I the life recall

Of her who lived so free from taint,
So virtuous deemed by all,

That in herself was so complete
I think that she was ta'en

By God to deck his paradise,

And with his saints to reign;

Whom while on earth each one did prize,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

But naught our tears avail, or cries;

All soon or late in death shall sleep;
Nor living wight long time may keep
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS (French). Trans-
lation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

UNDERNEATH the sod low-lying,
Dark and drear,
Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Sorrow here.

Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her
Eyes that weep;

Forms, that to the cold grave bore her,
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, Throned above,

Souls like thine with God inherit Life and love!

JAMES T. FIELDS.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN.

FROM CYMBELINE."

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must,
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

'T is so; but can it be - while flowers Revive again

Man's doom, in death that we and ours
For aye remain?

O, can it be, that o'er the grave
The grass renewed should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?-
Casa Wappy!

It cannot be; for were it so

Thus man could die,

Life were a mockery, thought were woe,
And truth a lie;

Heaven were a coinage of the brain;
Religion frenzy, virtue vain,
And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,

A star, death's uncongenial wild
Smiling above!

Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!

Yet 't is sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,

That heaven is God's, and thou art there,
With him in joy;

There past are death and all its woes;
There beauty's stream forever flows;
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!

Farewell, then, - for a while, farewell, -
Pride of my heart!

It cannot be that long we dwell,

Thus torn apart.

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, and how They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,

In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.

VIII.

sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta.]

I.

DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east,

And one of them shot in the west by the sea.