A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen 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
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.

TO HELEN.

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean 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 your 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.

SARAH MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).

Born at Cambridge, Mass: 1810-died 1850.

THE TEMPLE OF LIFE.

THE temple round

Spread green the pleasant ground;
The fair colonnade
Be of pure marble pillars made,-
Strong to sustain the roof,

Time and tempest proof,

Yet, amidst which, the lightest breeze
Can play as it please;

The audience hall

Be free to all

Who revere

The Power worshipp'd here,

Sole guide of youth—

Unswerving Truth :

In the inmost shrine

Stands the image divine,
Only seen

By those whose deeds have worthy been,

Priestlike clean.

Those, who initiated are,

Declare,

As the hours

Usher in varying hopes and powers,

K

It changes its face,
It changes its age,-

Now a young beaming Grace,
Now Nestorian Sage:
But, to the pure in heart,
This shape of primal art
In age is fair,

In youth seems wise,-
Beyond compare,

Above surprise.

What it teaches native seems,

Its new lore our ancient dreams;
Incense rises from the ground,

Music flows around;

Firm rest the feet below, clear gaze the eyes above, When Truth to point the way through life assumes the wand of Love;

But, if she cast aside the robe of green,

Winter's silver sheen,

White, pure as light,

Makes gentle shroud as worthy weed as bridal robe had been.

RALPH HOYT.

Born in New York City 1810.

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing;
Oft I mark'd him sitting there alone,
All the landscape like a page perusing:
Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone!

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat,
Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding,
Silver buttons, queue, and crimp'd cravat,-
Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding:
There he sat!

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat.

Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray
hair
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care:

Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school,— Dapper country lads and little maidens; Taught the motto of the "dunce's stool," Its grave import still my fancy ladens: "Here's a fool!"

It was summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seem'd to mark our play, Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted; I remember well, too well, that day: Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, Would not stay,

When the stranger seem'd to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,—
Ah! to me her name was always heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell :
(I was then thirteen and she eleven)
Isabel!-

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

Angel! said he sadly,—I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told. Then his eye betray'd a pearl of sorrow; Down it roll'd!

Angel! said he sadly,-I am old.

I have totter'd here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core:

I have totter'd here to look once more.

All the picture now to me how dear!
E'en this gray old rock where I am seated
Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah, that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

Old stone school-house !-it is still the same:
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame;
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game:

Old stone school-house !-it is still the same.

In the cottage, yonder, I was born;

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;
There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling:
Ah, forlorn !—

In the cottage, yonder, I was born.

Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder,
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the waggon to pass safely under:
Ninety-three!

Those two gateway sycamores you see.

There's the orchard where we used to climb

When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather:
Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb.

There the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails,
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising:
Traps and trails!

There the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails.