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 clangour 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,

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 pean 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, bells, bells, bells,-
Bells, bells, bells,-

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

ANNABEL LEE.

Ir 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 winged 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 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.