NARRATIVE AND LEGENDARY POEMS. "THOUGH Sunken in his hede, his eyes were brighte At first he spake in age's treble-tones, Soft as the wind when through the grave it moans; Dumb with expectancy, until the tale would end with joy or deathe." THE OLD CLERKE. THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. Away they sped with gainsome minds, To a level mead they came, and there Like sportive deer they coursed about, But the usher sat remote from all, His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch Heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees! Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide : Much study had made him very lean, And pale and leaden-eyed. At last he shut the ponderous tome; And fix'd the brazen hasp: "O God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp !" Then leaping on his feet upright, Now up the mead, then down the mead, 46 My gentle lad, what is't you read Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page, Of kings and crowns unstable?" The young boy gave an upward glance,— "It is "The Death of Abel.'" The usher took six hasty strides, And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain; And long since then, of bloody men, And how the sprites of injured men He told how murderers walk'd the earth Its everlasting stain! "And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, Woe, woe, unutterable woe Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream! "One that had never done me wrong A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, "Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife,— 66 Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, And yet I fear'd him all the more, There was a manhood in his look, "And lo! the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame,- I |