Part 6 (1/2)

At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain-top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake.

All beauty sleeps!--and lo! where lies Irene, with her destinies!

O lady bright! can it be right, This window open to the night?

The wanton airs from the tree-top Laughingly through the lattice drop; The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall.

O lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor; strange thy dress; Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to G.o.d that she may lie Forever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by.

My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!

Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold: Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls Of her grand family funerals; Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone; Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, It was the dead who groaned within!

E.A. POE.

BOOK SECOND.

Nature.

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly rea.s.sured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more,-- So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Hebe.

I saw the twinkle of white feet, I saw the flash of robes descending; Before her ran an influence fleet, That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, It led me on, by sweet degrees Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.