Richard Monckton Milnes. Born 1809 In 1837 ELDEST Son of R. P. Milnes, Esq. of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. he was returned M.P. for the borough of Pontefract. Besides taking an active part in public business and questions of social progress, he has ever been the friend of literature. He has published four volumes of poetry, which fully entitle him to a place in the roll of poets. In 1863 he was raised to the peerage by the title of Baron Houghton. LONDON CHURCHES. I STOOD, One Sunday morning, Her hand was on a prayer-book, But above the Cross there glistened A golden Coronet. For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide, Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide There might be good thoughts in her But after her a woman Life's hardest discipline- The few free-seats were crowded "God's house holds no poor sinners," She sighed, and crept away. O. W. Holmes. Born 1809. AN American poet, born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on 29th August 1809. He graduated at Harvard College, and studied for the law, but afterwards he abandoned it and studied medicine. He took his degree of M.D. in 1836. Besides the successful performance of the duties of his profession, he contributed verses to the various periodicals, which he published in a collected form in 1836. He is also the author of several valuable medical works. THE LAST READER. I SOMETIMES Sit beneath a tree, And read my own sweet songs; Thought nought they may to others be, A tone that might have passed away, I keep them like a lock or leaf, That some dear girl has given; As sunset clouds in heaven, They lie upon my pathway bleak, And when my name no more is heard, My lyre no more is known, Still let me like a winter's bird, In silence and alone, Fold over them the weary wing Once flashing through the dews of spring John Bethune. Born 1810 Died 1839 SON of a farm labourer in Fife, who amid the most discouraging circum. stances educated himself, and whose works have obtained an honourable place in literature. In conjunction with his brother Alexander, he first appeared as an author in "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," published in 1838. On his death in 1839, his brother edited a volume of poetical pieces left by him. THE FIRST OF WINTER. On! sadly sighs the wint'ry breeze And moaning 'mid the forest trees The solemn dirge of dying flowers— Which summons Winter's stormy powers Darker and darker grows the sky; With voice more loud and louder still The stormy winds sweep by, and fill The ear with awful melody. Each tone of that majestic harp Wakes other tones within to warp To the greenwood, which lately was Which now is murk and bare! Alas! But ah! that tempest music tells Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells When the poor bark is dash'd and driven, And oh! its wild and varied song Hath an appalling power, As swellingly it sweeps along O'er broken tree and blasted flower. The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips, The dread, dread crash of sinking ships, Are blended with that maddening blast, Of Him who on its murky wing At his command alone it raves O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves. Edgar Allan Poe. Born 1811. A BRIGHT but erring American genius. He was a native of Baltimore, and, left destitute by the death of both his parents, was adopted and educated by Mr Allan, a Virginian planter, who endeavoured to have him respect ably settled in life. But all attempts to guide his wayward spirit were vain, and he died the victim of intemperance, on 7th October 1849, in an hospital in Baltimore. He was a frequent contributor to the American periodicals; but his name is chiefly famous from his poem "The Raven," an original and striking piece. FROM "THE RAVEN." ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door; "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber. door Only this, and nothing more." Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore! And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, ing: to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door This it is, and nothing more." 66 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 66 Sir," said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. |