FOR ANNIE.

THANK Heaven! the crisis

The danger, is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last

And the fever called " "Living"

Is conquer'd at last.
Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length;
But no matter!-I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composed'y,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder

Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing
At heart:-ah that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain--
Have ceased, with the fever
That madden'd my brain-
With the fever called "Living"
That burn'd in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures,

That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river
Of Passion accurst:
I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst:-
Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground—
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept

In a different bed

And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses-
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odour

About it, of pansies—
A rosemary odour,

Commingled with pansies-
With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie-
Drown'd in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kiss'd me,

She fondly caress'd, And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breastDeeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguish'd,

She cover'd me warm,

And she pray'd to the angels

To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love,)

That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast.)
That you fancy me dead-
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead :—

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars of the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie

It glows with the light

Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

TO ONE IN PARADISE. THOU wast all that to me, love,

For which my soul did pine-
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreath'd with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.

Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!"-but o'er the Past

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motion ess, aghast!

For, alas! alas! with me

The light of life is o'er!

No more-no more-no more(Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore)

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,

Or the stricken eagle soar!

And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleamis
In what ethereal dances,

By what eternal streams.

THE RAVEN.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, While I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious

Volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, Rapping at my chamber door. ""Tis some visiter," I mutter'd,

66

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 wish'd the morrow;
Vainly I had tried 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
Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic
Terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating
«"Tis some visiter entreating

Entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visiter entreating

Entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger;
Hesitating then no longer,
"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 open'd wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more! Deep into that darkness peering, Long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal Ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken,

And the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken

Was the whisper'd word, “Lenore!" This I whisper'd, and an echo

Murmur'd back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Then into the chamber turning,
All my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping

Somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is
Something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is,
And this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment,

And this mystery explore;-
"Tis the wind, and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter,
When, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepp'd a stately raven

Of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he;
But, with mien of lord or lady,

Perch'd above my chamber door-
Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door-
Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling
My sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum

Of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven,
Thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven,
Wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is
On the Night's Plutonian shore !"
Quoth the raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvell'd this ungainly
Fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-

Little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing
That no living human being
Ever yet was bless'd with seeing

Bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured
Bust above his chamber door,
With such name as " Nevermore."

But the raven sitting lonely
On the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in

That one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he utter'd-
Not a feather then he flutter'd-
Till I scarcely more than mutter'd

"Other friends have flown beforeOn the morrow he will leave me, As my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said " Nevermore."

Of Nevermore,'-of Nevermore.""

But the raven still beguiling
All my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in

Front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking,
I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking

What this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly,

Gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing,
But no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now
Burn'd into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining,
With my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining

That the lamplight gloated o'er;
But whose velvet violet lining

With the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser,
Perfum'd from an unseen censer,
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls
Tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee
By these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe

From thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore!" Nevermore."

Quoth the raven “

"Prophet!" said I, « thing of evil!-
Prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether
Tempest toss'd thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted,
On this desert land enchanted-
On this home by Horror haunted—
Tell me truly, I implore—

Is there is there balin in Gilead?
Tell me tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven " Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-
Prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us-
By that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden

Whom the angels name LenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden Whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign of parting, Bird or fiend!" I shriek'd, upstarting— "Get thee back into the tempest

And the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token
Of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—

Quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart,

And take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the raven "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming

Throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow That lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-neverinore!

THE CONQUEROR WORM.

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewing'd, bedight
In veils, and drown'd in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-

Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama!-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!

It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs,
The mimes become its food,

And the angels sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!

And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, " Man,”
Its hero the Conqueror Worm.

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

Is the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace
(Snow-white palace) rear'd its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
Banners, yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time, long ago.)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law; Round about a throne, where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well-befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,

A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assail'd the monarch's high estate;
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blush'd and bloom'd,
Is but a dim-remember'd story

Of the old time entomb'd.

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid, ghastly river,
Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh—but sinile no more.

THE SLEEPER.

AT midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, 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 mist 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,
With casement open to the skies,
Irene and her destinies!

O, lady bright, can it be right,
This lattice open to the night?
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 fringéd lid

'Neath which thy slumbering 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 our garden-trees!
Strange is thy pallor-strange thy dress-
Stranger thy glorious length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps. O, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
This bed, being changed for one more holy,
This room for one more melancholy,

I pray to Gon that she may lie
Forever with unclosed eye!
My love she sleeps. O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall tomb unfold—
Some tomb that oft hath flung its black
And wing-like pannels, 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 vault from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Nor thrill to think, poor child of sin,
It was the dead who groan'd within.

WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH was born in the town of Woodstock, in Connecticut, on the second day of February, 1812. His paternal ancestors came to this country from Wales; and on both sides he is descended from the stern old Puritan stock, being on the mother's a lineal descendant of Governor BRADFORD, whose name appears conspicuously and honourably in the early annals of Massachusetts. An intermediate descendant, the grandfather of Mr. BURLEIGH, served with credit under WASHINGTON, in the war of the Revolution. Such ancestral recollections are treasured, with just pride, in many an humble but happy home in New England.

In his infancy. Mr. BURLEIGH's parents removed to Plainfield, in his native state, where his father was for many years the principal of a popular academy, until the loss of sight induced him to abandon his charge, before his son had attained an age to derive much benefit from his instructions. He retired to a farm, and the boy's time was mainly devoted to its culture, varied by the customary attendance in a district-school through the wintermonths, until he was sixteen, when he proposed to become an apprentice to a neighbouring clothier, but abandoned the idea after two weeks' trial, from an inveterate loathing of the coarseness and brutality of those among whom he was set to labour. Here, however, while engaged in the repulsive cares of his employment, he composed his first sonnet, which was published in a gazette printed in the vicinity. Returning to his father's house, he in the following summer became an apprentice to a

village printer, whom he left after eight months' tedious endurance, leaving in his "stick" a farewell couplet to his master, which is probably remembered unforgivingly to this day. He did not, however, desert the business, of which he had thus obtained some slight knowledge, but continued to labour as half-apprentice, journeyman, sub-editor, etc., through the next seven years, during which he assisted in the conduct of perhaps as many periodicals, deriving thereby little fame and less profit. In December, 1834, while editor of "The Literary Journal," in the city of Schenectady, he married an estimable woman, who has since "divided his sorrows and doubled his joys." In July, 1836, abandoning the printing business for a season, he commenced a new career as a public lecturer, under the auspices of a philanthropic society, and in his new employment he continued for two years. At the close of that period he assumed the editorship of "The Christian Witness," at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, which he held two years and a half, when he resigned it, to take charge of "The Washington Banner,” a gazette published at Allegheny, on the opposite side of the Ohio. Between this duty, and the study of the law, his time is now divided.

His contributions to the periodical literature of the country commenced at an early age, and have been continued at intervals to the present day. "The New Yorker" was for years his favourite medium of communication with the public. A collection of his poems appeared in Philadelphia, early in 1840.

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

SHE hath gone in the spring-time of life,

Ere her sky had been dimm'd by a cloud, While her heart with the rapture of love was yet rife, And the hopes of her youth were unbow'dFrom the lovely, who loved her too well;

From the heart that had grown to her own; From the sorrow which late o'er her young spirit fell, Like a dream of the night she hath flown; And the earth hath received to its bosom its trustAshes to ashes, and dust unto dust. The spring, in its loveliness dress'd,

Will return with its music-wing'd hours,

And, kiss'd by the breath of the sweet south-west, The ouds shall burst out in flowers;

And the flowers her grave-sod above,

Though the sleeper beneath recks it not, Shall thickly be strown by the hand of Love, To cover with beauty the spot

Meet emblems are they of the pure one and bright, Who faded and fell with so early a blight.

Ay, the spring will return-but the blossom
That bloom'd in our presence the sweetest,
By the spoiler is borne from the cherishing bosom
The loveliest of all and the fleetest!
The music of stream and of bird

Shall come back when the winter is o'er;
But the voice that was dearest to us shall be heard
In our desolate chambers no more!
The sunlight of May on the waters shall quiver-
The light of her eye hath departed forever!

As the bird to its sheltering nest,

When the storm on the hills is abroad, So her spirit hath flown from this world of unrest To repose on the bosom of Gon! Where the sorrows of earth never more

May fling o'er its brightness a stain; Where, in rapture and love, it shall ever adore,

With a gladness unmingled with pain;

And its thirst shall be slaked by the waters which