And now a gallant tomb they raise, Here never could the spearman pass Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass And here he hung his horn and spear; In fancy's piercing sounds would hear THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. LEIGH HUNT. [Born Oct. 19, 1784, and educated at Christ's Hospital. He commenced writing at twenty-one, and finished only at his death, August 28, 1859.] KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled one on another, De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame, same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!" She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then looked on him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild! The leap was quick, return was quick; he soon regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: 'No love," quoth he, "but vanity sets love a task like that!" THE RAVEN. EDGAR ALLAN POE. [See p. 202.] ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 66 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 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; Thus I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!" Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something 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, 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 marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, Of "Never-nevermore." But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 66 censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls 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!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 66 'Prophet," said I; "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, 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, floor; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted-nevermore. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. THOMAS HOOD. [Thomas Hood was the son of a bookseller, one of the firm of Vernor and Hood, of the Poultry, City of London, where he was born on the 23rd May, 1799. He was apprenticed to an engraver; but his health failing, was sent to a relation in Scotland. On his return to London, in 1821, he became subeditor of the "London Magazine," and from this time his literary avocations commenced. His collected works have enjoyed a large sale since his death. but in his lifetime he was constantly struggling with want and difficulties. He died in 1845, and was buried in Kensal Green, where a handsome monument erected by public subscription, is placed over his remains.] ONE more Unfortunate, Take her up tenderly, Rash and undutiful; Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, Wipe those poor lips of hers, Loop up her tresses, Escaped from the comb, Where was her home? |