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النشر الإلكتروني


By EDGAR A. POE, the wild wayward genius of America, little honoured in his life, but now growing into fame.

Ar 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 the chamber, in and out,
And wave the curtain-canopy

So fitfully, so fearfully,

Above the closed and fringed 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 God that she may lie
For ever thus with closed eye!

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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 panels, fluttering back
Triumphant o'er the fluttering palls
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she has 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.

INFLUENCE OF AN INNOCENT CHILD. A passage from MOORE's Paradise and the Peri.

WHEN o'er the vale of Balbec winging
Slowly she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers, or flying gems :-
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink Of a small minaret's rustic fount, Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd To the fair child, who fearless sat,

Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd
Upon a brow more fierce than that,—
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds of gloom and fire!
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed;

But hark! the vesper call to prayer,
As slow the orb of daylight sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From Syria's thousand minarets!
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,
And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From Purity's own cherub mouth, And looking, while his hands and eyes Are lifted to the glowing skies,

Like a stray babe of Paradise,

Just lighted on that flowery plain,

And seeking for its home again!

Oh! 'twas a sight-that Heav'n—that child

A scene which might have well beguiled

Ev'n haughty Eblis of a sigh

For glories lost and peace gone by!

And how felt he, the wretched Man Reclining there, while memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife, Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, Nor found one sunny resting-place, Nor brought him back one branch of grace! "There was a time," he said, in mild, Heart-humbled tones-"thou blessed child! "When young and haply pure as thou, "I look'd and pray'd like thee-but nowHe hung his head-each nobler aim,

And hope, and feeling, which had slept From boyhood's hour, that instant came Fresh o'er him, and he wept-he wept!

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"O FATHER, Lord!

The All-beneficent! I bless thy name,

That thou hast mantled the green earth with flowers,
Linking our hearts to nature! By the love

Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first
Into her deep recesses are beguiled,

Her minster cells; dark glen and forest bower,
Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee,
Amidst the low religious whisperings,
The shivery leaf sounds of the solitude,
The spirit wakes to worship, and is made
Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers,
Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares,
Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain streams,
That sing of Thee! back to free childhood's heart,
Fresh with the dews of tenderness!-Thou bidd'st
The lilies of the field with placid smile

Reprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse
Through his worn soul a more unworldly life,
With their soft holy breath. Thou hast not left
His purer nature, with its fine desires,
Uncared for in this universe of Thine!
The glowing rose attests it, the beloved
Of poet hearts, touched by their fervent dreams
With spiritual light, and made a source

Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age
Thou lend'st the vernal bliss:-the old man's eye
Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul
Remembers youth and love, and hopefully
Turns unto Thee, who call'st earth's buried germs
From dust to splendour; as the mortal seed
Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up
To put on glory, to be girt with power,
And fill'd with immortality. Receive

Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons,
And, most of all, their heavenward influences,
O Thou that gavest us flowers!"


By WILLIAM ALlingham.

OUR host hath spread beneath our tread
A broider'd velvet woof;

Curtains of blue peep richly through
Our fretted palace-roof;

Well spent, say I, in forestry
Each summer day like this,

Till glow-worms light owl watchmen's flight

Through our green metropolis!

Like those that made in Arden shade

Their happy court of old,

We'll "fleet the time," as in the prime

Of the innocent Age of Gold;

And gently school with Dryad rule
The forest burghers" here,
That will obey our gentle sway

From love, and not from fear.

We will not take, for our pleasure's sake,
The life of bird or beast;

Of herb and fruit and wholesome root
We'll make our Eden feast;

All gay with crowns that give no frowns,
Leaf-woven diadems,

And jewels earth unmined gives forth-
Her fragrant surface-gems.

We've band and quire that never tire,
By their own music paid;

We've swarded spaces for dancing places;
For thought, calm aisles of shade.

And nooks as meet for converse sweet,

Or rest, or happy book,

Fresh with perfumes from growing blooms, And the rustling of a brook.

Oh, wood and stream, how fair a dream—

How vain a dream is this!

We owe our life to thoughtful strife
With woe and wickedness.

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