I thought of "The Raven," and said unconsciously, "Take your form from out my heart, quit the bust above my door."

Longfellow started and looked up quickly.

"Yes," said he, "but the meaning is different— the words in this case should be 'ne'er take your form from out my heart,' and I am not speaking to a raven, but to my dear and time-honored friend. Apropos of The Raven,' what a great poem it is, and how sadly realistic. How typical of the life of its unhappy author. I think of it many times, and know it by heart as who does not? but I also think of the great talent lost in the sudden quenching of that young life, and regret the untimely death of Edgar Allan Poe as one must the loss of a real genius to the world of letters. He was a true poet."

The kind word ever on his tongue for a brother writer, as usual in this case was not wanting. We had no more time for talking however, as the night was really wearing away. Saying au revoir, we went out, thanking again and again, our amiable host for the delightful evening that we had passed.

Musing once more I looked at the bust and the lines yet again came into my head.

"And the lamp light o'er him streaming, cast his shadow on the floor." There was the room; there was the "cushion's velvet lining;" there were the "volumes quaint and curious," of forgotten lore; there was everything to recall the poem, yet Poe never could have had such a study as that. How rich the imagination must have been, that could paint so exact a picture. Going over it in my mind it seemed a prophecy of that very chamber, and the tragic scene that cast a troubled dream over the life of another poet, who vainly wept his "Lost beloved.” I kept saying the lines over to myself, and they saddened me. I remembered the fate of the young wife, and thought how her husband must have said,

"And my soul from out that shadow, shall be lifted-nevermore."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE LAST BRANCH OF LILACS.

"Through woods and mountain passes
The winds like anthems roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing 'Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, Pray.'

"And the hooded clouds like friars
Tell their beads in drops of rain,

And patter their doleful prayers
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain."

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR,

"What men call death cannot break off this task which is never ending: consequently no period is set to my being, and I am eternal. I lift my head boldly to the threatening mountain peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to the storm-cloud, swimming in the fire-sea overhead, and say 'I am eternal and defy your power! Break, break over me! and thou Earth and thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult! And ye Elements, foam and rage, and destroy this atom of

dust, this body which I call mine! My will alone, with its fixed purpose, shall hover brave and triumphant over the ruins of the universe; for I have comprehended my destiny: and it is more durable than ye! It is eternal, and I who recognize it am eternal."

I

HYPERION, page 140.

LOOKED over my journal to-day in a strangely interested fashion. Since commencing it, I have seen the poet a great

many times, and all that I have written seems tame compared with his real worth. He has been too ill of late to receive his accustomed visit

He

ors. I spent the twenty-eighth of last December at Cambridge by special invitation, and was delighted to find him in looks the negative of ill-health. had lost his color, but the unusual paleness did not make him appear unwell. I must say that I never have enjoyed a visit so much, and he was so remarkably bright and vivacious. He talked with great animation, and questioned me on my recent visit abroad.

"It is not yet decided," said he, "whether I am to go to Europe this year or not. I would like to

ever so much, but I don't know.

It is a long way

from home; still we shall see."

He then spoke of his recent illness.

"In my life-time," said he, "I never have suffered so much. I had at first (about three months ago) an attack of vertigo, that lasted forty-eight hours, and after that I was kept perfectly quiet in a darkened room. It seemed as if I never would get well, and even now I can only see my friends for a little while; I cannot write; I cannot read, and must avoid the slightest excitement. But you, chere Pandora, how have you been? tell me all about yourself."

When I had finished he said,

66

'What, writing, and about me? Well, I must hear it all; so let us begin at once."

Then, in spite of my fears that it might tire him, he entered as usual with hearty interest into my work. The morning passed away, and when luncheon time came he said,

66

Why, I am really hungry! That is a good