ULALUME. HE skies they were ashen and sober; THE The leaves they were crisped and sere— Of my most immemorial year; In the misty mid region of Weir— Here once, through an alley Titanic, Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul- Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere- For we knew not the month was October, (Though once we had journeyed down here)— Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. And now, as the night was senescent And I said "She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs— She revels in a region of sighs : She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion To point us the path to the skiesTo the Lethean peace of the skies Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyesCome up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes." But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said- "Sadly this star I mistrustHer pallor I strangely mistrust— Oh, hasten !-oh, let us not linger ! Oh, fly! let us fly !-for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her Wings until they trailed in the dust- Plumes till they trailed in the dust- I replied "This is nothing but dreaming: Let us bathe in this crystalline light! Its Sybilic splendour is beaming With Hope and in Beauty to-night-[night! Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, And be sure it will lead us aright We safely may trust to a gleaming [night.' Since it flickers up to Heaven through the Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, But were stopped by the door of a tomb- And I said " What is written, sweet sister, Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crispèd and sereAs the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried "It was surely October On this very night of last year That I journeyed—I journeyed down hereThat I brought a dread burden down here— On this night of all nights in the year, Ah! what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of AuberThis misty mid region of Weir Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." BECA TO MY MOTHER. ECAUSE I feel that, in the heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of "Mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia's spirit free. My mother-my own mother, who died early, Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife THE BELLS. I. EAR the sledges with the bells— HEAR Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, |