LENORE.

Aн, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for

ever!

Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian

river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear ?-weep now or never more!

See on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore !

Come! let the burial rite be read-the funeral song be sung!

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so

young

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so

young.

"Wretches! ye

loved her for her wealth and hated

her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her

-that she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem

how be sung

By you-by yours, the evil eye,-by yours, the

slanderous tongue

That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath

song

Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no

wrong!

The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes

The life still there, upon her hair-the death upon her

eyes.

"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will

I upraise,

"But waft the angel on her flight with a Pean of

old days!

"Let no bell toll!-lest her sweet soul, amid its hal

lowed mirth,

"Should catch the note, as it doth float-up from the damned Earth.

"To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven

"From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven

"From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside

the King of Heaven.”

CATHOLIC HYMN.

Ar morn-at noon-at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn !
In joy and wo-in good and ill—
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast

Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine

With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

ISRAFEL.*

IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell

"Whose heart-strings are a lute;" None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven),

Pauses in heaven.

* And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures.KORAN.