ANNABEL LEE.

Edgar Allan Poe.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love that was more than love

I and my ANNABEL LEE;

I With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me

Yes!

that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the side of the sea.

FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL.

I WISH I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
Oh that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirconnell Lee!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd1 Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

1 burd, lady.

O think na2 ye my heart was sair,3

When my love dropt down and spak nae mair!*
There did she swoon wi' meikle 5 care,

On fair Kirconnell. Lee.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell Lee;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, "Haste and come to me!

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirconnell Lee.

6

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,'
And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirconnell Lee.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;

And I am weary of the skies,

For her sake that died for me.

A lady of the name of Helen, daughter of the Laird of Kirconnell, in Dumfries-shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming; that of the other has escaped tradition. The addresses of the latter were favored by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, in the churchyard of Kirconnell, a romantic spot, almost surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces.

THE BUGLE SONG.

From THE PRINCESS.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

THE splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

TO CELIA.

From THE FOREST.

Ben Jonson.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;

Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.