Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass-bareheaded— with the flowings Of the virginal white vesture, gather'd closely to her throat; With the golden ringlets in her neck, just quicken'd by her going, And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, With a branch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her, And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies, As she turn'd her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her, And to study the deep meaning of the smile hid in her eyes. For her eyes alone smiled constantly: her lips had serious sweetness, And her front was calm—the dimple rarely rippled on her cheek: But her deep blue eyes smiled constantly, as if they had by fitness Won the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. ULALUME. A wild dreamy composition of EDGAR A. POE. THE skies they were ashen and sober; The leaves they were crisped and sere— It was night in the lonesome October It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, Here once, through an alley Titanic, Our talk had been serious and sober, But our thoughts they were palsied and sere- And now, as the night was senescent, Distinct with its duplicate horn. And I said " She is warmer than Dian: She has seen that the tears are not dry on To shine on us with her bright eyes- But Psyche, uplifting her finger, Said "Sadly this star I mistrust— Her 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 till they trail'd in the dust- Plumes till they trail'd in the dust- I replied "This is nothing but dreaming: With hope and in beauty to-night- We safely may trust to a gleaming That cannot but guide us aright, Since it flickers up to heaven through the night." Thus I pacified Psyche, and kiss'd her; And we pass'd to the end of the vista: But were stopp'd 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 crisped 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 journey'd-I journey'd down here-- Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber- Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, ΤΟ By Mr. S. H. BRADBURY, a young writer of great promise. I WALK'D with thee one wealthy summer's night, Our cheek embathed in the moon's pale light, There was a luxury in thy silken hair, When rippling o'er thy cheek In radiant waves; thine eyes threw light so fair,— I felt too great to speak. My soul danced high in bliss-a splendid swoon- High up my heart, clear as the silent moon; I heard the beatings of thy heart, and felt; And saw the distant hills of white clouds melt The azure gulf of heaven was fill'd with stars, The mellow'd moonbeams fell like golden bars, I saw thy languaged eyes were ripe with charms, And close insphered in thy pale round arms, SHADOW AND SUBSTANCE. A shade of Neo-Platonic mystery veils the subtle imaginations conveyed in the following stanzas, which we extract from a late number of The New York Tribune. A SIGH that follow'd not a look to heaven, On lonely winds through the mid ether toss'd- Mourn'd its ideal lost. "All vanish'd from that purple mountain-top- From thy white eyelids more. "Gone from the solitary arch of night, From noon's clear fervours gone. "Forever parted from my sacred dream, No orbit of return! "Ah miserable! what shall hide thee now? What depths of darkness cover thy despair? Dust for thy garment wear. "All lost, all shivering, all desolate Struck to the soul with most immortal woe, Thou livest all too late Take up thy staff and go!" Far thrilling, lingering, through the mountain glades, That once, in thickest shades, Trembled through Paradise. "Blind, but beloved! shall thy dead arise! Did ever such ethereal essence die? Out of the dust arise, Thine agony deny! |