ANNABEL LEE.

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,

Of many far wiser 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 sounding sea.

E. A. POE.

Health.

I

FILL this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows
As one may see the burden'd bee
Forth issue from the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;

A HEALTH.

And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns, -
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain;

And of her voice in echoing hearts
A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh, my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon.

Her health! and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,
And weariness a name.

E. C. PINKNEY.

Serenade.

LOOK out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony
Of blending shades and light:

Within my watching breast;

Sleep not! - from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest.

Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break,

And make this darkness gay,

With looks whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day.

E. C. PINKney.

THE CITY IN THE SEA.

The City in the Sea.

O! Death has reared himself a throne

Lo

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the

best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently,
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free:
Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls,
Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls,
Up shadowy, long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers,