raven as emblematical; but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of mournful and never-ending remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen:

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor:

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - NEVERMORE!

3.- ANNABEL LEE.

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,

With a love that the wingéd 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 high-born kinsman came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
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,

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 the sepulcher there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

4. THE HAUNTED PALACE.

IN the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace-reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion,
It stood there;

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This all this was in the olden.

Time long ago;)

And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingéd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law,

Round about a throne where, sitting

(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn! for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travelers now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;

While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh- but smile no more.

XVII. — OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

LIFE AND WORKS.

"Know Old Cambridge? Hope you do.
Born there? Don't say so! I was too:
Born in a house with a gambrel roof,

Standing still, if you must have proof."

YES, it was in the old gambrel-roofed house looking out on the College Green that the Reverend Doctor Abiel Holmes-pastor of the First Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts, but of wider fame as author of the American Annals — had born to him the son, Oliver Wendell, who was to shed new luster on the name, and take rank as the brightest of American poets and essayists. His birth-date is August 29, 1809.

There still remains the copy of the old-time almanac in which Abiel Holmes made, opposite the date August 29 (1809), the significant marginal entry, son b. This was the time when our grandsires used to dry their ink-tracings by a shake of the sand-box; and, curiously enough, the shining grains that Parson Holmes shook over his four-letter record of the birth of a son remain still, uneffaced and sparkling, after nearly fourscore years. The self-same lasting quality shows itself in the work of our poet, whose early art is to-day as fresh in favor as though he were "at matins instead of evensong.'

After the required "fitting," young Holmes entered and passed through Harvard College (graduation year 1829), with good profit of scholarship. He must have