[THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY (born 1797, died 1839) has not produced any poem of sufficient merit to entitle him to a position among our great poets; but many of his productions, scattered throughout annuals and magazines, display a considerable amount of grace and feeling. The popularity of many of his poems has certainly been somewhat evanescent.]

46

THE SLEEPER.

Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All beauty sleeps !-and, lo, where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her destinies!

O lady bright, can it be right,
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs from the tree-top
Laughingly through the lattice drop;
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully, so fearfully,

Above the closed and fringèd lid

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
O lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden-trees!
Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! O, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

THE SLEEPER.

This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie,

For ever with unopened eye,

While the dim-sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her

creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals ;
Some sepulchre remote, alone,
Against whose portal she had thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone;
Some tomb, from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,

It was the dead who groaned within.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

47

[For gorgeousness of fancy and harmoniousness of versification, the unfortunate EDGAR ALLAN POE ranks foremost among the American poets. Never was poem hailed with such a spontaneous burst of admiration as that which greeted the appearance of the weird, mournful plaint, "The Raven." The beautiful ballad, "Annabel Lee," has also been read and admired by thousands, on both sides the Atlantic. But the gifts of the poet were neutralised by the unconquerable propensities of the man. Reckless dissipation weakened and wasted his great powers; and it was in an hospital that Edgar Allan Poe died, friendless and alone, in 1847.]