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[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.]
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
O lady bright, can it be right,
Above the closed and fringèd lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
The lady sleeps! O, may her sleep,
This chamber changed for one more holy,
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,
Soft may the worms about her
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,
It was the dead who groaned within.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
[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.]