And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, To the sobbing of the bells; To the rolling of the bells- To the tolling of the bells, Bells, bells, bells To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR A. POE. EDGAR A. POE, born in Baltimore, in January, 1811, was left an orphan by the death of his parents at Richmond, in 1815. He was adopted by John Allen, a wealthy merchant of Virginia, who in the following year took him to England, and placed him at a school near London, from which, in 1822, he was removed to the University of Virginia, where he graduated with distinction in 1826. While at the Military Academy at West Point, in 1830, he published his first work, a small volume of poems. He secured prizes for a poem and a tale at Baltimore, in 1833; in 1835 he was employed to assist in editing "The Southern Literary Gazette," at Richmond; in 1838 he removed to Philadelphia, where he was connected as editor with Burton's Magazine one year, and with Graham's a year and a half; and subsequently, while in that city, published several volumes of tales, besides many of his finest criticisms, tales, and poems, in periodicals. He went to New York in 1844, where he wrote several months for the "Evening Mirror." In 1845 appeared his very popular poem of "The Raven," and the same year he aided in establishing the "Broadway Journal," of which he was afterward the sole editor. His wife, to whom he had been married about twelve years, died in the spring of 1849. In the summer of that year he returned to Virginia, where it was supposed he had mastered his previous habits of dissipation; but he died from his excesses, at Baltimore, on the seventh of October, at the age of thirty-eight years. In poetry, as in prose, he was eminently successful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. He had a great deal of imagination and fancy, and bis mind was highly analytical. His poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. II. 180. THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. HERE is no God,' the foolish saith, But none, 'There is no sorrow ;' And nature oft, the cry of faith, In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school, And lips say, 'God be pitiful,' Who ne'er said, 'God be praised.' Be pitiful, O God! 2. The tempest stretches from the steep The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and grind The hills have echoes; but we find No answer for the thunder. Be pitiful, O God! 3. The battle hurtles' on the plains- Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, Be pitiful, O God! 4. The plague runs festering through the town, And corpses, jostled 'neath the moon, The young child callèth for the cup- 1 Hurtle (hår'tl), to make a clashing, terrifying, or threatening sound; to resound. The mother from her babe looks up, Be pitiful, O God! 5. The plague of gold strikes far and near, And deep and strong it enters : This purple simar' which we wear, Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow strange; Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, And marked, like sheep, with figures. Be pitiful, O God! 6. The curse of gold upon the land, The lack of bread enforces The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, The poor die mute-with starving gaze Be pitiful, O God! 7. We meet together at the feast- Be pitiful, O God! 8. We sit together, with the skies, ■ Simar (så mår), a kind of long gown or robe. 'Cĕn' taur, a fabulous being, supposed to be half man and half horse, represented in ancient works of art as man from the head to the loins, the remainder of the body being that of a horse with its four feet and tail; also, as here used, a bullkiller. The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices, low and breathless- Be pitiful, dear God! 9. We tremble by the harmless bed To see a light upon such brows, Be pitiful, O God! 10. The happy children come to us, They ask us-Was it thus, and thus, And feel our mother's smile press through Be pitiful, O God! 11. We pray together at the kirk, For mercy, mercy, solelyHands weary with the evil work, We lift them to the Holy! The corpse is calm below our knee- Be pitiful, O God! 12. We leave the communing of men, The murmur of the passions; And live alone, to live again Are we so brave?—The sea and sky And, glassed therein, our spirits high Be pitiful, O God! 13. We sit on hills our childhood wist, The city's golden spire it was, When hope and health were strongest, We look upon the longest. Be pitiful, O God! 15. And soon all vision waxeth dull- Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, The Son adjures the Father— BE PITIFUL, O GOD! MRS. BROWNING. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, an English poetess, and one of the greatest, if not the greatest, was born in London, in 1809. Educated with great care, she became a ripe scholar, uniting remarkably the distinctive characteristics of the masculine understanding and the feminine heart. She began to write at a very early age for periodicals. Her first volume of poems appeared in 1826. She became the wife of Robert Browning in 1846. She died at Florence, the principal residence of the Brownings for several years, June 29th, 1861. Her range of subjects was wide. Her genius grew apace, every new performance giving better promise for the next. She abounded in figures, strong and striking, in happy conceits, and successful expressions. She knew the true art of choosing words, a large per cent. of them being Saxon. Of her numerous poems, probably nonę surpasses "Aurora Leigh," a narrative poem in 9 books, published in 1856. III. 181. THE RAVEN. 1. ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lōre— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, |