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Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells
Keeping time, time, time,

As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells---
Of the bells, bells, bells,

To the tolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Edgar Allan Poe.


(By permission of the Author.)
O DON'T go in to-night, John !

Now, husband, don't go in !
To spend our only shilling, John,

Would be a cruel sin.
There's not a loaf at home, John;

There's not a coal, you know ;
Though with hunger I am faint, John,
And cold comes down the snow.

Then, don't go in to-night!
Ah, John, you must remember ;

And, John, I can't forget,
When never foot of yours, John,

Was in the alehouse set.
Ah, those were happy times, John,

No quarrels then we knew,
And none were happier in our lane
Than I, dear John, and you.

Then, don't go in to-night!
You will not go ! John, John, I mind

When we were courting, few
Had arm as strong or step as firm

Or cheek as red as you :



But drink has stolen your strength, John,

And paled your cheek to white,
Has tottering made your young firm tread,
And bowd your manly height.

You'll not go in to-night!
You'll not go in ! Think on the day

That made me, John, your wife,
What pleasant talk that day we had

Of all our future life,
Of how your steady earnings, John,

No wasting should consume,
But weekly some new comfort bring
To deck our happy room.

Then, don't go in to-night!
To see us, John, as then we dress’d,

So tidy, clean, and neat,
Brought out all eyes to follow us

As we went down the street.
Ah, little thought our neighbours then,

And we as little thought,
That ever, John, to rags like these
By drink we should be brought.

You won't go in to-night!
And will you go? If not for me,

Yet for your baby stay!
You know, John, not a taste of food

Has passed my lips to-day;
And tell

your father, little one,
'Tis mine your life hangs on.
You will not spend the shilling, John ?
You'll give it him ? Come, John,
Come home with us to-night!

W. C. Bennett.


THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his

heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire: “ I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive




his way.

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord !--oh, break my

father's chain !" “Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ransom’d man

this day ; Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on Then lightly rose th loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy

speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glitter

ing band, With one that ʼmidst them stately rode, as a leader in the

land. “Now haste, Bernardo, haste, for there in very truth is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long

to see."

His dark eye flash’d, his proud breast heaved, his cheeks'

blood came and went ; He reached that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and then,

dismounting, bentA lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took : What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? That hand was cold—à frozen thing—it dropped from his

like lead; He look'd up to the face above—the face was of the dead ! A plume waved o'er the noble brow—the brow was fix'd

and white : He met at last his father's eyes, but in them was no sight. Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could

paint that gaze ? They hush'd their very hearts that saw its horror and

amaze ; They might have chained him as beíore that stony form

he stood, For the power was stricken from his arms, and from his

lips the blood. “Father !” at length he murmured low, and wept like

childhood thenTalk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears o warlike

men !


BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young

renown; He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate

down. Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly

mournful brow, No more, there is no more,” he said, “ to lift the sword

for now; My king is false, my hope betray'd, my father-oh! the

worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth ! “I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside

thee yet. I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil

had met: Thou wouldst have known my spirit then. For thee my

fields were won ; And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou

hadst no son !”

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seiz’d the

monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier

train, And, with a fierce o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war

horse led, And sternly set them face to face—the king before the

dead ! “Came I not forth upon thy pled

my father's hand to kiss ? Be still and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is

this : The voice, the glance, the heart I sought give answer

where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through

this cold clay! “Into these glassy eyes put light-be still ! keep down

thine ireBid these white lips a blessing speak—this earth is not

my sire !

MR. SIMPKINSON'S MISADVENTORES. 181 Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood

was shed. Thou canst not—and a king? His dust be mountains on

thy head !

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell—upon the silent

face He cast one long, deep, troubled look—then turned from

that sad place; His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial

strainHis banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

Mrs. Hemans.



but joy."

(By permission of R. Bentley, Esq.) 'Twas in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar boy—I said, “What make you here? The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything Again I said, “What make you here, you little vulgar boy ?” He frowned, that little vulgar boy-he deemed I meant to

scoff And when the little heart is big, a little “sets it off ; He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom roseHe had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose ! “ Hark! don't you hear, my little man ?—it's striking

nine,” I said, “ An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in

bed : Run home and get your supper, else your ma' will scold

oh ! fie ! It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry !" The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbbed with agony-he cried like anything ! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur, I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no ma !


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