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At the end of our path a liquescent And nebulous lustre was born, Out of which a miraculous crescent Arose, with a duplicate horn, Astarte's bediamonded crescent

Distinct with its duplicate horn.

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And I said She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs,
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies,
To the Lethean peace of the skies:
Come up, in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes:
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'

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But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said Sadly this star I mistrust,
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Oh, hasten!-oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! let us fly!- for we must.' 55
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust;
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 60

I replied This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night:

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See, it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright:
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through
the night.'

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A pæan from the bells;
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells,
And he dances, and he yells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rime,

To the pæan of the bells,
Of the bells:

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rime,
To the throbbing of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rime,

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 -

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To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. Union Magazine, Nov., 1849.

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

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With a love that the wingèd 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 by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen 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;

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Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud chill

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HARRIET BEECHER STOWE (1811-1896)

The author of Uncle Tom's Cabin came from the heart of the old New England Calvinism. Her father was Lyman Beecher, and among her six preacher brothers was Henry Ward Beecher, the well-known pulpit orator of Brooklyn. She was a daughter of the manse, like the Brönte sisters, reared amid bookish surroundings in an atmosphere redolent of theological controversy. Her temperament, naturally sensitive and intense, was rendered over-emotional and almost mor、 bidly introspective by her religious training. Her education was gained in private schools for girls and it went not far, for those were the days before colleges for women. It gave her a nunlike view of life and it fed her already over-developed emotional nature. Then at twenty-one came the really great educating influence of her life: she went West with her father who had been elected the first president of Lane Theological Seminary in Cincinnati, and there she lived for the next seventeen years, teaching in the schools for two years and then becoming the wife of Professor Calvin E. Stowe of the Seminary. Literary work she took up at first as a desperate resort for increasing the household income. Her first volume The Mayflower, 1843, she produced with a family of seven small children about her. When in 1850 Professor Stowe was called to Bowdoin, the family finances were at lowest ebb, and again, though almost overwhelmed by nousehold duties, she sought her pen, this time for a short serial for the National Era, an anti-slavery paper of Washington. She had never been in the 'black belt' of the South, though she had caught glimpses of slavery during a brief visit to a plantation in Kentucky, but she knew well the underground railroad' of Ohio and she had seen much of fugitive slaves. The story took complete possession of her. It ran from June 5, 1851, to April 1, 1852, until indeed it was material for two volumes. It was written with intense emotion: chapters of it she wrote sobbing in utter abandon like Dickens; after the death of little Eva she was ill for a fortnight. It was keyed perfectly to the emotionalism of the times, and it sold as no other book in our history has ever sold since. Nearly the whole population read it especially in the North,- and it swept over England and indeed over all Europe. As we read it to-day it seems in many ways crude and unbalanced, but even to-day one may feel its power. It has movement; it has what American prose, up to that time influenced so greatly by Irving, had greatly lacked dramatic force. Moreover, it contained an intense moral appeal which made it acceptable even to the puritanic element that classed fiction with playing cards. From the date it appeared its author was famous and internationally famous. She wrote much in the years that followed: Dred, or Nina Gordon, 1856, which was lost in the fierce light of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and among much general material several studies of Calvinistic New England days: The Minister's Wooing, 1859, The Pearl of Orr's Island, 1862, and Old Town Folks, 1869. These undoubtedly are her best creations. She was admirably fitted for interpreting early New England both by her early training and by the sense of detachment that had come from her long residence in the West. These books undoubtedly greatly influenced that later school of depicters of New England, the leaders of which were Mrs. Cooke, Miss Jewett, Mrs. Freeman, and Alice Brown.

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