The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain-

Have ceased with the fever
That maddened my brain—
With the fever called "Living"
That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures,
That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst

For the napthaline river
Of Passion accurst:

I have drank of a water
That quenches all thirst;

Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy,

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed;

And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses-
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses.

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansiesA rosemary odor

Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie; Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast,

When the light was extinguished She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm--
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead;
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)

That you fancy me dead— That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie,

It glows with the light

Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

THE CITY IN THE SEA.

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim West,

Where the good and the bad and the worst

and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot,

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently--
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes-up spires-up kingly halls—
Up fanes-up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly, beneath the sky,

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air;

While, from a proud tower in the town, Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves,
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye,

Not the gayly-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass;
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea;

No heavings hint that winds have been
On scenes less hideously serene.

But lo! a stir is in the air!

The wave-there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide;
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow,
The hours are breathing faint and low;
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.