But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we And neither the angels in heaven above, Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE: For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling,- my darling, my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the side of the sea. FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL. I WISH I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell Lee! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 1 burd, lady. O think na 2 ye my heart was sair,3 When my love dropt down and spak nae mair!* On fair Kirconnell Lee. As I went down the water-side, I lighted down my sword to draw, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! O that I were where Helen lies! O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! 6 I wish my grave were growing green, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish I were where Helen lies! And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me. A lady of the name of Helen, daughter of the Laird of Kirconnell, in Dumfries-shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen. The name of the favored suitor was Adam Fleming; that of the other has escaped tradition. The addresses of the latter were favored by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, in the churchyard of Kirconnell, a romantic spot, almost surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. THE BUGLE SONG. From THE PRINCESS. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. THE splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, TO CELIA. From THE FOREST. Ben Jonson. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear, HAROLD'S SONG. From THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. Sir Walter Scott. O, LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! "The blackening wave is edged with white; "Last night the gifted. Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; But that my lady-mother there ""Tis not because the ring they ride, |