But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them:

Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone

Whose song has told their heart's sad story;
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign,
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his cordial wine
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Poe's musical allegory ends with the same despairing view of human

life

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

In the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace

(Radiant palace) reared its head.

In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow
(This, all this, was in the olden

Time long ago);

And every gentle air that dallied
In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingéd odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne, where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their King.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate

(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate);
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers now within that valley
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,

While, like a ghastly, rapid river,
Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh-but smile no more.

EDGAR A. POE.

POMP'S RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE.

ANONYMOUS.

["The Colonel's Opera-Cloak," one of the most amusing of recent books, is one of the "No Name Series" of Messrs. Roberts Brothers, a series of anonymous novels whose high literary character has given them a well-deserved popularity with American readers. The unknown author of the "Colonel's Opera-Cloak" has certainly touched the extreme of the ridiculous in the well-drawn picture of the colonel's shiftless family and the remarkable adventures of the cloak. The old negro's idea of heaven and of religious duty, which we give, is among the most amusing parts of the work.]

"Dis yere death's a mighty myste'ous thing, Miss Leslie," said Pomp, as the two sat, a short time after this, on

the kitchen stairs, waiting for the kettle to boil. Stairs. were much approved of as seats by the St. Johns: they were always safe; and chairs were treacherous, and never could be depended on.

"Yes, Pomp," said Leslie: "a few days ago and we could ask Jasper what he knew or felt or thought; and now, if we asked him, he couldn't tell us so that we could understand."

"Why, Miss Leslie," asked Pomp, in sudden alarm, "why couldn't we un'stan' him? Yer don't 'spect he'll talk de wrong way, like de Jew in de pawn-shop, or de Chinyman, does yer,-so't I can't un'stan' him when I gits dar? I hope he ain't gwine to git so larned dat I shall hev to be int'duced to him! Does yer tink, Miss Leslie, dey grows up, or stays de way dey was when dey goes in ?"

"I don't know," said Leslie, who tried in her simple way to be good, and in so trying wrought out a sweet and Christ-like religion. "I don't know: only the hymn says,

'We shall know each other there.'

I reckon, Pomp, it will be just as if we had been away from our friends for a good while, and when we saw them again they were changed, and were gentler and kinder and more beautiful, and we should see that they were dif ferent, and yet they'd be the same. We'd know them as soon as they spoke, even though it was in a dark room and we didn't know they were there."

Pomp's tearful eyes glistened with pride.

"Dar's good comfort in dat, Miss Leslie," he said. "Pears like de Lord's speakin' froo yer. 'Pears like I sees John Jasper now, all dressed up an' lookin' as good as Massa Tom; yit he'll be my boy an' yer boy; an' I

done reckon dat chile won't leave his eyes off dat gate a-watchin' fur yer an' fur me.

"De way to Prov'dence is pas' findin' out, Miss Leslie," added he, piously rolling his eyes. "Somehow, I don't look wid no respec', no more, on de Colonel's op'ra-cloak. I feels, somehow or nudder, dat ef dat cloak had done his duty, dat chile would be tumblin' down-stairs, or suthin', dis minute here. I tole Jasper, on Monday, not to go out widout puttin' on de op'ra cloak, fear he'd cotch cold in his chist; an' nowhar could he fin' it. 'Pears sometimes 's ef dat cloak had got legs on to it dat we can't see, an' jes' walked itself off an' hid under tings an' behin' tings. I shouldn't never have foun' whar it was a-hidin', ef I hedn't los' my shoe, an' I was scoochin' down, lookin' under ev'ryting, an' dar was dat op'ra-cloak a-squeezin' in 'tween de wall an' de sofy, whar nobody wouldn't never hev looked fur it.

"Why, we might hev gone away from dis house, an' never hev foun' it, Miss Leslie, an' what would de Colonel hev said? I reckon I knows!"

"Oh, Pomp," said Leslie, the tears filling her beautiful eyes, "don't wish Jasper back! He's better off than we are."

"Yes," said Pomp: "I reckon he's better off; an' yit he was putty good off when he was here. Ef yer count up what folks call massies, he hed mos' on 'em. He hedn't no gran'ma', but there's a good many folks hain't. I hain't got no gran'ma',-no, nor no gran'fa', nuther; but I don' tink much 'bout it, 'cept when I hears folks speakin' on 'em. But how'll dis be?-John Jasper's mo'er died when he was a little baby. She won't know him: he won't know her, 'less his gran'ma' tells him who she is. But, den," said Pomp, falling into confusion in his genealogies, as many others have done, "his gran'ma' she never seen