As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word - Nevermore !

He did but float a little way
Adown the stream of time,
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples
play,

Or hearkening their fairy chime;
His slender sail

Ne'er felt the gale;

He did but float a little way,
And, putting to the shore
While yet 't was early day,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more!
No jarring did he feel,

No grating on his vessel's keel;
A strip of silver sand

Mingled the waters with the land
Where he was seen no more:
O stern word-Nevermore !

Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave; The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way

And wandered hither, so his stay With us was short, and't was most meet 'That he should be no delver in earth's clod,

Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet To stand before his God:

O blest word - Evermore !

1839.

THE SIRENS.

THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whith

er;

Our little isle is green and breezy,

Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest forevermore! Forevermore ! "

And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill,

And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still Evermore !

Thus, on Life's weary sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sweet, from far and near,
Ever singing low and clear,
Ever singing longingly.

Is it not better here to be,
Than to be toiling late and soon?
In the dreary night to see
Nothing but the blood-red moon
Go up and down into the sea,
Or, in the loneliness of day,

To see the still seals only
Solemnly lift their faces gray,

Making it yet more lonely? Is it not better, than to hear

forms,

Which ever keep their dreamless sleep

Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee!

Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark

Into the cold depth of the sea!
Look down! Look down!

Thus, on Life's lonely sea,
Heareth the marinere
Voices sad, from far and near,
Ever singing full of fear,
Ever singing drearfully.

Here all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue;

Listen! O, listen!
Here is a gush of many streams,
A song of many birds,

And every wish and longing seems
Lulled to a numbered flow of words,
Listen! O, listen!

Here ever hum the golden bees
Underneath full-blossomed trees,
At once with glowing fruit and flowers

crowned;

The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land;

All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand,

I gaze, deep-drinking of the infinite, As, in the mid-watch of a clear, still night,

I look into the fathomless blue skies.

So circled lives she with Love's holy light,

That from the shade of self she walketh free;

The garden of her soul still keepeth she

An Eden where the snake did never

enter;

She hath a natural, wise sincerity, A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her

A dignity as moveless as the centre; So that no influence of earth can stir Her steadfast courage, nor can take

away

The holy peacefulness, which, night and day,

Unto her queenly soul doth minister.

Most gentle is she; her large charity (An all unwitting, childlike gift in her) Not freer is to give than meek to bear

These are Irené's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deepbuilded state.

In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth

No less than loveth, scorning to be bound

With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth

To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound,

If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes,

Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye,

Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit

came

Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence

It came, nor wandered far from thence, But laboreth to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not

Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot.

Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth,

But her whole thought would almost seem to be

How to make glad one lowly human hearth;

For with a gentle courage she doth strive

In thought and word and feeling so to live

As to make earth next heaven; and her heart

Herein doth show its most exceeding worth,

That, bearing in our frailty her just

part,

She hath not shrunk from evils of this life,

But hath gone calmly forth into the

strife,

And all its sins and sorrows hath withstood

FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark,

The night is chilly, the night is dark,
The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan,
My hair by the autumn breeze is blown,
Under thy window I sing alone,
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The darkness is pressing coldly around,
The windows shake with a lonely sound,
The stars are hid and the night is drear,
The heart of silence throbs in thine ear,
In thy chamber thou sittest alone,
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide,
Kind hearts are beating on every side;
Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled
Alone in the shell of this great world?
Why should we any more be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O. 't is a bitter and dreary word,
The saddest by man's ear ever heard!

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.

THIS little blossom from afar
Hath come from other lands to thine;
For, once, its white and drooping star
Could see its shadow in the Rhine.
Perchance some fair-haired German
maid

Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk,

And numbered over, half afraid,
Its petals in her evening walk.

"He loves me, loves me not," she cries;

"He loves me more than earth of heaven!"

And then glad tears have filled her

And thou must count its petals well,
Because it is a gift from me;
And the last one of all shall tell
Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born,
Thou wilt find flowers just as true,
Down-bending every summer morn,
With freshness of New-England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love, Hath granted them the same sweet tongue,

Whether with German skies above, Or here our granite rocks among. 1840.

THE BEGGAR.

A BEGGAR through the world am I, From place to place I wander by.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I 've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
O, give, to strengthen me.

1839.

1.

NOT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,
And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to
blow.

III.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise ;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemëd in her eyes.

V.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart intwines and
clings,

And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

VI.

Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

VII.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.