Were I weaving a tale of fiction, the reason of Edward’s conduct would be required to complete the work; but it has been said

“Truth is stranger than fiction,”

and Annie died without ever receiving any explanation.  Thus we will leave them, with the assurance that they shall again be united, although their remains are now so widely separated.

Lines, Written during Convalescence from Brain Fever

  Sing on, sweet bird, thy gentle strain
  “Can’t cool my brow, or cool my brain;”
  But yet, thou hast a magic pow’r
  To lull me in a fev’rish hour;
  Thy pleasant notes, so sweet and clear,
  Come soft and mellow’d to my ear. 
  And when my head is rack’d with pain,
  Burning my brow, throbbing my brain,—­
  When all’s tumultuous, toss’d, and wild,
  And frantic as a wayward child;
  Roaring as if old ocean’s waves
  Were bursting from their coral caves;
  Tossing as if old ocean’s foam
  Were rocking to its highest home;
  Moaning as if the sea bird’s wail
  Were screaming o’er the tattered sail;
  And ev’ry ship were tempest toss’d,—­
  Its rudder gone,—­its pilot lost;
  And no kind ray of light were giv’n,
  To cheer them, from the vault of heav’n,
  Save the vivid lightning’s flash,—­
  Pealing the deep ton’d thunder crash,
  Glancing upon the tow’ring wave,
  Above the seaman’s yawning grave;—­
  Glaring into that dark abyss,
  Where hideous monsters dart and hiss,
  And ship wreck’d seamen, far from home. 
  Toss amid the briny foam;
  Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep,
  Buries the secrets of the deep;
  Revealing far, on upper land,
  A lawless bandits’ wand’ring band,
  With sword and rapier, stain’d with blood,
  Still thirsting for the crimson flood;
  They show no mercy on their kind,
  But kill or plunder all they find. 
  Then dies the flash, as ocean’s moan
  Sends back a low, sepulchral groan,
  Leaving all nature dark and still,
  As midnight sleeping on the hill,
  While all around unearthly seems,
  As frightened Hecate’s spectral dreams;
  Till bubbling, gushing through each vein,
  The frenzied current turns again,—­
  My hurrying pulses faster play,
  And conjure up the dread array,—­
  Glaring spectres, side by side,
  In mould’ring shrouds around me glide;
  Death’s damp wreaths are round their hair,
  And coffin worms hold revel there. 
  Gibb’ring, they come from ancient tombs,
  Stealing from low sepulchral glooms,
  From vault and charnel house they rise,
  With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes,
  They point the finger,—­shake the head,
  And hold strange converse round my bed;
  Together there, in council meet,
  With coffin, pall and winding sheet,—­
  Seem waiting, with their dread array,