EDGAR A. POE.

THE LOST SOUL.

Hark the bell! the funeral bell,
    Calling the soul
    To its goal. 
Oh! the haunted human heart,
From its idol doomed to part! 
Yet a twofold being bearing,
She and I apart are tearing;
She to heaven I to hell! 
Going, going!  Hark the bell! 
    Far in hell,
    Tolling, tolling. 
    Fiends are rolling,
Whitened bones, and coffins reeking,
Fearful darkness grimly creeping
    On my soul,
    My vision searing,
    She disappearing,
    Drawn from me
    By a soul I cannot see,
Whom I know can never love her. 
Oh! that soul could I discover,
    I would go,
    Steeped in woe,
Down to darkness, down to hell! 
Hark the bell!  Farewell! farewell!

JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

INVISIBLE INFLUENCES.

A ship is on the ocean.  The wind is fair.  All hands are in motion.  But a few hours since, it left port.  Among its passengers is a gay traveller; he wears a silken cloak fringed with gold.  The sailors admire his splendor; they gather around him as he walks the deck with his flying robe.  They put forth their rough hands to feel its soft texture; its warm, bright color gives pleasure to their eyes.  As they gaze their pulses heighten, their steps become unsteady, their eyes wander from duty, their great sturdy frames quiver with emotion.  The captain rallies them, but in vain.

What secret foe is in their midst?  Their parched tongues, cleaving to the roofs of their mouths, call for the surgeon.  He comes—­he questions, “From whence comest thou?” “From the Orient,” the traveller replies.  The surgeon gasps and shakes his head.  He, too, is stricken with fear. “’Tis the plague!” he whispers.  An unseen, deadly foe is stalking beneath that gay cloak!  The traveller hears and shudders; he flings off his gay vestment.  The waves gather up the silken folds.  But the sacrifice is useless.  A fell hand strikes down both traveller and sailor.  As they gasp and die they are hurried to the ship’s side; they are plunged overboard; a seething, foaming grave yawns to receive them.

The ship glides on.  Those who remain wash the deck with water.  They cannot wash away the demon, which is everywhere and yet nowhere....  Poisons as subtle attend the human spirit, baneful and contagious as the plague!

See yonder peaceful cottage, nestling by the hillside; hope and contentment dwell therein; within its walls beauty and grace awaken harmony.  Lured by the bright sunshine, a stranger enters the door.  He sits and chats awhile with the inmates.  His talk is pleasant, and as he converses a cloud falls upon the house, the sunshine becomes darkened, and the dwellers within the pretty cottage shiver as with cold.  They heed not the change, for the chat of their guest delights them.  But when he departs he leaves behind him a poison more baneful than the plague.