And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
  So that her highborn kinsmen came
    And bore her away from me,
  To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me;
  Yes, that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we,
    Of many far wiser than we;
  And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    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 sounding sea.

E.A.  POE.

A Health.

  I fill this cup to one made up
    Of loveliness alone,—­
  A woman, of her gentle sex
    The seeming paragon;
  To whom the better elements
    And kindly stars have given
  A form so fair, that, like the air,
    ’Tis less of earth than heaven.

  Her every tone is music’s own,
    Like those of morning birds;
  And something more than melody
    Dwells ever in her words;
  The coinage of her heart are they,
    And from her lips each flows
  As one may see the burden’d bee
    Forth issue from the rose.

  Affections are as thoughts to her,
    The measures of her hours;
  Her feelings have the fragrancy,
    The freshness of young flowers;
  And lovely passions, changing oft,
    So fill her, she appears
  The image of themselves by turns,—­
    The idol of past years!

  Of her bright face one glance will trace
    A picture on the brain;
  And of her voice in echoing hearts
    A sound must long remain,
  But memory, such as mine of her,
    So very much endears,
  When death is nigh, my latest sigh
    Will not be life’s, but hers.

  I fill this cup to one made up
    Of loveliness alone,—­
  A woman, of her gentle sex
    The seeming paragon. 
  Her health! and would on earth there stood
    Some more of such a frame,
  That life might be all poetry,
    And weariness a name.

E.C.  PINKNEY.

A Serenade.

  Look out upon the stars, my love,
    And shame them with thine eyes,
  On which, than on the lights above,
    There hang more destinies. 
  Night’s beauty is the harmony
    Of blending shades and light: 
  Then, lady, up,—­look out, and be
    A sister to the night!