E.A.  POE.

Sparkling and Bright.

  Sparkling and bright in liquid light
    Does the wine our goblets gleam in,
  With hue as red as the rosy bed
    Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
      Then fill to-night, with hearts as light,
        To loves as gay and fleeting
      As bubbles that swim on the beaker’s brim,
        And break on the lips while meeting.

  Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight
    Of Time through Life’s dominions,
  We here awhile would now beguile
    The graybeard of his pinions,
      To drink to-night, with hearts as light,
        To loves as gay and fleeting
      As bubbles that swim on the beaker’s brim,
        And break on the lips while meeting.

  But since Delight can’t tempt the wight,
    Nor fond Regret delay him,
  Nor Love himself can hold the elf,
    Nor sober Friendship stay him,
      We’ll drink to-night, with hearts as light,
        To loves as gay and fleeting
      As bubbles that swim on the beaker’s brim,
        And break on the lips while meeting.

C.F.  HOFFMAN.

To One in Paradise.

  Thou wast all that to me, love,
    For which my soul did pine: 
  A green isle in the sea, love,
    A fountain and a shrine
  All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
    And all the flowers were mine.

  Ah, dream too bright to last! 
    Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
  But to be overcast! 
    A voice from out the Future cries,
  “On! on!”—­but o’er the Past
    (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
  Mute, motionless, aghast.

  For, alas! alas! with me
    The light of Life is o’er! 
  No more—­no more—­no more—­
    (Such language holds the solemn sea
  To the sands upon the shore)
    Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
  Or the stricken eagle soar.

  And all my days are trances,
    And all my nightly dreams
  Are where thy gray eye glances,
    And where thy footstep gleams,—­
  In what ethereal dances,
    By what eternal streams.

E.A.  POE.

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.

  Green be the turf above thee,
    Friend of my better days! 
  None knew thee but to love thee,
    Nor named thee but to praise.

  Tears fell when thou wert dying,
    From eyes unused to weep,
  And long, where thou art lying,
    Will tears the cold turf steep.

  When hearts, whose truth was proven,
    Like thine, are laid in earth,
  There should a wreath be woven
    To tell the world their worth;

  And I, who woke each morrow
    To clasp thy hand in mine,
  Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
    Whose weal and woe were thine,

  It should be mine to braid it
    Around thy faded brow,
  But I’ve in vain essayed it,
    And feel I cannot now.