FOR ANNIE

THANK Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,

And the lingering illness
Is over at last-

And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move

As I lie at full lengthBut no matter!-I feel

I am better at length.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead-;

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

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At heart-ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing;

The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain-

Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain-

With the fever called "Living"

That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst!-
I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:

Of a water that flows

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy

And narrow my bed;

For man never slept

In a different bed

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And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses-

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odour

About it, of pansies

A rosemary odour,

Commingled with pansies

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of AnnieDrowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

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78

1849.

When the light was extinguished

She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,

Now, in my bed,

(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead-
That you shudder to look at me.
Thinking me dead:-

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie-
It glows with the light

Of the love of my Annie-
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edgar Allan Poe.

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HAME, HAME, HAME

HAME, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be→
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree,

The larks shall sing me hame in my ain

countree;

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The green leaf o' loyaltie 's beginning for

to fa',

The bonnie White Rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping

tyrannie,

An' green it will graw in my ain countree.

O, there's nocht now frae ruin my country

can save,

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But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave; That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie May rise again an' fight for their ain

countree.

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