She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion

To point us the path to the skiesTo the Lethean peace of the skies; Come up in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes; Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes."

VI.

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said, "Sadly, this star I mistrust—
Her pallor I strangely mistrust—
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly!-let us fly!-for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust,
In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

VII.

I replied, "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light;

Let us bathe in this crystalline light:

Its sybillic splendour is beaming

With hope and in beauty to-night :—

See! it flickers up the sky through the night; Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

And be sure it will lead us aright—

We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to heaven through the night."

VIII.

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom-
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied, "Ulalume-Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

IX.

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispèd and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere;

And I cried, "It was surely October,

On this very night of last year,

That I journeyed-I journeyed down here, That I brought a dread burden down here! On this night of all nights in the year,

Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, This misty mid region of Weir,

Well, I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

TO F S S. O-D.

THOU wouldst be loved?-then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not;
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,

Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love a simple duty.

Ar midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon:
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim;
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.