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THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

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'Twas in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school ;
There were some that ran, and some that leapt

Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds

And souls untouched by sin ;
To a level mead they came, and there

They drave the wickets in :
Pleasantly shone the setting sun

Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,

And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things of earth

As only boyhood can ;
But the usher sat remote from all,

A melancholy man!
His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease ;
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside,
For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide ;
Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome ;

With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,

And fixed the brazen hasp :
“() God! could I so close my mind,

And clasp it with a clasp !"
Then leaping on his feet upright,

Some moody turns he took,
Now up the mead, then down the mead,

And past a shady nook,
And, lo! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book. “My gentle lad, what is 't you read,

Romance or fairy fable ?
Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable ?"
The young boy gave an upward glance,

“It is 'The Death of Abel.'" The usher took six hasty strides,

As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,

Then slowly back again ;
And down he sat beside the lad,

And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men,

Whose deeds tradition saves ;
And lonely folk cut off unseen,

And hid in sudden graves ;
And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn ;

And murders done in caves ;
And how the sprites of injured men

Shriek upward from the sod ;
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point

To show the burial clod ;
And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God.
He told how murderers walk the earth

Beneath the curse of Cain,
With crimson clouds before their eyes,

And flames about their brain ;
For blood has left upon their souls

Its everlasting stain ! “And well,” quoth he, “I know for truth

Their pangs must be extreme Woe, woe, unutterable woe !

Who spill life's sacred stream. For why ? Methought, last night I wrought

A murder, in a dream !
“ One that had never done me wrong,

A feeble man and old ;
I led him to a lonely field, -

The moon shone clear and cold :
Now here, said I, this man shall die,

And I will have his gold !
“ Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,

And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,

And then the deed was done :
There was nothing lying at my feet

But lifeless flesh and bone !
“Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,

That could not do me ill ;
And yet I feared him all the more

For lying there so still :
There was a manhood in his look

That murder could not kill ! “ And, lo! the universal air

Seemed lit with ghastly flame,
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes

Were looking down in blame;
I took the dead man by his hand,

And called upon his name.
“O God ! it made me quake to see

Such sense within the slain ;
But, when I touched the lifeless clay,

The blood gushed out amain !
For every clot a burning spot

Was scorching in my brain !

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“My head was like an ardent coal,

My heart as solid ice ;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,

Was at the Devil's price.
A dozen times I groaned, — the dead

Had never groaned but twice.
“And now, from forth the frowning sky,

From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice, the awful voice

Of the blood-avenging sprite : “Thou guilty man! take up thy dead,

And hide it from my sight!'
“And I took the dreary body up,

And cast it in a stream,
The sluggish water black as ink,

The depth was so extreme :
My gentle boy, remember, this

Is nothing but a dream ! “ Down went the corse with a hollow plunge,

And vanished in the pool ;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,

And washed my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young,

That evening, in the school. “O Heaven ! to think of their white souls,

And mine so black and grim !
I could not share in childish prayer,

Nor join in evening hymn ;
Like a devil of the pit I seemed,

'Mid holy cherubim !
And Peace went with them, one and all,

And each calm pillow spread ;
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain,

That lighted me to bed,
And drew my midnight curtains round

With fingers bloody red ! “ All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep;
My fevered eyes I dared not close,

But stared aghast at Sleep ;
For Sin had rendered unto her

The keys of hell to keep ! “ All night I lay in agony,

From weary chime to chime ;
With one besetting horrid hint

That racked me all the time,
A mighty yearning, like the first

Fierce impulse unto crime,
“One stern tyrannic thought, that made

All other thoughts its slave ! Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation crave, Still urging me to go and see

The dead man in his grave !

“Heavily I rose up, as soon

As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool

With a wild, misgiving eye ;
And I saw the dead in the river-bed,

For the faithless stream was dry. Merrily rose the lark, and shook

The dew-drop from its wing;
But I never marked its morning flight,

I never heard it sing,
For I was stooping once again

Under the horrid thing. “With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,

I took him up and ran ;
There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began,
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,

I hid the murdered man !
“And all that day I read in school,

But my thought was otherwhere;
As soon as the midday task was done,

In secret I was there, —
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,

And still the corse was bare !
“Then down I cast me on my face,

And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one

That earth refused to keep, --
Or land or sea, though he should be

Ten thousand fathoms deep.
“So wills the fierce avenging sprite,

Till blood for blood atones !
Ay, though he's buried in a cave,

And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh, -

The world shall see his bones!
O God! that horrid, horrid dream

Besets me now awake!
Again – again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,

Like Cranmer's at the stake.
“And still no peace for the restless clay

Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, –

It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy looked up, and saw

Huge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep

The urchin's eyelids kissed,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn

Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS Hoa

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PERSONAL POEMS.

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The Wants of Man
Man wants but little hora bolas:

"Stor wants that Etike, long
has not with me exactly

so:
But his so, in the song.
My wants are many, and is soles

Would mustermansy a fome:
And ware each wish a mint of gold
I still should lang for more

.
Washington 21. August iowe

John Quincy Allams.

PERSONAL POEMS.

ANNE HATHAWAY.

TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART,

ANNE HATHAWAY.

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Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway !
She hath a way to sing so clear,
Phoebus might wondering stop to hear.
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm, Anne hath a way ;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway ; To breathe delight Anne hath a way. When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray, To soothe the heart Anne hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day. Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway ;
To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way.
Talk not of gems, the orient list,
The diamond, topaz, amethyst,
The emerald mild, the ruby gay ;
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway !
She hath a way, with her bright eye,
Their various lustres to defy,
The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look Anne hath a way ;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway ;
To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.

TO THE MEMORY OF BEN JONSON.

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The Muse's fairest light in no dark time,
The wonder of a learned age; the line
Which none can pass ; the most proportioned

wit,
To nature, the best judge of what was fit;
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;
The voice most echoed by consenting men ;
The soul which answered best to all well said
By others, and which most requital made ;
Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,
Returning all her music with his own n;
In whom, with nature, study claimed a part,
And yet who to himself owed all his art :
Here lies Ben Jonson ! every age will look
With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.

JOHN CLEVELAND.

But were it to my fancy given
To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven ;
For though a mortal made of clay,
Angels must love Anne Hathaway ;
She hath a way so to control,
To rapture, the imprisoned soul,

TO MACAULAY.

The dreamy rhymer's measured snore Falls heavy on our ears no more ;

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