Richard Monckton Milnes.

Born 1809

In 1837

ELDEST Son of R. P. Milnes, Esq. of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. he was returned M.P. for the borough of Pontefract. Besides taking an active part in public business and questions of social progress, he has ever been the friend of literature. He has published four volumes of poetry, which fully entitle him to a place in the roll of poets. In 1863 he was raised to the peerage by the title of Baron Houghton.

LONDON CHURCHES.

I STOOD, One Sunday morning,
Before a large church-door,
The congregation gathered
And carriages a score---
From one out stepped a lady
I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette ;
The sign of man's redemption
Clear on the book was set,-

But above the Cross there glistened

A golden Coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle

The inner door flung wide,

Lightly, as up a ball-room,

Her footsteps seemed to glide

There might be good thoughts in her
For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman
Peeped wistfully within,
On whose wan face was graven

Life's hardest discipline-
The trace of the sad trinity
Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded
Where she could rest and pray;
With her worn garb contrasted
Each side in fair array—

"God's house holds no poor sinners,"

She sighed, and crept away.

O. W. Holmes.

Born 1809.

AN American poet, born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on 29th August 1809. He graduated at Harvard College, and studied for the law, but afterwards he abandoned it and studied medicine. He took his degree of M.D. in 1836. Besides the successful performance of the duties of his profession, he contributed verses to the various periodicals, which he published in a collected form in 1836. He is also the author of several valuable medical works.

THE LAST READER.

I SOMETIMES Sit beneath a tree,

And read my own sweet songs;

Thought nought they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have passed away,
But for that scarce remembered lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf,

That some dear girl has given;
Frail record of an hour, as brief

As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadowed hill.

They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek
The ringlets of his child;
The golden mingling with the grey,
And stealing half its snows away.

And when my name no more is heard,

My lyre no more is known,

Still let me like a winter's bird,

In silence and alone,

Fold over them the weary wing

Once flashing through the dews of spring

John Bethune.

Born 1810

Died 1839

SON of a farm labourer in Fife, who amid the most discouraging circum. stances educated himself, and whose works have obtained an honourable place in literature. In conjunction with his brother Alexander, he first appeared as an author in "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," published in 1838. On his death in 1839, his brother edited a volume of poetical pieces left by him.

THE FIRST OF WINTER.

On! sadly sighs the wint'ry breeze
Along the desert lea;

And moaning 'mid the forest trees
It sings a dirge to me,—

The solemn dirge of dying flowers—
The death song of the emerald bowers-
The first loud whistled lay,

Which summons Winter's stormy powers
On his coronation-day.

Darker and darker grows the sky;

With voice more loud and louder still

The stormy winds sweep by, and fill

The ear with awful melody.

Each tone of that majestic harp

Wakes other tones within to warp
My soul away, amid its bass,

To the greenwood, which lately was
A picture to my eye-

Which now is murk and bare! Alas!
Its sere leaves rustle by.

But ah! that tempest music tells
A tale which saddens more-

Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells
On many a rocky shore,

When the poor bark is dash'd and driven,
And plunged below, and tossed to heaven,
Amid the ocean's roar.

And oh! its wild and varied song

Hath an appalling power,

As swellingly it sweeps along

O'er broken tree and blasted flower.

The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips,
The sigh of sorrowing breath,

The dread, dread crash of sinking ships,
The gurgling shriek of death,
Affection's wildest, warmest wish,
Devotion's holiest cry,

Are blended with that maddening blast,
And on the chords of sympathy
Their varying accents now are cast.
Yet more-it tells of more-

Of Him who on its murky wing
Rides calmly, and directs its roar,
Or stills it with His nod:
Its voice is raised even now to sing
A wilder melody to God,
Who holds it in night's silent hush
Within the hollow of His hand,
Or bids it from His presence rush
In desolation o'er the land:

At his command alone it raves

O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves.

Edgar Allan Poe.

Born 1811.
Died 1849.

A BRIGHT but erring American genius. He was a native of Baltimore, and, left destitute by the death of both his parents, was adopted and educated by Mr Allan, a Virginian planter, who endeavoured to have him respect ably settled in life. But all attempts to guide his wayward spirit were vain, and he died the victim of intemperance, on 7th October 1849, in an hospital in Baltimore. He was a frequent contributor to the American periodicals; but his name is chiefly famous from his poem "The Raven," an original and striking piece.

FROM "THE RAVEN."

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak

and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten loreWhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a

tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber

door;

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber.

door

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore

Nameless here for evermore!

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt

before; So that now, ing:

to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

door

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door This it is, and nothing more."

66

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 66 Sir," said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came

rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber

door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no

token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.