ANNABEL LEE

EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:

But we loved with a love that was more than love

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the wingéd seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-

Yes!

that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night-tide I lie down by her side

In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849) was an American poet and writer of tales. Much of his poetry is remarkable for its rhythm.

BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY

THAT wonderful book, the “Pilgrim's Progress," while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Dr. Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favor of the "Pilgrim's Progress." That work was one of the two or three works which he wished longer. It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the most pedantic of critics and the most bigoted of Tories. In every nursery the "Pilgrim's Progress" is a greater favorite than "Jack the Giant-Killer."

Every reader knows the plain and narrow path as well as he knows a road in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times.

This is the highest miracle of genius, that things which are not should be as though they were, that the imaginations of one mind should be the personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker has wrought. There is no ascent, no declivity, no resting-place, no turnstile, with which we are not perfectly acquainted. The wicket gate and the desolate swamp which separates it from the City of Destruction, the long line of road as straight as a rule can make it, the Interpreter's house and all its fair shows, the prisoner in the iron cage, the palace at the doors of which armed men kept guard and on the battlements of which walked persons clothed all in gold, the cross and the sepulchre, the steep hill and the pleasant arbor, the stately front of the House Beautiful by the wayside, the chained lions in the porch, the green valley of Humiliation, rich with grass and covered with flocks, all are as well known to us as the sights of our own street.

Then we come to the narrow place where Apollyon strode right across the whole of the way, to stop the journey of Christian, and where afterwards the pilgrim fought the good fight. As we advance, the valley becomes deeper and deeper. The clouds gather overhead. Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, and the rushing of many feet to and fro are heard through the darkness. The way, hardly discernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of the burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke, and its hideous shapes to terrify the adventurers. Thence he goes on, amidst the snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of those who have perished lying in the ditch by his side. At the end of the

long valley he passes the dens in which the old giants dwelt, amidst the bones of those whom they had slain.

Then the road passes straight on through a waste moor, till at length the towers of a distant city appear before the traveller; and soon he is in the midst of the innumerable multitudes of Vanity Fair. There are the jugglers and the apes, the shops and the puppet-shows. There stand Italian Row, and French Row, and Spanish Row, and Britain Row, with their crowds of buyers, sellers, and loungers, jabbering all the languages of the earth.

Thence we go on by the little hill of the silver mine and through the meadow of lilies, along the bank of that pleasant river which is bordered on both sides by fruit trees. On the left branches off the path leading to the horrible castle, the courtyard of which is paved with the skulls of pilgrims; and right onward are the sheepfolds and orchards of the Delectable Mountains.

From the Delectable Mountains, the way lies through the fogs and briers of the Enchanted Ground, with here and there a bed of soft cushions spread under a green arbor. And beyond is the land of Beulah, where the flowers, the grapes, and the songs of birds never cease, and where the sun shines night and day. Thence are plainly seen the golden pavements and sheets of pearl, on the other side of that black and cold river over which there is no bridge.

fas tid'i ous, difficult to please.

des'ul to ry, passing from one subject to

another without order.

il lit'er ate, untaught.

sec'ta ry, a follower of some particular teaching in religious matters; here the reference is to Bunyan.

pe dan'tic, making a show of learning. big'ot ed, unreasonably devoted to some creed or opinion.

To'ry, one of a political party in Eng-
land who believed in keeping things
as they were, and supported the au-
thority of the king and the church.
the tin'ker, that is, Bunyan.
de cliv'i ty, a downward slope.
dis cern'i ble, capable of being seen.
noi'some, offensive in smell.
de lec'ta ble, delightful.

VANITY FAIR

JOHN BUNYAN

THEN I saw in my dream, that when they were got out of the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the name of that town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, called Vanity Fair. It is kept all the year long; it beareth the name of Vanity Fair, because the town where 'tis kept is lighter than vanity; and also because all that is there sold, or that cometh thither, is vanity. As is the saying of the wise, "all that cometh is vanity."

This fair is no new-erected business, but a thing of ancient standing; I will show you the original of it.

Almost five thousand years agone, there were pilgrims walking to the Celestial City, as these two honest persons are. And Beelzebub, Apollyon, and Legion, with their companions, perceiving by the path that the pilgrims made, that their way to the city lay through this town of* Vanity, they contrived here to set up a fair; a fair wherein should be sold all sorts of vanity, and that should last all the year long; therefore, at this fair, are all such merchandise sold, as houses, lands, trades, places, honors, preferments, titles, countries, kingdoms, pleasures; and delights of all sorts, as lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, precious stones, and what not.

And, moreover, at this fair there are at all times to be seen jugglings, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, and that of every kind. Here are to be seen, too, and that for nothing, thefts, murders, false swearers, and that of a blood-red color.

And as in other fairs of less moment, there are the sev