THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. To make my lady's obsequies, My love a minster wrought; And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, And round about, in quaintest guise, Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies The fairest thing in mortal eyes." Above her lieth spread a tomb, Of gold and sapphires blue: When gracious God with both His hands Her goodly substance made. He framed her in such wondrous wise, She was, to speak without disguise, The fairest thing in mortal eyes. A DEATH-BED. No more, no more! my heart doth faint Of her, who lived so free from taint, I think that she was ta'en Whom, while on earth, each one did prize But naught our tears avail, or cries: All soon or late in death shall sleep; Nor living wight long time may keep CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS. (French.) Translation of Rev. HENRY FRANCIS CARY. A DEATH-BED. HER suffering ended with the day; Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away, In statue-like repose. But when the sun, in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through Glory's morning-gate, And walked in Paradise! JAMES ALDRICH. ANNABEL LEE. It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden 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 winged seraphs of heaven And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling So that her high-born kinsmen came, To shut her up in a sepulchre The angels, not so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes! that was the reason (as all men know), THE LITTLE BROWN MAN. That the wind came out of the cloud by night, But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of many far wiser than we; And neither the angels in heaven above, Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side In her tomb by the sounding sea. EDGAR ALLAN POE. THE LITTLE BROWN MAN. A LITTLE man we've here, All in a suit of brown, Upon town; He's as brisk as bottled beer, And, without a shilling rent, Lives content: THE LITTLE BROWN MAN. "For d'ye see," says he, "my plan, D'ye see," says he, "my plan, My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!" Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man! When every mad grisette He has toasted, till his score Holds no more, Then, head and ears in debt, 66 When the duns and bums abound All around, 'D'ye see," says he, "my plan, D'ye see," says he, "my plan, My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that! Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man! When the rain comes through his attic, Without bread; When the winter winds rheumatic Make him blow his nails, for dire Want of fire, "D'ye see," says he, "my plan, D'ye see," says he, "my plan, My plan, d'ye see, 's to-laugh at that!" Sing merrily, sing merrily, the Little Brown Man! His wife, a dashing figure, Makes shift to pay her clothes By her beaux; The gallanter they rig her, |