Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no

craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber-door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown be-
fore-

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said: "Never more."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,

Of Never-never more.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Never more."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

censer

Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch!" I cried, "thy god hath lent thee-by these angels he hath

sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven: "Never more!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven: "Never more.

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aiden,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore !"
Quoth the Raven: "Never more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting

"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken !-quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven: "Never more."

And the Raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light, o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the

floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted-never more!

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, 1812-1850.

THIS distinguished female poet was the daughter of Joseph Locke, a merchant of Boston, and was born in that city about the year 1812.' Her early life was passed principally in Hingham, a beautiful village on the shores of Massachusetts Bay; and here she early displayed that poetical genius which has given her a place among our first poets for delicate fancy, and ease and naturalness of versification. Her first printed productions appeared in Mrs. L. M. Child's "Juvenile Miscellany," when she was about seventeen years of age. Soon after this,

Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, her half-sister, on her mother's side, was no mean poetess; and Mr. A. A. Locke, her brother, was a fine writer, both in prose and verse, and a contributor for many years to some of the Boston journals.

she wrote for the "Ladies' Magazine," edited by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, under the signature of Florence. In 1835, she was married to Mr. S. S. Osgood, a distinguished portrait-painter, and a man of a highly cultivated literary taste, who fully appreciated the genius of his wife. Soon after their marriage, they went to London, where Mr. Osgood received great encouragement in the line of his art, while his wife published a small volume called "The Casket of Fate," and also a collection of her poems, under the title of "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England," both of which were much admired, and favorably noticed in some of the leading literary journals.

In 1840, Mr. and Mrs. Osgood returned to the United States, and after being some time in Boston, took up their residence in New York. Here she wrote continually for the magazines, and edited "The Poetry of Flowers and the Flowers of Poetry," and "The Floral Offering," two richly illustrated souvenirs. But her health began gradually to decline, and in the winter of 1847-8, she was so much of an invalid as to be confined to the house. Her husband's health, also, was feeble, and he was advised to seek a change of climate. The next year, as her health improved, Mr. Osgood sailed for California, with fine prospects there in the line of his profession. He returned in 1850, with his fortunes as well as health improved, but just in time to be with his wife in the last few weeks of her life. A few days before she died, "she wrote for a young girl at her side, who was making and teaching her to make paper flowers, the following lines:

You're woven roses round my way,

And gladdened all my being;

How much I thank you, none can say,

Save only the All-seeing.

I'm going through the eternal gates,
Ere June's sweet roses blow;

Death's lovely angel leads me there,

And it is sweet to go.

The touching prophecy was fulfilled by her calm death, five days after, on Sunday afternoon, May 12, 1850. Her remains were removed to Boston, and laid beside those of her mother and daughter, at Mount Auburn, on Wednesday of the same week."

Of the character of her poetry one of our own poets thus speaks :— "Mrs. Osgood has a rich fancy-even a rich imagination-a scrupulous taste, a faultless style, and an ear finely attuned to the delicacies of melody. In that vague and anomalous something which we call grace, for want of a more definite term, and which, perhaps, in its

1 Duyckinek.

supreme development, may be found to comprehend nearly all that is genuine in poetry-in this magical quality-magical, because at once so shadowy and so irresistible, Mrs. Osgood has assuredly no superior in America, if, indeed, she has any equal under the sun."

MAY-DAY IN NEW ENGLAND.

Can this be May? Can this be May?

We have not found a flower to-day!

We roamed the wood-we climbed the hill-
We rested by the rushing rill-

And lest they had forgot the day,

We told them it was May, dear May!

We called the sweet wild blooms by name-
We shouted, and no answer came!

From smiling field, or solemn hill-
From rugged rock, or rushing rill-
We only bade the petty pets

Just breathe from out their hiding-places;
We told the little, light coquettes

They needn't show their bashful faces-
"One sigh," we said, "one fragrant sigh,
We'll soon discover where you lie !"
The roguish things were still as death-
They wouldn't even breathe a breath.
Alas! there's none so deaf, I fear,

As those who do not choose to hear!

You have not found a flower to-day!
What's that upon your cheek, I pray?
A blossom pure, and sweet, and wild,

And worth all Nature's blooming wealth;
Not all in vain your search, my child!—
You've found at least the rose of health!
The golden buttercup, you say,
That like a smile illumes the way,
Is nowhere to be seen to-day.
Fair child upon that beaming face
A softer, lovelier smile I trace;
A treasure, as the sunshine bright-
A glow of love and wild delight!
Then pine no more for Nature's toy-
You've found at least the flower of joy.
Yes in a heart so young and gay,
And kind as yours, 't is always May!
For gentle feelings, love, are flowers
That bloom thro' life's most clouded hours!

Edgar A. Poe.

Ah! cherish them, my happy child,
And check the weeds that wander wild!
And while their stainless wealth is given,
In incense sweet, to earth and heaven,
No longer will you need to say-

"Can this be May? Can this be May ?"

THE MORNING WALK, OR THE STOLEN BLUSH.

Never tell me that cheek is not painted, false maid!
"Tis a fib, though your pretty lip parts while I say it;
And if the cheat were not already betray'd,

Those exquisite blushes themselves would betray it.
But listen! This morning you rose ere the dawn,
To keep an appointment, perhaps-with Apollo;
And, finding a fairy footprint on the lawn

Which I could not mistake, I determined to follow.
To the hillside I track'd it, and, tripping above me,
Her sun-ringlets flying and jewell'd with dew,
A maiden I saw! Now the truth, if you love me-
But why should I question-I'm sure it was you.
And you cannot deny you were met in ascending-
I, meanwhile, pursuing my truant by stealth-
By a blooming young seraph, who turn'd, and, attending
Your steps, said her name was the Spirit of Health.
Meantime, through the mist of transparent vermilion
That suddenly flooded the brow of the hill,
All fretted with gold rose Aurora's pavilion,

Illumining meadow, and mountain, and rill.

And Health, floating up through the luminous air,

Dipped her fingers of snow in those clouds growing bright; Then turn'd, and dash'd down o'er her votary fair

A handful of rose-beams that bathed her in light.

Even yet they're at play here and there in your form,
Through your fingers they steal to your white taper tips,
Now rush to that cheek its soft dimples to warm,

Now deepen the crimson that lives in your lips.
Will you tell me again, with that scorn-lighted eye,
That you do not use paint, while such tinting is there?
While the glow still affirms what the glance would deny ?
No, in future disclaim the sweet theft, if you dare!

THE CHILD PLAYING WITH A WATCH.

Art thou playing with Time in thy sweet baby-glee?
Will he pause on his pinions to frolic with thee?