And I said-"She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs-
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on

These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies-
To the Lethean peace of the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lión,

To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said "Sadly this star I mistrustHer pallor I strangely mistrust :Oh, hasten!-oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly-let us fly!-for we must." In terror she spoke, letting sink her

Wings until they trailed in the dust

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dust-
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybilic splendour is beaming

With Hope and in Beauty to-night:

See!-it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
We safely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied "Ulalume-Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crisped and sereAs the leaves that were withering and sere, And I cried-"It was surely October

On this very night of last year

That I journeyed-I journeyed down here—
That I brought a dread burden down here—
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
This misty mid region of Weir—

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,

This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

IEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,

Thou's met me in an evil hour:

For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' speckled breast,

When upward springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,

High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-neld,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,

Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven
To misery's brink,

Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruin'd, sink!

E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,

Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!

St. 1: Thou's, Thou earth. St. 2: no, not;

hast; maun, must; stoure, broken-ur neebor, neighbour; weet, wet. St. 3: glinted, shone, glanced. St. 4: wa's maun, walls must; bield, shelter; stane, stone; histie stibble-field, dry and rugged stubblefield; alane, alone.

SUBLIMITY OF THE PROPHET ISAIAH.

BY ROBERT LOWTH, BISHOP OF LONDON.

I HOEVER wishes to understand the full force and excellence of the figure of Personification, as well as the elegant use of it in the Hebrew ode, must apply to Isaiah, whom I do not scruple to pronounce the sublimest of poets. He will there find, in