Summon'd tears, in copious torrents,- Tears, and sobs, and piteous sighs; Well she knew the potent practice, The artillery of the eyes.
And it chanced as she imagined,- Beautiful in grief was she,- Beautiful to best advantage,
And a tender heart had he.
Kneeling at her side, he soothed her, "Dear Joanna! I was wrong; Nevermore I'll contradict you,— But, oh make my coffee strong!"
NONE will dwell in that cottage, for they say Oppression reft it from an honest man, And that a curse clings to it: hence the vine Trails its weight of leaves upon the ground, Hence weeds are in the garden, hence the hedge, Once sweet with honey-suckle, is half dead; And hence the grey moss on the apple tree. One once dwelt there who had been in his youth A soldier; and when many years were passed,
He sought his native village, and sat down To end his days in peace. He had one child; A little laughing thing, whose dark eyes, He said, were like her mother's she had left Buried in a stranger's land; and time went on In comfort and content-and that fair girl Had grown far taller than the red rose tree Her father planted on her first English birth-day; And he had trained it up against an ash Till it became his pride-it was so rich In blossom and in beauty, it was called The tree of Isabel ! "Twas an appeal To all the better feelings of the heart To mark their quiet happiness; their home, In truth, a home of love; and more than all, To see them on the Sabbath, when they came Among the first to church; and Isabel, With her bright color, and her clear blue eyes, Bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer; And in the hymn her sweet voice audible: Her father looked so fond of her, and then From her looked up so thankfully to Heaven! And their small cottage was so very neat ;
Their garden filled with fruits, and herbs, and flowers; And in the winter there was no fireside
So cheerful as their own. But other days And other fortunes came-an evil power! They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped For better times, but ruin came at last; And the old soldier left his own dear home,
And left it for a prison.
One of June's brightest days-the bee, the bird, The butterfly were on their lightest wings;
The fruits had their first tinge of summer light The sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad, And the old man looked back upon his cottage, And wept aloud;-they hurried him away, And the dear child that would not leave his side. They led him from the sight of the blue heaven And the green trees, into a low dark cell, The windows shutting out the blessed sun With iron grating; and for the first time He threw him on his bed, and could not hear His Isabel's "good night." But the next morn She was the earliest at the prison gate,
The last on whom it closed: and her sweet voice, And sweeter smile, made him forget to pine. She brought every morning fresh wild flowers; But every morning could he mark her cheek Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones Get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew Was on the hand he held. One day he saw The sun shine through the grating of his cell, Yet Isabel came not; at every sound His heart-beat took away his breath, yet still She came not near him. But one sad day He mark'd the dull street, through the iron bars, That shut him from the world; at length he saw A coffin carried carelessly along
And he grew desperate; he forced the bars,
And he stood on the street free and alone. He had no aim-no wish for liberty;
He only felt one want-to see the corse That had no mourners. When they set it down, Ere 'twas lower'd into the new dug grave, A rush of passion came upon his soul; He tore off the lid, and saw the face Of Isabel, and knew he had no child! He lay down by the coffin, quietly- His heart was broken.
ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came
As of some one gently rapping-rapping at my
""Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, tapping at my
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the black
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
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
Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you. came rapping,
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