John Bethune. Born 1810. Died 1839. SON of a farm labourer in Fife, who amid the most discouraging circumstances educated himself, and whose works have obtained an honourable place in literature. In conjunction with his brother Alexander, he first appeared as an author in "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," published in 1838. On his death in 1839, his brother edited a volume of poetical pieces left by him. THE FIRST OF WINTER. And moaning 'mid the forest trees Which summons Winter's stormy powers Darker and darker grows the sky; With voice more loud and louder still The ear with awful melody. Each tone of that majestic harp Which now is murk and bare! Alas! But ah! that tempest music tells Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells When the poor bark is dash'd and driven, Hath an appalling power, As swellingly it sweeps along O'er broken tree and blasted flower. The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips, The dread, dread crash of sinking ships, Are blended with that maddening blast, Of Him who on its murky wing In desolation o'er the land: At his command alone it raves O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves. Edgar Allan Poe. Born 1811. Died 1849. A BRIGHT but erring American genius. He was a native of Baltimore, and, left destitute by the death of both his parents, was adopted and educated by Mr Allan, a Virginian planter, who endeavoured to have him respectably settled in life. But all attempts to guide his wayward spirit were vain, and he died the victim of intemperance, on 7th October 1849, in an hospital in Baltimore. He was a frequent contributor to the American periodicals; but his name is chiefly famous from his poem "The Raven," an original and striking piece. FROM "THE RAVEN." ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door; ""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more." Ah! distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my 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 curtain ·Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat ing: "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamberdoor Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door: This it is, and nothing more." 66 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 66 Sir," said I, or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. "Surely," said I-"surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. 'Tis the wind, and nothing more.' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mein of lord or lady, perched above my chamberdoor Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door Perched and sat, and nothing more. Charles Mackay, E.E.D. Born 1812. A NATIVE of Perth, where he was born in 1812. In his infancy he was removed to London, and his early youth was spent in Belgium. He commenced his literary career in 1834, by the publication of a volume of poems. He now fairly devoted himself to a literary career, and while editing the "Glasgow Argus," from 1844 to 1847, volume after volume of poems appeared from his pen. Returning to London, he became editor of the "Illustrated London News," besides continuing to issue his poetical works. He is also the author of some prose works. In 1852 Mackay made a tour in America, and he has embodied his impressions in a lively volume, "Life and Liberty in America." He is now (1862) "The Times" American correspondent. CLEAR THE WAY. MEN of thought! be up, and stirring Sow and seed-withdraw the curtain Clear the way! Men of action, aid and cheer them, As ye may! There's a fount about to stream, Men of thought and men of action, Once the welcome light has broken, What the unimagined glories What the evil that shall perish Aid the dawning, tongue and pen; Aid it, for the hour is ripe, And our earnest must not slacken Men of thought and men of action, Lo! a cloud's about to vanish From the day; And a brazen wrong to crumble Lo! the right's about to conquer With the Right shall many more Men of thought and men of action, |