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THE CRADLE OR COFFIN.

[Given under the inspiration of Poe.]

THE Cradle or Coffin, the robe or the shroud, Of which shall a mortal most truly be proud? The cradle rocks light as a boat on the billow, The child lies asleep on his soft, downy pillow, And the mother sits near with her love-lighted

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Sits watching her treasure, and dreamily singing, While the cradle keeps time, like a pendulum

swinging,

And notes every moment of bliss as it flies.

Lullaby baby-watch o'er his rest!

The dear little fledgling asleep in his nest. How blest is that slumber-how calm he reposes, With his sweet, pouting lips, and his cheeks flushed

with roses!

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O, God of the Innocent, would it might last! But know, thou fond mother, beyond thy perceiving, The Parcæ are near him, and steadily weaving The meshes of Fate which around him they cast!

Lullaby baby-let him not wake!

Soon shall the bubble of infancy break;

Life, with its terrors and fears, shall surround him, Evil and Good with strange problems confound

him,

And, as the charmed bird to the serpent is drawn, The demons of hell, from his proudest position, Shall drag down his soul to the depths of perdition,

Till he bitterly curses the day he was born!

The Cradle or Coffin, the blanket or pall—
O, which brings a blessing of peace unto all?

How still is the Coffin! No undulant motion;

Becalmed like a boat on the breast of the ocean.

And there lies the child, with his half-curtained

eyes,

While his mother stands near him, her love-watch

still keeping,

And kisses his pale lips with wailing and weeping,

Till her anguish is dumb, or can speak but in sighs.

He needs not a lullaby now for his rest;

The fledgling has fluttered, and flown from his

nest.

He starts not, he breathes not, he knows no awak

ing,

Though sad eyes are weeping and fond hearts are

breaking.

O, God of all mercy, how strange are thy ways! Yet know, thou fond mother, beyond thy per

ceiving,

The angels who took him are tenderly weaving

His vestments of beauty, his garments of praise.

O, call him not back to earth's weariness now, For blossoms unfading encircle his brow;

From glory to glory forever ascending,

His soul with the soul of the Infinite blending, Great luminous truths on his being shall dawn. With no doubts to distract him, or stay his endeavor,

He shall bless in his progress, forever and ever, The day that his soul to the Kingdom was born.

The Cradle or Coffin, the robe or the shroud,
Of which shall a mortal most truly be proud?
The Cradle or Coffin, the blanket or pall,
O, which brings a blessing of peace unto all?
The Cradle or Coffin, both places of rest-
Tell us, O mortals, which like ye the best?

THE STREETS OF BALTIMORE.

"EDGAR A. POE. As the circumstances attendant upon the death of Poe are not generally known, it may be well to present the facts in connection with the following poem. Having occasion to pass through Baltimore a few days before his intended marriage with a lady of family and fortune in Virginia, Poe met with some of his old associates, who induced him to drink with them, although, as we are informed, he had entirely abstained for a year. This aroused the appetite which had so long slumbered within him, and in a short time he wandered forth into the street in a state of drunken delirium, and was found next morning literally dying from exposure. He was taken to a hospital, and on the 7th of October, 1849, at the age of thirty-eight, he closed his troubled life. The tortures and terrors of that night of suffering are vividly portrayed in the following poem, composed in spirit-life, and given by him through the mediumship of Miss Lizzie Doten, at the conclusion of her lecture in Baltimore, on Sunday evening, January 11, 1833."— Banner of Light.

WOMAN weak, and woman mortal,
Through thy spirit's open portal,

I would read the Runic record

Of mine earthly being o'er

I would feel that fire returning,
Which within my soul was burning,

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