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.
On! sadly sighs the wint'ry breeze
Along the desert lea;

And moaning 'mid the forest trees
It sings a dirge to me,—
The solemn dirge of dying flowers-
The death song of the emerald bowers-
The first loud whistled lay,

Which summons Winter's stormy powers
On his coronation-day.

Darker and darker grows the sky;

With voice more loud and louder still
The stormy winds sweep by, and fill

The ear with awful melody.

Each tone of that majestic harp
Wakes other tones within to warp
My soul away, ainid its bass,
To the greenwood, which lately was
A picture to my eye-

Which now is murk and bare! Alas!
Its sere leaves rustle by.

But ah! that tempest music tells
A tale which saddens more-

Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells
On many a rocky shore,

When the poor bark is dash'd and driven,
And plunged below, and tossed to heaven,
Amid the ocean's roar.
And oh! its wild and varied song

Hath an appalling power,

As swellingly it sweeps along

O'er broken tree and blasted flower.

The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips,
The sigh of sorrowing breath,

The dread, dread crash of sinking ships,
The gurgling shriek of death,
Affection's wildest, warmest wish,
Devotion's holiest cry,

Are blended with that maddening blast,
And on the chords of sympathy
Their varying accents now are cast.
Yet more-it tells of more-

Of Him who on its murky wing
Rides calmly, and directs its roar,
Or stills it with His nod:
Its voice is raised even now to sing
A wilder melody to God,
Who holds it in night's silent hush
Within the hollow of His hand,
Or bids it from His presence rush

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
Night and day:

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,
There's a light about to beam,
There's a warmth about to glow,
There's a flower about to blow;
There's a midnight blackness changing
Into gray;

Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!

Once the welcome light has broken,
Who shall say

What the unimagined glories
Of the day?

What the evil that shall perish
In its ray?

Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, hopes of honest men ;
Aid it, paper-aid it, type-

Aid it, for the hour is ripe,

And our earnest must not slacken
Into play.

Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!

Lo! a cloud's about to vanish

From the day;

And a brazen wrong to crumble
Into clay.

Lo! the right's about to conquer
Clear the way!

With the Right shall many more
Enter smiling at the door;
With the giant Wrong shall fall
Many others, great and small,
That for ages long have held us
For their prey.

Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!