As if to the outward ear:
"Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"

Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those

Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close.
And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavour,
Grown familiar with the savour
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine

Seemed to them the bread and wine
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
“Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!"
Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar's clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision,
And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion,

As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turned his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,

Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling
At the threshold of his door,
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning,
When the Blessed Vision said,

"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"

(181.) ANNABEL LEE.

H. W. Longfellow.

Edgar Allan Poe, poet and miscellaneous writer, born in Baltimore, 1811, died in Baltimore Hospital, 1849. The poem of "The Raven" (p. 294) obtained for him remarkable popularity, but his debased life rendered him unable to derive much advantage from the reputation he achieved. Poetry with him, he said, was not a purpose but a passion. Equal in its weirdness with "The Raven" is his poem of "The Bells" (see p. 42).

It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the Sea, that a Maiden there lived, whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee; and this Maiden she lived with no other thought than to love, and be loved by me! I was a child, and she was a child, in this kingdom by the Sea; but we loved with a love that was more than love-I and my Annabel Lee; with a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven coveted her and me! And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the Sea, a wind blew out of a cloud, chilling my beautiful Annabel Lee; so that her high-born kinsmen came, and bore her away from me, to shut her up in a sepulchre—in this kingdom by the Sea. The Angels, not half so happy in heaven, went envying her and me; yes! that was the reason (as all men know, in this kingdom by the Sea) that the Wind came out of the cloud by night, chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was

-of

stronger by far than the love of those who were older than wemany far wiser than we; and neither the Angels in heaven above,— nor the Demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee! For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the beautiful Annabel Lee; and the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee; and so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride; in her sepulchre there by the Sea,-in her tomb by the sounding Sea!

(182.) A ROUGH DIAMOND.

John Baldwin Buckstone, comedian and dramatist, b. 1802, d. 1879. Writer of upwards of one hundred dramas.

[Sir William Evergreen, a baronet, has, whilst staying at a farmhouse, fallen in love with the farmer's daughter, and married her. He brings her to London, and endeavours to educate her by the aid of visiting masters, and to train her in the conventionalities of fashionable society, stipulating meantime that none of her relatives shall be received by her. Cousin Joe, an old playmate, accidentally calls on her, and the following scene is supposed to take place in the baronet's drawing

room.

The farce is published by Messrs. French & Co., 80 Strand, London, and the scene inserted by the special permission of the author.]

SIR WILLIAM EVERGREEN, MARGERY, and JOE.

Sir W. Now, my dear, that we are alone, I must tell you that your behaviour has been abominable.

Mar. Oh! has it? Now if I didn't think I was quite the lady!

Sir W. What with your directions respecting your animals, and your reference to your cousin Joe, and the old woman your schoolmistress, and your ridiculous eulogium on the uniform of the yeomanry, I thought I should have taken to my heels and have run out of the house.

Mar. I wish you had--I know I should have got on much better without you at my elbow. And as for my cousin Joe, he may be a stupid fellow and all that, but he's a very good fellow, and if he don't know how to make a proper bow, or a long speech like you do --such as when I've heard you practising to yourself about railroads, and borrowing money, and taxes, and the state of the nation, and situation of the population, and that horrible education-he can talk so as I can understand him, and that's more than I always can when you talk-or anybody else, for the matter o' that. And if I did like the sojers I used to see so often, what harm was

there in that? I'm sure the captain was a fine man, a very fine man, whiskers and all, and I've often looked at him till I've felt as if I could eat him.

Sir W. I know that you mean no harm-I know that your heart is pure; but you must learn to be conscious of your present station in society. The diamond, though of value in its rough and original state, must be polished and set before it can be worn. Now, to-day, when I rang for the cook and wished you to commence giving your own orders for dinner, and had previously practised you in the pronunciation of asking for cabillaud au gratin poulet roti--pomme de terre bute

Mar. Well, I couldn't recollect it, and so I thought it best to ask for what I liked better than anything.

Sir W. And are you aware what you did ask for?

Mar. I only asked for a toad in a hole.

Sir W. And didn't you perceive the vain endeavour of the servant to conceal his laughter? didn't you perceive my face suffused with blushes?

Mar. Well, I speak according to my knowledge, and I know I always speak the truth and what I want to say, without any beating about the bush; and that's much better than being deceitful and making believe to be glad to see people when you really wish 'em at Jericho, and go grinning and smiling up to 'em, and shaking hands, when in your heart you'd like to shake 'em inside out-and make use of fine words and say beautiful things when you don't mean it. You may call it polish if you like, but I call it telling lies.

Sir W. But the usages of society—the▬▬

Mar. I don't care! I shall follow my own usages, and I begin this morning by packing off my French master and my music master; and as for the dancing master, if he dares come here again and make my feet ache as he did yesterday, I'll break his little fiddle over his head for him!

SIR WILLIAM retires. Enter a SERVANT.

Serv. If you please, ma'am, there is an individual asking for you— says his name is Cousin Joe.

COUSIN JOE appears at the back. SIR WILLIAM eyes Joe

disdainfully and goes out.

Joe. This must be the house-I found the gate open, and the Nag's Head told me this was Sir William's, and he's the gentlemau that married my cousin, and--— What, Margery! Why, bless us!

Mar. What, Joe, is it you? how d'ye do, Joe? [They shake hands.] Well, I am glad to see you! Well, and how are you, cousin Joe? Joe. Oh, I'm very well, thank ye!

Mar. What's brought you here? come to see me?

Joe. Yes.

Mar. That's right.

Joe. I'm going up to a place in London. You see, mother knows somebody there, and as I didn't care much about farming, and always had a kind o' sort o' notion of being a bit of a gentleman, why, they said I was cut out for sarvice; and the end of it is, I'm going to London to be a page to a fine lady.

Mar. La! Joe!

Joe. The very thing for a genteel youth like me, they say. I ain't to wear these clothes then. No, I'm to be all over buttons, and have a hat with gold lace, and my hair is to be curled every morning, and I'm to carry letters in to missus on a silver plate, and walk arter her with the lap-dog in the street, and take care nobody's sarcy to her.

Mar. Can't you stop here a day or two before you go to your place? we would have such fun-for though my husband has often said that none of my family must come here, as he wanted me to forget all their ways, yet as you are here, I think I could coax him to let you stop. Sit down, Joe - here's a chair. [Hands him a chair. They sit.] Well, and so-and how's your mother?

Joe. Hearty.

Mar. And what's the news?---tell me all you can think of. Has Tom Dixon married Lizzie Turvey yet?

Joe. No; they were going to be married only a week ago, and when they got to the church Tom took fright and ran all the way home again, and left Lizzie Turvey crying her eyes out at the porch door.

Mar. You don't say so! Well, I always said Tom was a fool. How comfortable this is to have somebody to talk to in one's own fashion! I do feel so free and easy again! Well, and tell me, Joe, is Dame Willows living?

Joe. No-died six months ago.

Mar. Did she leave all her money to her nephew, Jem Porter? Joe. No, bless your life! Oh, there's such work!

Mar. Come, go on!-go on! and tell me.

Joe. You see, Jem made sure of the money, and lived in such style-bought a horse and shay, and went to races, and played nine pins-when, lo and behold! the old lady died and he found it was