And this maiden she lived with no other And this princess she lived with no other

But we loved with a love which was more And I loved with a love that was more

than love

I and my Annabel Lee:

than love-
This princess Victori-A:

With a love that the winged seraphs of With a love whose passion the seraphs of

The angels were not more happy in heaven,
Than she was that same day;

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know Yes! that was the reason (as all men know
In this kingdom by the sea)
In this kingdom far away)

That the wind came out of the cloud by That I tried to strangle myself with a night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

rope

Mourning and scorning my Victori-A.

But our love it was stronger by far than But my body was heavy, and weak was the the love

Of those who were older than we-
Of many 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.

rope,

And so it turned out on that day

As my luck would have it that dayAnd when it had broken I thanked all my stars,

To discover my lips yet might say What I thought, when that pang dissevered my soul

From the love of queen Victori-A.

For the moon never beams, without bring- For the moonlight may beam, but it brings ing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

me no dream

Of the love of queen Victori-A;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the And the stars when they rise, recall not

bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

the bright eyes

Of the princess, hight Victori-A;

And so all the night-tide, I lie down by She is grown fat and stubby, and florid and ruddy,

the side

Of my darling, my darling, my life and I saw her last year, and her fingers are my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

puddy,

In the kingdom that lies far away,
On her throne that is far away.

But the old gent says that I must send you the letter by to-day's post. And, as it was begun on the 2d, while it is to-day the 10th* of the month, 1 presume it will not be much too early for your next number, all things (penny-a-liners especially; do not forget them) duly considered. Don't laugh too much at his "Victori-A," as he is uncommonly touchy, and apt to go up like a pound of gunpowder touched by a chance spark. Not that he is particularly dangerous, only to me it's confoundedly unpleasant. Had you a father reasonably well off, (which I don't at all doubt you may have,) you'd find it confoundedly unpleasant too.

So, good bye, my boy, and respect the paternal feelings as well as my When he is well, I shall come on and make your acquaintance. Believe me, dear Holly,

own.

Yours most truly and sincerely,

T. JEFFERSON BOWIE, JR.

[Some objectionable features in the preceding article, had they been observed in season by the proprietors of the REVIEW, would have prevented its publication.]

*We beg leave to mention to Mr. Bowie, Jr., that we did not receive his letter until the 27th of October. We do not mention this as a reproach either to him or to the Richmond post-office, but simply as an excuse for our having neglected to comply with his wishes, as regards the penny-a-liners he has once or twice mentioned. From our respect to Mr. Bowie, Sen., after reading the few first lines, we sent it to the printers; and when we had read the proof-on the 29th-we found to our intense regret that we had neglected to comply with Mr. Bowie, Jr.'s injunc tions. We felt ourselves, we are compelled to say, in a decided fix. Had we failed to insert the article, we own that we felt some slight fear of the peppery nature of Mr. Bowie. We confess, therefore, that our relish for the very evident good-fellowship of our present correspondent induced us to run the risk of his displeasure. Let us trust that he will forgive us and show that he does not bear malice to us for our oversight. In the hope that this will be the case, we shall drink his health in the first bumper of Lafitte our lips touch after penning this too-brief apology. For its brevity our only excuse is, that the printer's devil is actually waiting at the present moment.-EDITOR U. S. REVIEW.

A DREAM OF LOVE.

BY SPENCER W. CONE.

I.

THAT Sweetly-twinkling star, first 'mid the host

Of rolling orbs which Earth surround,

Yon isle of tempered flame, whose glittering coast Seems all with jewels bound,

They tell me to the Queen of Love

In Grecian faith was given

The star of morn, the star of night,

Steadfast in gloom, undimmed by light,

To men below and gods above

The chiefest joy of heaven!

II.

So, sleeping to the world, but all awake

To things too delicate for sense

To shape into realities, or take

Out of the mind, and marry, thence,

With what has form or being to the eye,

I went away-how, I know not

Up, through the vast of space,

To that bright spot,

Upon a message Aphroditas sent

By one of those her doves, which fly

Beside her sea-shell; and in a tent,

All made of rose-threads, from the rainbow wove

By poets' fingers who had died for love,

I found her, lying on an ivory bed

The Queen of Love and Beauty, whom the sea

Gave first, as a peace-offering, to the earth

Resting on one fair hand her head,

Waking and waiting me

For me, a mortal-and with dreamy eyes

Darting sweet lustre down the summer-skies.

III.

Then said she, and her voice was like the ringing

Of angelic choirs singing:

Mortal! I have made thee free
From all taint of earth to-night,
And thy soul till dawn shall be
Only full of love and light.
Take him, maidens, take away
To Love's grotto, and assay
With the fire of purity,

Ever burning, night and day,

Upward from the wave which flows

From the bosom of the rose.

IV.

Underneath the sloping side

Of a bank, with daisies pied-
Likest to a votive arch

Of evergreen, by maiden-fingers wove

To span the churchward march

Of some fair forest-sister

And her shepherd-love—

The entrance to a grotto opened wide.

A mighty rose-tree grew on either side,

And 'twixt them, from the grotto, flowed

A bubbling brook. What brook and tree might bode, I wist not; only in its flowing

Seemed the feet of spirits going,

With a delicate silver tripping,

Scarce below the surface dipping,

Making dimples in the tide,

Which, murmuring, flowed from side to side

Only in the rose-tree flowers

Seemed to lie imprisoned hours,

Drunk with perfume, and forgetting

Whether the sun was rising or setting.

Thither they brought me,

Those her two handmaids, with their sapphire eyes

And flowing tresses, wildly free,

Filling the air, which bore us on, with sighs

Of loving languor, and soft whisperings,

As, it might be, of pity-not all hopeless,
And yet sadly sweet-for me, their captive,
And my coming trial. They durst confess
No part of its strange nature to mine ear;
For who of mortal mould could hope to live,
Who should before the test love's trial hear?

V.

I know not how they brought me there;

I had no power to say them: Nay!

It seemed to me the west winds were
Our chariot for the way,

And bore us as it bears the hours,

Or down, blown from the petals of the flowers.

VI.

The brook flowed underneath us, as we wen.
Within the portals of the cave,

And, far away, a beacon sent

Its fire across the wave;

And, winding, gliding, wafted, on we came

To what, instead of beacon-light,
Seemed solid wall of barrier-flame,

Unutterably bright.

Uprising through the cavern wide,
It closed it in from side to side-
A wall of flame, but clear as glass,
Forbidding mortal foot to pass,
But giving, in a little, to the eye
To see beyond and far within.

There saw I, gently sleeping, lie

A form like our first mother's ere her sin.
Her eyelids, like the dawn, were half-apart;
Her hands were clasped upon her heart;

Her tresses free upon her bosom fell,

Its only covering, as its gentle swell,

Like drifted snow whereon the golden glow

Of sunset falls at eventide,

When the winds are whispering low,

Shone through their auburn pride.

Her face soul of my dreams! when morning's light,

Like some harsh tyrant, drags me from above,

Fair as thy starry home of fancies bright
Thou risest still-my day-star and my love.
Daughter of light! O centre of love's star!
How art thou like to one long loved, and lost!
Art thou another, or but she who far
Hath roved away unto the heavenly coast?
Art she, for whom this wild, insatiate soul

Forgot its yearning for all earthly fame,

Cast down Ambition's lurid torch, yet whole,

And lit Love's golden lamp at heaven's own altar-flame?