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“ IT CAME AGAIN WITH A GREAT WAKENING LIGHT."

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And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold :-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou ? ”—The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, The names of those who love the

Lord.”
“And is mine one ? ” said Abou. “Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

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The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had

blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

TOO LATE.

“LATE, late, so late! and dark the night and

chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

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No light had we: for that we do repent ;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

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'No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O let us in, that we may find the light !

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

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Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now."

Alfred TENNYSON.

A SECRET.

'Tis not in seeking,
'Tis not in endless striving,

Thy quest is found:
Be still and listen ;
Be still and drink the quiet

Of all around.

Not for thy crying,
Not for thy loud beseeching,

Will peace draw near;
Rest with palms folded ;
Rest with thine eyelids fallen-
Lo!
peace
is here.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

THE RAVEN.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered,

weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of for

gotten lore,

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AH, DISTINCTLY I REMEMBER IT WAS IN THE BLEAK DECEMBER."

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 tried

to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for

the lost LenoreFor 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 beiore; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood

repeating, 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my

chamber-door, Some late visitor entreating entrance at my cham

ber-door;
This it is and nothing more."

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