“The following, from our new-found boy poet of fifteen years of age, shows a most happy faculty of imitation”:—
The Gazelle.
(After the manner of Poe’s “Raven.”)
Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick and sad soul pondering,
Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time’s ever-swinging bell,
While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me by the fountain,
By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the quiet dell;
Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could not tell,
Merely whispering, “Fare thee well.”
From my grassy seat uprising, dimly in my soul surmising,
Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly sounded knell,