And yet, Lenore, dost thou not guess
What draws me now from her to thee,
What prompts me thus thy hand to press,
And from thy lips seek Fate's decree?
Call me not fickle; for I'll love
With fondness growing e'er more fond;
More tender be than gentle dove
Tow'rds her I prize all else beyond.
Dost thou not guess—or wilt thou not—
The thoughts that in my bosom dwell?—
Then "lend me all the ears you've got,"
And I'll the mystery dispel:
More lovely than the summer sky
Your sister is, whom I adore!
I would propose—but I'm too shy;
Pray ask her for me, kind Lenore!
Final "Valkyrie—London"
Decision.—"Quoth
Dun-Raven, 'Never more!'"
"SERMONS."
Sir,—I have read some correspondence on this subject in the Daily Telegraph. Nothing very original. But, Sir, I must ask a question which I fancy will set clerics and laymen a thinking. This is it: Why should not a successful sermon have a good long run?