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A CHAPTER ON ANNUALS. 



Anon the aid, which Heaven alone can grant, 



Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain 



Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, 



Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, 



With brow low-bent within my Garden bower, 



I sate upon the Couch of Camomile. 



And whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance 



Flitting across the idle sense, the while 



I watch'd the sickly Calm with aimless scope 



In my own heart, or that indeed a Trance 



Turn'd my eye inward thee, O genial Hope, 



Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold, 



Brest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, 



With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, 



Lie lifeless at my feet ! 

 And then came Love, a Sylph in bridal trim 



And stood beside my seat. 

 She bent, and kissed her Sister's lips, 



As she was wont to do : 

 , Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath. 



That woke enough of life in death 



To make Hope die anew. 



The most striking poem in the volume, and indeed in the whole 

 series of the Annuals, is one for which, though long, we cannot do 

 otherwise than find room. It is by Charles Whitehead, author of 

 the " Solitary," a poem which has been unaccountably shuffled over 

 by those whose duty it was to have brought it forward as an orna- 

 ment to the literature of our country. Mr. Whitehead is as yet but 

 little known : if he stood where he ought he would be at an immea- 

 surable distance beyond the wishy-washy doggrel-mongers of the 

 present day, some of whom have been puffed into a strange though 

 ephemeral popularity. 



IPPOLITO : A CHIMERA IN RHYME. 



BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD. 



" This is the night this very night 

 Have I not read the stars aright ? " 

 With an eye of fear and a brow of pain 

 Ippolito gaz'd on his books again, 

 And clos'd them 'twas in vain ! 



Two vessels stood on the table : 

 Ippolito to him the vessels drew, 

 One was fill'd with honey dew, 

 One with hemlock sable. 

 Steadily as he was able, 

 Of poison he pour'd a single drop, 

 On the honey-dew it fell, 

 Still as water in a well, 

 And it rested on the top. 



" Hast thou not bitten the moongrown 



plant?" 



Ippolito lifted the cover of lead 

 The toad was shrunk with eager want, 

 For it never would be fed, 

 Jt lifted its eyes like a human thing, 

 "Poor wretch!" he mutter'd, " it pines and 



pines, 

 And cries to my soul with its piteous signs 



Eftsoons" and with a hasty fling 

 Down he shut the box of lead, 

 " To-night it will be dead ! 



" Every token tells me true 



The poison rests on the honey-dew, 



And the toad is dying too. 



I took it as it sat alone, 



Drawing the coldness out of a stone, 



And I pluck'd the shrieking mandrake root, 



And the plant beneath its slimy foot. 



Of all the stars that in heaven are, 



Was it not under the very star ? 



And know I not by that star in the sky, 



When it dies that she must die ? " 



He lean'd his brow upon his hand; 



The youth was weary with his woe, 



And his brain was dry as sand ; 



For never a loosen'd tear would flow, 



Since he had sought to understand 



What mortals may not know. 



But the air was through thecasementfann'd, 



And with it wafted a melody, 



A passing strain a niurmur'd song, 







