THE family of Mr. Pox is one of the oldest and most respectable in Baltimore. DAVID POE, his paternal grandfather, was a quartermaster-general in the Maryland line during the Revolution, and the intimate friend of LAFAYETTE, who, during his last visit to the United States, called personally upon the general's widow, and tendered her his acknowledgments for the services rendered to him by her husband. His great-grandfather, JOHN POE, married, in England, JANE, a daughter of Admiral JAMES MCBRIDE, noted in British naval history, and claiming kindred with some of the most illustrious English families. His father and mother died within a few weeks of each other, of consumption, leaving him an orphan, at two years of age. Mr. JOHN ALLAN, a wealthy gentleman of Richmond, Virginia, took a fancy to him, and persuaded General Poɛ, his grandfather, to suffer him to adopt him. He was brought up in Mr. ALLAN's family; and as that gentleman had no other children, he was regarded as his son and heir. In 1816 he accompanied Mr. and Mrs. ALLAN to Great Britain, visited every portion of it, and afterward passed four or five years in a school kept at Stoke Newington, near London, by the Reverend Doctor BRANSBY. He returned to America in 1822, and in 1825 went to the Jefferson University, at Charlottesville, in Virginia, where he led a very dissipated life, the manners of the college being at that time extremely dissolute. He took the first honours, however, and went home greatly in debt. Mr. ALLAN refused to pay some of his debts of honour, and he hastily quitted the country on a Quixotic expedition to join the Greeks,

then struggling for liberty. He did not reach his original destination, however, but made his way to St. Petersburg, in Russia, where he became involved in difficulties, from which he was extricated by Mr. MIDDLETON, the American consul at that place. He returned home in 1829, and immediately afterward entered the military academy at West Point. In about eighteen months from that time, Mr. ALLAN, who had lost his first wife while Poɛ was in Russia, married again. He was sixty-five years of age, and the lady was young; Poɛ quarrelled with her, and the veteran husband, taking the part of his wife, addressed him an angry letter, which was answered in the same spirit. He died soon after, leaving an infant son the heir to his vast property, and bequeathed Poɛ nothing. The army, in the opinion of the young cadet, was not a place for a poor man, so he left West Point abruptly, and determined to maintain himself by authorship. The proprietor of a weekly literary gazette in Baltimore offered two premiums, one for the best prose story, and the other for the best poem. In due time POE sent in two articles, and the examining committee, of whom Mr. KENNEDAY, the author of " HorseShoe Robinson," was one, awarded to him both the premiums, and took occasion to insert in the gazette a card under their signatures, in which he was very highly praised. Soon after this, he became associated with Mr. THOMAS W. WHITE in the conduct of the "Southern Literary Messenger," and he subsequently wrote for the "New York Review," and for several foreign periodicals. He is married, and now resides in Philadelphia, where he is connected with a popular monthly magazine.

COLISEUM.

TYPE of the antique Rome! rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation, left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length, at length-after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an alter'd and an humble man,
Within thy shadows-and so drink, within
My very soul, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.
Vastness, and age, and memories of eld!
Silence, and desolation, and dim night!
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strength.
O, spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O, charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the CESAR sate,
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder!
Here, where on ivory couch the monarch loll'd,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But hold!—these dark, these perishing arcades, These mouldering plinths, these sad and blacken'd shafts,

These vague entablatures, this broken frieze,
These shatter'd cornices, this wreck, this ruin,
These stones-alas! these gray stones, are they all,
All of the proud and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours, to fate and me?

"Not all," the echoes answer me, "not all,
Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all ruin, to the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the sun.

We rule the hearts of mightiest men; we rule,

With a despotic sway, all giant minds.
We are not impotent, we pallid stones;
Not all our power is gone, not all our fame,
Not all the magic of our high renown,
Not all the wonder that encircles us,
Not all the mysteries that in us lie,
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

In the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace (Snow-white palace) rear'd its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair. Banners, yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow; (This, all this, was in the olden Time, long ago.)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley

Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law; Round about a throne, where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well-befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,

A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assail'd the monarch's high estate;
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blush'd and bloom'd,
Is but a dim-remember'd story
Of the old time entomb'd.

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid, ghastly river,
Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh-but smile no more.

THE SLEEPER.

AT midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the mist about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not for the world awake.
All beauty sleeps!-and, lo! where lies,
With casement open to the skies,
Irene and her destinies !

O, lady bright, can it be right,
This lattice open to the night?
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber, in and out,
And wave the curtain-canopy

So fitfully, so fearfully,

Above the closed and fringéd lid

'Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid,
That o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts, the shadows rise and fall.
O, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to our garden-trees!
Strange is thy pallor-strange thy dress-
Stranger thy glorious length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps. O, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
This bed, being changed for one more holy,
This room for one more melancholy,
I pray to Gon that she may lie
Forever with unclosed eye!
My love she sleeps. O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall tomb unfold—
Some tomb that oft hath flung its black
And wing-like pannels, fluttering back,
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals,-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone,—
Some vault from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Nor thrill to think, poor child of sin,

It was the dead who groan'd within.

MR. MCLELLAN is a native of the city of Portland. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine, where he was graduated in 1826. He subsequently studied the law, and for a few years practised his profession in Boston. He has recently resided in the country, and devoted his

attention principally to agricultural pursuits. In the spring of 1830 he published "The Fall of the Indian," and, in 1832, The Year, and other Poems;" and he is the author of many metrical compositions, which have appeared in the literary magazines.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle pour'd
Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honour'd saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their GoD they gave their prayer,
And rush'd to battle then.
The GoD of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain,
And muster'd, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,

To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?

And where are ye to-day?

I call-the hills reply again
That ye have pass'd away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright
Above each soldier's mound.

The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have pass'd away.

THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.*

WILD was the night; yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by,

The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken,

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumph'd the Frenchman's "eagle;"
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,

At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,

He led again, in his dying dreams,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,

Made pale at his cannons' rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story:
In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."

With a despotic sway, all giant minds.
We are not impotent, we pallid stones;
Not all our power is gone, not all our fame,
Not all the magic of our high renown,
Not all the wonder that encircles us,
Not all the mysteries that in us lie,
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

THE HAUNTED PALACE.

In the greenest of our valleys,

By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace
(Snow-white palace) rear'd its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair.
Banners, yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow;
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time, long ago.)

And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley

Through two luminous windows saw Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law; Round about a throne, where, sitting (Porphyrogene!)

In state his glory well-befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,

A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assail'd the monarch's high estate;
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blush'd and bloom'd,
Is but a dim-remember'd story
Of the old time entomb'd.

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a rapid, ghastly river,
Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh-but smile no more.

THE SLEEPER.

Ar midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain-top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the mist about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see, the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not for the world awake.
All beauty sleeps!-and, lo! where lies,
With casement open to the skies,
Irene and her destinies !

O, lady bright, can it be right,
This lattice open to the night?
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber, in and out,
And wave the curtain-canopy
So fitfully, so fearfully,

Above the closed and fringéd lid

'Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid,
That o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts, the shadows rise and fall.
O, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to our garden-trees!
Strange is thy pallor-strange thy dress-
Stranger thy glorious length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps. O, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
This bed, being changed for one more holy,
This room for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unclosed eye!
My love she sleeps. O, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall tomb unfold—
Some tomb that oft hath flung its black
And wing-like pannels, fluttering back,
Triumphant o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals,-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone,-
Some vault from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Nor thrill to think, poor child of sin,

It was the dead who groan'd within.

MR. MCLELLAN is a native of the city of Portland. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in Maine, where he was graduated in 1826. He subsequently studied the law, and for a few years practised his profession in Boston. He has recently resided in the country, and devoted his

attention principally to agricultural pursuits. In the spring of 1830 he published “The Fall of the Indian," and, in 1832, "The Year, and other Poems;" and he is the author of many metrical compositions, which have appeared in the literary magazines.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD.

NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD! New England's dead! On every hill they lie;

On every field of strife, made red

By bloody victory.

Each valley, where the battle pour'd

Its red and awful tide,

Beheld the brave New England sword

With slaughter deeply dyed.

Their bones are on the northern hill,
And on the southern plain,
By brook and river, lake and rill,
And by the roaring main.

The land is holy where they fought,

And holy where they fell;

For by their blood that land was bought,
The land they loved so well.
Then glory to that valiant band,
The honour'd saviours of the land!

O, few and weak their numbers were-
A handful of brave men;

But to their GoD they gave their prayer,
And rush'd to battle then.
The Gop of battles heard their cry,
And sent to them the victory.
They left the ploughshare in the mould,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,
The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain,
And muster'd, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

And where are ye, O fearless men?
And where are ye to-day?

I call-the hills reply again
That ye have pass'd away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright
Above each soldier's mound.
The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they heed not its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought,
In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have pass'd away.

THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.*

WILD was the night; yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by,

The few that his stern heart cherish'd;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perish'd.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken,

That he dream'd of days when the nations shook,
And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumph'd the Frenchman's "eagle;"
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
He led again, in his dying dreams,

His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,
Made pale at his cannons' rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story:

In the rocky land they placed his clay,
"And left him alone with his glory."