EDGAR A. POE. [Born, 1811.] 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 Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair But hold!—these dark, these perishing arcades, These mouldering plinths, these sad and blacken'd shafts, These vague entablatures, this broken frieze, "Not all," the echoes answer me, "not all, We rule the hearts of mightiest men; we rule, With a despotic sway, all giant minds. 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, Through two luminous windows saw 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 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. Assail'd the monarch's high estate; And travellers now within that valley, A hideous throng rush out for ever, THE SLEEPER. AT midnight, in the month of June, The rosemary nods upon the grave; O, lady bright, can it be right, So fitfully, so fearfully, Above the closed and fringéd lid 'Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid, The lady sleeps. O, may her sleep, It was the dead who groan'd within. ISAAC MCLELLAN, JR. [Born about 1810.] 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 Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, O, few and weak their numbers were- But to their GoD they gave their prayer, 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 on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The bugle's wild and warlike blast The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, From their old graves shall rouse them not, THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.* WILD was the night; yet a wilder night The few that his stern heart cherish'd; They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dream'd of days when the nations shook, He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, At the pyramids, at the mountain, On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams He led again, in his dying dreams, Again Marengo's field was won, Made pale at his cannons' rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, With a despotic sway, all giant minds. THE HAUNTED PALACE. In the greenest of our valleys, By good angels tenanted, Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair. And every gentle air that dallied, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 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 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. Assail'd the monarch's high estate; And travellers now within that valley, A hideous throng rush out for ever, THE SLEEPER. Ar midnight, in the month of June, The rosemary nods upon the grave; O, lady bright, can it be right, Above the closed and fringéd lid 'Neath which thy slumbering soul lies hid, The lady sleeps. O, may her sleep, It was the dead who groan'd within. ISAAC MCLELLAN, JR. [Born about 1810.] 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, The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell; For by their blood that land was bought, O, few and weak their numbers were- But to their GoD they gave their prayer, To right those wrongs, come weal, come wo, And where are ye, O fearless men? I call-the hills reply again That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, From their old graves shall rouse them not, THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.* WILD was the night; yet a wilder night The few that his stern heart cherish'd; They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dream'd of days when the nations shook, He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams His hosts, the broad earth quelling. Again Marengo's field was won, He died at the close of that darksome day, In the rocky land they placed his clay, |