[Illustration] FOR ANNIE. I. Thank Heaven, the crisis, The danger is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last; And the fever called “living” Is conquered at last. II. Sadly I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length; But no matter; I feel I am better at length. * * * * * VIII. And, ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed―― And, to _sleep_, you must slumber In just such a bed. * * * * * EDGAR A. POE. ――――:o:―――― TRISTAN AND ISOLDE. (_By one who does not appreciate Wagner._) Thank heaven the music Is silent at last, And the howling trombones Have ended their blast; And the opera called ‘Tristan’ Is finished at last. Sadly I know Of its “wonderful strength” As I dared not to move Through its wearisome length; But no matter I feel It is quiet――at length. For I could not be dozing, Nor yet nod my head, Lest any stall holder Should fancy me dead; To the beauty of Wagner (Alas! I _was_ dead.) The moaning and groaning, The shrieking and sobbing, All quieted now With that horrible throbbing Of fiddles,――that horrible Horrible throbbing. The noise and the bluster, The leitmotif’s pain; The pitiless torture Of melody vain; The “melody endless,” That torturing strain. For oh! of all tortures, That motif was worst, That creepingly crawling Motif at first; That writhed like a serpent And did all its worst To crush all one’s senses Of tune, from the first. The music roared on An inferno of sound, That’s heard by a few Very far underground,―― In a place that’s not quoted Far under the ground. And oh! let it never Be foolishly said, That Wagner’s not gloomy, Altho’ he be dead,―― And nothing but good Should be said of the dead; Yet that were too awful A lie, tho’ he’s dead. Tho’ my heart is a stout one And feels passing bold, a World full of perils I’d dare, but for gold, a Fortune past counting I’d shrink to behold, a―― Again that mad opera Tristan and Isolde. J. W. G. W., 1884. (Written expressly for this collection). [Illustration] COVENT GARDEN. _By a Lover of Poe-try._