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Every blessing be upon her;

May her future pathway lie,

All beneath a smiling sky.

SPIRITUAL SONG

A Poe unsigned manuscript from 1836 contained this sonnet that consists of only 3 lines.

Hark, echo! - Hark, echo!

'Tis the sound

Of archangels, in happiness wrapt.

LATIN HYMN

Mille, mille, mille

Mille, mille, mille

Decollavimus, unus homo!

Mille, mille, mille, mille, decollavimus!

Mille, mille, mille!

Vivat qui mille mille occidit!

Tantum vini habet nemo

Quantum sanguinis effudit! — which may be thus paraphrased.

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand!

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand!

We with one warrior have slain.

A thousand, a thousand, a thousand, a thousand!

Sing a thousand over again.

Soho! let us sing

Long life to our king

Who knocked over a thousand so fine.

Soho! let us roar

He has given us more

Red gallons of gore

Than all Syria can furnish of wine!

LINES ON JOE LOCKE

This short two stanza poem was written to make fun of a commanding officer during Poe's time at West Point. Poe was known for his funny verses on staff and faculty at the academy. Lieutenant Locke was either generally not well-liked, or Poe had a more personal vendetta with him. The poem teases that Locke "was never known to lie" in bed while roll was being called, and he was "well known to report" (i.e. cadets for discipline purposes).

As for Locke, he is all in my eye,

May the d—l right soon for his soul call.

He never was known to lie —

In bed at a reveillé roll-call.”

John Locke was a notable name;

Joe Locke is a greater: in short,

The former was well known to fame,

But the latter’s well known “to report.”

A CAMPAIGN SONG

See the White Eagle soaring aloft to the sky,

Wakening the broad welkin with his loud battle cry;

Then here's the White Eagle, full daring is he,

As he sails on his pinions o'er valley and sea.

FOR ANNIE

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.

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.

And I rest so composedly,

Now, in my bed,

That any beholder

Might fancy me dead—

Might start at beholding me,

Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,

The sighing and sobbing,

Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing

At heart:—ah, that horrible,

Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—

The pitiless pain—

Have ceased, with the fever

That maddened my brain—

With the fever called "Living"

That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures

That torture the worst

Has abated—the terrible

Torture of thirst

For the naphthaline river

Of Passion accurst:—

I have drank of a water

That quenches all thirst:—

Of a water that flows,

With a lullaby sound,

From a spring but a very few

Feet under ground—

From a cavern not very far

Down under ground.

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.

My tantalized spirit

Here blandly reposes,

Forgetting, or never

Regretting its roses—

Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly

Lying, it fancies

A holier odor

About it, of pansies—

A rosemary odor,

Commingled with pansies—

With rue and the beautiful

Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie—

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me,

She fondly caressed,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast—

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished,

She covered me warm,

And she prayed to the angels

To keep me from harm—

To the queen of the angels

To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,

Now in my bed,

(Knowing her love)

That you fancy me dead—

And I rest so contentedly,

Now in my bed,

(With her