her the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."

When he opened his wondering eyes upon the white walls of the hospital
he was feeble and weak in his limbs as an infant, but his brain was
unclouded. Gentle hands ministered to him and a woman's voice read him
spirit-soothing words from the Gospel of St. John. But the draught had
done its work. He lingered some days and then, on Sunday morning, the
seventh day of October of the year 1849, his spirit took its flight. His
last words were a prayer:

"Lord, have mercy on my poor soul!"

Many were the friends who rose up to comfort the stricken mother and who
hastened to bring rosemary to the poet's grave. But there was one whom
he had believed to be his friend--a big man whose big brain he had
admired--in whose furtive eye was an unholy glee, about whose thick lips
played a smile which slightly revealed his fang-like teeth. To him was
entrusted the part of literary executor--it had been The Dreamer's own
request. In his power it would lie to give to the world his own account
of this man who had said he was no poet and had distanced him in the
race for a woman's favor.

The day was at hand when Rufus Griswold would have his full revenge upon
the fair fame of Edgar the Dreamer.

* * * * *

"Out--out are the lights--out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm;
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, 'Man,'
And its hero the Conqueror Worm."

* * * * *

Transcriber's note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAMER***

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