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Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from

an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch!" I cried, "thy god hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore

Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Never more."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil-prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us-by that God we both adore

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant

Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name

Lenore,"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more.”

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting

"Get the back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Never more."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted-never more?

Lenore.

Ан, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown for ever! Let the bell toll!-a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;

And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?-weep now or never more!

See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read-the funeral song be sung!

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young

A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth, and hated her for her pride,

And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed herthat she died!

How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung

By you by yours, the evil eye-by yours, the slanderous tongue

That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus! but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song. Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,

Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride

For her, the fair and debonnair, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair, but not within her eyesThe life still there upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,

But waft the angel on her flight with a pan of old

days!

Let no bell toll!-lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth...

Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damned earth

To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost

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From hell unto a high estate far up within the heaven-From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven."

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Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon!

Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells;

How it dwells

On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune.

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavour
Now-now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.

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