THE RAVEN.

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But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber

door,Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, "art sure no craven;

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore !

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore !"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !”

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber

door

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore !"

But the raven sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he fluttered

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird sai "Nevermore !"

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and

store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful dis

aster

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden

bore,

Till the dirges of his hope one melancholy burden bore,

Of" Never-nevermore !"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,— Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and

bust, and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore !"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's

core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated

o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining, which the lamp-light gloated o'er,

She shall press—ah! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,

Swung by angels whose faint 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 the memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lust Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

THE RAVEN.

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"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 In this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I imploreIs there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me-tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

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 Le

nore;

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore !"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore !"

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

"Get thee 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, "Nevermore !"

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 foor

Shall be lifted-nevermore!

EDGAR A. POE.

'T

My Thirty-sixth Year.

MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.

IS time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf,

The flowers and fruits of love are gone:
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle:
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of Love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain!

But 't is not thus-and 't is not here-

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

LOSSES.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free!

Awake!-not Greece-she is awake!—
Awake my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood,-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seck out-less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

LORD BYRON.

Losses.

PON the white sea-sand

UPON

a

There sat a pilgrim band,

Telling the losses that their lives had known;

While evening waned away

From breezy cliff and bay,

And the strong tides went out with weary moan.

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