Much I marvell'd 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 bless'd with seeing bird above his cham ber-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 utter'd-not a feather then he flutter'd Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "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 disaster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of Never-nevermore !" But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd 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 burn'd 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, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press-ah! nevermore! 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, "Nevermore !" "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted O this home by Horror haunted-tell me truly, I im plore Is 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 Lenore; 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 shriek'd, 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 floor Shall be lifted-NEVERMORE! THE BELLS. (EDGAR A. POE.) Hear the sledges with the bells- What a world of merriment their melody foretells! To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! On the Future! how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells- What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, And a resolute endeavor, Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging How the danger ebbs and flows; In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells— Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells- What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! |