Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed 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 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 ex pressing 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 lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press ah nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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 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 "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 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 lamplight 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 ! CHRISTOPHER PEASE CRANCH. [Born in 1813. Originally a Unitarian minister, but, since 1842, a landscape-painter of distinguished reputation in the United States. The sole volume of his Poems was published in 1854). STANZAS. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech; We are spirits clad in veils: Man by man was never seen: Heart to heart was never known: Of a temple once complete. Like the stars that gem the sky, In our light we scattered lie; What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream? Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, Which they never drew from earth; We, like parted drops of rain, HARRIET ELIZABETH BEECHER STOWE. [Born in 1814; married to the Rev. Professor Stowe. Mrs. Stowe first attracted notice by a collection of tales and sketches named The Mayflower in 1844: in 1852 she was the subject of world-wide celebrity as authoress of Uncle Tom's Cabin, and in 1869 of world-wide detraction as revealer of Lady Byron's charges against her ever-illustrious husband]. ONLY A YEAR.1 ONE year ago,—a ringing voice, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Only a year, no voice, no smile, No glance of eye, No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die. One year ago, what loves, what schemes Far into life! 1 These lines refer to the death, in 1857, of a son of Mrs. Stowe, drowned while bathing in the Connecticut River. What joyous hopes, what high resolves, The silent picture on the wall, Of all that beauty, life, and joy, One year, one year, one little year, And so much gone!— And yet the even flow of life The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray No pause or hush of merry birds That sing above Tells us how calmly sleeps below Where hast thou been this year, beloved? What hast thou seen? What visions fair, what glorious life, Where thou hast been! The veil, the veil-so thin, so strong- The mystic veil, when shall it fall, Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone; And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will! Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear, We lay in silence at Thy feet |