THE RAVEN.
ONCE upon a midnight dreary,
While,I pondered, weak and weary,
)ver many a quaint and curious
Volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping,
Rapping at my chamber door.'T is some visitor," I muttered,
"Tapping at my chamber doorOnly this and nothing more.
Ah, distinctly I remember
It was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember
Wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;Vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrowSorrow for the lost Lenore —
For the rare and radiant maiden
Whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.




The Raven.
And the silken sad uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic
Terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'T is some visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating
Entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."
Presently, my soul grew stronger;
Hesitatin'g then no longer,' Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly
Your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping,
Tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"Here I opened wide the door:
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering,
Long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals
Ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken,
And the stillness gave no token,




The Raven.
And the only word there spoken
Was the whispered word, " Lenore!"'I'his I whispered, and an echo
A;Iurmured back the word, " Lenore! "MJerely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning,
All my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping
Something louder than before.
Surely," said I, "''surely that is
Something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then what thereat is,
And this mystery exploreLet my heart be still a moment
And this mystery explore;"' is the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter,
When, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven
Of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he;
Not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady,
Perched above my chamber doorPerched upon a bust of Pallas
Just above my chamber doorPerched, and sat, and nothing more.




The Raven.
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 shoreTell me what thy lordly name is
On the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled 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 blest with seeing
Bird above his chamber doorBird or beast upon the sculptured
Bust above his chamber door,
With such name as " Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely
On that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in
That one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered;
Not a feather then he fluttered



The Raven.
Till I scarcely more than muttered,
" Other friends have flown beforeOn 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,''" hat it utters
Is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master
Whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster
Till his songs one burden boreTill 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 yoreWhat this grim, ungainly, ghastly,
Gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."




TThe Raven.'IThis I sat engaged in guessing,
But no syllable expressing'I'o the fowl wvhose 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 fi-om an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls
Tinkled on the tufted floor.
" Wretch,"' I cried, " thy God hath lent theeBy these angels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe
From thlv memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe,
And forget this lost Lenore! "
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."'Prophlet!" said I,' thing of evil
Prophet still, if bird or devil!WVhthher Tempter sent, or wh-lether
Tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all un(launted,
On this desert land enchanted



The Raven.
On this home by Horror hauntedTell 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 evilProphet still, if bird or devil
By that Heaven that bends above usBy that God we both adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden
Whom the angels name LenoreClasp 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!
I'ake thy beak from out myr heart, and
Take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore. "




7he Raven.
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
-EDGAR ALLAN POE.




LUCY GRAY.
OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
-The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy nightYou to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father, will I gladly do!'T is scarcely afternoonThe minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon."




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Iucy, Gray.
At this the Father raised his hook
And snapped a faggot band;
He plied his work;-and IJucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
Ihat rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
And, turning homeward, now they cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet! "
-When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.




Lucy Gray.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall:
And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none
-Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
-WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.