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THE RAVEN.

257

“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, “Neverinore !"

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

Aoor
Shall be lifted-nevermore!

EDGAR A. Poe.

My Thirty-sixth Year.

MISSOLONGUI, Jan. 22, 1824.

'T S 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,

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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.

UPON

PON the white sea-sand

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.

One spake, with quivering lip,

Of a fair freighted ship,
With all his household to the deep gone down;

But one had wilder woe

For a fair face long ago
Lost in the darker depths of a great town.

There were who mourned their youth

With a most loving ruth,
For its brave hopes and memories ever green;

And one upon the West

Turned an eye that would not rest, For far-off hills whereon its joy had been.

Some talked of vanished gold,

Some of proud honors told, Some spake of friends that were their trust no more ;

And one of a green grave

Beside a foreign wave,
That made him sit so lonely on the shore.

But when their tales we done,

There spake among them one,
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free:

“ Sad losses have ye met,
But mine is heavier yet ;
For a believing heart hath gone from me.”

“ Alas !” these pilgrims said,

“For the living and the deadFor fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross,

For the wrecks of land and sea !

But, however it came to thee,
Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."

FRANCES BROWY.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

26

The Good Great Man.

HOW

OW seldom, friend, a good great man inherits

Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains ! It seems a story from the world of spirits When any man obtains that which he merits,

Or any rnerits that which he obtains.

For shame, my friend ! renounce this idle strain !
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ?
Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,
Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man ? Three treasures-love, and light,

And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ;
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night-
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death?

SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

On His Blindness. WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with mę useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide —

“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?”
I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That inurmur, soon replies : “God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

JOHN MILTON.

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