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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
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
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,
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.
My Thirty-sixth Year.
MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824.
IS time this heart should be unmoved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone:
The fire that on my bosom preys
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
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.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Awake!-not Greece-she is awake!—
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?
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Seek out-less often sought than found-
PON the white sea-sand
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,
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
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 were 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 dead
For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross,
For the wrecks of land and sea!
Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss."
The Good Great Man.
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 merits that which he obtains.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain !
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.
On His Blindness.
HEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
My true account, lest he returning chide —