'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 the 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! 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 dæmon'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 is floating on the floor Shall be lifted 'Nevermore.' E. A. Poe XCVIII THE NIX The crafty Nix, more false than fair She envied me my golden hair, The moon with silvery ciphers traced The leaves, and on the waters play'd; She rose, she caught me round the waist, She led me to her crystal grot, She set me in her coral chair, Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame She smiles in scorn, she disappears, R. Garnett XCIX THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE I Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, You could not say in one short day 2 Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, Across the wave, a rover brave Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne ; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band 3 Beside a grotto of their own, 4 Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, 'Your father loves to roam : Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! 5 Some close behind, some side by side, They run and cry, 'Nay let us die, A lake was near; the shore was steep; They ran, and with a desperate leap Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 6 The stream that flows out of the lake, W. Wordsworth THE BEGGAR MAID Her arms across her breast she laid; In robe and crown the king stept down, As shines the moon in clouded skies, So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been : Cophetua swore a royal oath : 'This beggar maid shall be my queen.' A. Tennyson CI THE WILD HUNTSMAN The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, |