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Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

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Doubtless," said I, "what 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

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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 expressing
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 lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 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

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- 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 lamp-light 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!

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ROBERT POLLOK.

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And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great

Beneath their argument struggling whiles;

seemed

He from above descending stooped to touch

The loftiest thought; and proudly
stooped, as though

It scarce deserved his verse.
Nature's self

With

He seemed an old acquaintance, free
to jest

At will with all her glorious majesty.
He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's
mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary
locks;
[ennines,
Stood on the Alps, stood on the Ap-
And with the thunder talked, as
friend to friend;

And wove his garland of the light

ning's wing,

In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,

Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,

Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;

Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung

His evening song beneath his feet, conversed.

Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were;

Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds, and storms,

His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce

As equals deemed. All passions of all men,

The wild and tame, the gentle and severe;

All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane;

All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity;

All that was hated, all too, that was dear;

All

that was hoped, all that was feared, by man;

He tossed about, as tempest-withered leaves,

Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made.

With terror now he froze the cowering blood,

And now dissolved the heart in ten

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ALEXANDER POPE.

FROM "ELOISA TO ABELARD.” IN these deep solitudes and awful cells,

Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells,

And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal's veins ?

Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat ?

Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?

Yet, yet I love! - From Abelard it

came,

And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unre

vealed,

Nor pass these lips, in holy silence sealed: [disguise, Hide it, my heart, within that close Where, mixed with God's, his loved idea lies:

O write it not, my hand-the name appears [tears! Already written-wash it out, my In vain lost Eloïsa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.

Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn:

Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn!

Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep, And pitying saints,

whose statues

learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown,

I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heaven's while Abelard

has part,

Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;

Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, [vain. Nor tears for ages taught to flow in

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose,

That well-known name awakens all my woes.

Oh,

name, for ever sad! for ever dear!

Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear.

I tremble, too, whene'er my own I find;

Some dire misfortune follows close behind.

Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow,

Led through a sad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom,

Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! There stern religion quenched the unwilling flame,

There died the best of passions, love and fame.

Yet write, oh! write me all, that I may join

Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.

Nor foes nor fortune take this power

away;

And is my Abelard less kind than they?

Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare,

Love but demands what else were shed in prayer;

No happier task these faded eyes

pursue;

To read and weep is all they now can do.

Then share thy pain, allow that

sad relief;

Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief.

Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,

Some banished lover, or some captive maid;

They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires,

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Whose body nature is, and God the soul;

That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,

Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, [breeze, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees;

Lives through all life, extends through all extent,

Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,

As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,

As the rapt seraph, that adores and burns;

To

Him no high, no low, no great, no small;

He fills, He bounds, connects, and equals all.

Cease then, nor order imperfec

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WIS-Safe in the hand of one disposing

WHAT if the foot, ordained the dust to tread,

Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the head?

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All discord, harmony not understood;
All partial evil, universal good:
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's
spite,

One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.

[From An Essay on Man.] CHARITY, GRADUALLY PERVASIVE.

GOD loves from whole to parts; but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole.

Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,

As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;

The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds,

Another still, and still another spreads;

Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will embrace;

His country next, and next all human

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“What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl!"

I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool.

You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,

Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;

The rest is all but leather or prunello.

[From An Essay on Man.] VIRTUE, THE SOLE UNFAILING HAPPINESS.

KNOW then this truth (enough for

man to know),

"Virtue alone is happiness below." The only point where human bliss stands still,

And tastes the good without the fall to ill; [ceives, Where only merit constant pay reIs blest in what it takes, and what it gives;

The joy unequalled, if its end it gain, And if it lose, attended with no pain: Without satiety, though e'er so blest, And but more relished as the more distressed:

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HONOR and shame from no condi- And where no wants, no wishes can

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