Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers, that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,

That make the meadows green; and poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone!—
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou shalt fall
Unnoticed by the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men-

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles
And beauty of its innocent age cut off-
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes, to join The innumerable caravan, that moves

To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Ex. CXXXVIII.—THE RAVEN.

EDGAR A. POE.

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and

weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tap

ping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door

"Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each seperate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Le

nore

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Le

nore-

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt be

fore;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeat

ing,

""Tis 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; hesitating 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 mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window
lattice;

66

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my
heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ;-
'Tis 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 an instant stopped or

stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber
door-

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

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

shore

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian

shore ?"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

<

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we can not help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber
door-

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber
door,

With such a name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered-not a feather then he flut-
tered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have
flown before;

On 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, "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

bore

Till the dirges of his hope the 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 yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghostly, 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 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 from an un

seen censer,

Swung by angels whose faint footfalls tinkled on the tufted

floor,

Wretch, ," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these an-
gels he hath sent thee
Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O 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,
In this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I implore-
Is there is there balm in Gilead?-tell me tell me, I im-

66

plore!"

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, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

X