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“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 ! LENORE.

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Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever !
Let the bell toll !—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear ?—weep now or never

more!
See ! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore !

,
Come ! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung !
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

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“Wretches ! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her

pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she

died ! “ How shall the ritual, then, be read ?—the requiem how be sung “By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous

tongue “ That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young ?”

Peccavimus ; but rave not thus ! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew

beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy

bride

For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon

her

eyes.

“ Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, “But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days! “Let no bell toll!-lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, "Should catch tủe notė, as it doth float up from the damnéd

Earth. “To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is

riven“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven"From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of

eaven."

HYMN.

At morn—at noon—at twilight dim-
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn !
In joy and wo—in good and ill-
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
· Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let
my

Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine !

A VALENTINE.

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines !—they hold a treasure

Divine-a talisman-an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-

The words—the syllables ! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may

lose
your

labor ! And yet there is in this no Gordian knot Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets—as the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto-Mendez FerdinandoStill form a synonym for Truth.—Cease trying ! You will not read the riddle, though you

do the best

you [To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.]

can do.

THE COLISEUM.

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length-at length-after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence ! and Desolation ! and dim Night !
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars !

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Here, where a hero fell, a column falls !
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle !
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

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