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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 marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door

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

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 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 fluttered

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 that 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, 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 lamplight gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an

unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted

floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-by these angels he hath sent thee

K

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 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

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 !

ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY.

BY HORACE SMITH.

AND hast thou walked about, (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy;
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune:
Thou'rt standing on thy legs above-ground, Mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect-
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath, to tell the secrets of thy trade,—
Then say, what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a priest—if so, my struggles
Are vain, for Priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,
For thou wert dead and buried and embalmed,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled.
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develope, if that withered tongue

Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great Deluge still had left it green-
Or was it then so old, that History's pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent! incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows; But prythee tell us something of thyself

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen-what strange adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above-ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen- we have lost old nations,

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And countless Kings have into dust been humbled,
While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

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