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."

As distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And separate each 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;That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, surely 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;

Then 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;

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,

sure no craven,

"art

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 name as 66 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 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, 66 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
Óf "Nevermore" of "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."

Thus 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, O, 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 angels 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

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 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;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dream ing,

And the lamplight 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.

Ex. CXXXIX.—PHAETHON.

JOHN G. SAXE.

DAN PHAETHON- -so the histories run-
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun;
Or rather of Phoebus-but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora!

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun ;"
Running, they say,
Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way.)
And lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!

Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means Phœbus's boy!
Intending, the rascally sun of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!"
"Then by my head,”

The youngster said,