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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."

An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died

so youngA dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so

young

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil-prophet still, if

bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God

we both adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the dis

tant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels

name LenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore."

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?"

“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.

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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!

"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 the note, as it doth float up from the

damned Earth. To friends above, from friends below, the indignant

ghost is rivenFrom Hell unto a high estate far up within the

Heaven, From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside

The King of Heaven.

LENORE.

THE BELLS.

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

HEAR the sledges with the bells

Silvery bells! What a world of merriment their melody fortells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;

be sung,

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells

Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

the

In the jangling,

And the wrangling,

How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger bells

Of the bells-
Of the bells, bell, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

Hear the mellow wedding bells,

Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony fortells!

Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,

And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

Oh! from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells

Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing

Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!

Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a made expostulation with the deep and frantic

fire

Leaping higher, higher, higher,

With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor

Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells

of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!

What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!

Yet the ear it fully knows,

By the twanging,

And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,

Hear the tolling of the bells

Iron bells! What a word of solemn thought their monody com

pels!

In the silence of the night,

How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!

For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats

Is a groan.
And the people-ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,

All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,

In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling

On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-

They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,

Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells

With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells--

Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,

As the knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,

To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-

To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-

Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and groaning of the bells.

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