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 stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word

"Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word 66 LENORE!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something 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 a minute 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

66

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 chamberdoor,

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 lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press-ah! nevermore.

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen

censer

Swung by seraphim, whose 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, 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 implore,
Is 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!

2. THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.

I HAVE often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would that is to say, who could-detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say; but perhaps the authorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers poets in especial-prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy, an ecstatic intuition; and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought, at the true purposes seized only at the last moment, at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view, at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable, at the cautious selections and rejections, at the painful erasures and interpolations, in a word, at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the step-ladders and demontraps, the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio.

I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar

manner.