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Tottering above

In her highest noon,
The enamour'd moon
Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven)
Pauses in heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and singsThe trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty→
Where Love's a grown-up god-
Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassion'd song;
To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest !
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervour of thy lute-

Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely-flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours.

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In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the

fire,

In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire.

Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour
Now-now to sit or never,

By the side of the pale-faced moon.

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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 stoneThey are neither man nor womanThey are neither brute nor humanThey 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 pean 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 bellsOf the bells, bells, bells

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

As he 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,

1906.-FOR ANNIE.

Thank Heaven! the crisisThe danger, is past,

And the lingering illness

Is over at last

And the fever call'd "Living' Is conquer'd at last.

Sadly, I know

I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move

As I lie at full length;
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
That any beholder

Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead-

The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,

With that horrible throbbing At heart-ah that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness-the nausea-
The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever
That madden'd my brain-
With the fever call'd "Living"
That burn'd in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures,

That torture the worst
Has abated-the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the napthaline river
Of Passion accurst:

I have drunk of a water

That quenches all thirst:

Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From the spring but a few

Feet under groundFrom a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never

Be foolishly said

That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept

In a different bed

And, to sleep, you must slumber

In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses-
Its old agitations

Of myrtles and roses :

For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies

A holier odour

About it, of pansiesA rosemary odour,

Commingled with pansies-
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of AnnieDrown'd in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss'd me,

She fondly caress'd,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish'd,
She cover'd me warm,
And she pray'd to the angels
To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love,)

That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast,)

That you fancy me deadThat you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead :

But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many

Stars of the sky,

For it sparkles with Annie

It glows with the light

Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.

1907.-THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, While I ponder'd, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious

Volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "Tapping at my chamber doorOnly this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember, It was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember Wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow; Vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrowSorrow for the lost LenoreFor the rare and radiant maiden Whom the angels name LenoreNameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain
Rustling of each purple curtain
Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic
Terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating
Of my heart, I stood repeating
""Tis some visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber doorSome late visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more."

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 open'd 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 whisper'd word, "Lenore!" This I whisper'd, and an echo

Murmur'd 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 stepp'd a stately raven

Of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he;
Not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he ;
But, with mien of lord or lady,

Perch'd above my chamber doorPerch'd upon a bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door-
Perch'd, and sat, and nothing more.

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Startled at the stillness broken
By reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters

It is only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master
Whom unmerciful Disaster
Follow'd fast and follow'd faster,
Till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope the
Melancholy burden bore

Of Nevermore,'-of 'Nevermore." "
But the raven still beguiling
All my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd 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
Burn'd 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, ah, never more!

Then, methought, the air grew denser,
Perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls
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 toss'd 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 shriek'd, 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 dreaming,
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!

Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.

1908.-THE CONQUEROR WORM. Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewing'd, bedight
In veils, and drown'd in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-

Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe!

That motley drama!-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude!

It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs,
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with a rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
Its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.

1909.-MARY.

What though the name is old and oft repeated,

What though a thousand beings bear it now,

And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted

What though 'tis hallow'd by a poet's
Vow?

We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming
Is a familiar rapture to the eye;
And yon bright star we hail, although its
looming

Age after age has lit the northern sky.
As starry beams o'er troubled billows stealing,
As garden odours to the desert blown,
In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing,
Like patriot music or affection's tone-
Thus, thus, for aye, the name of Mary spoken
By lips or text, with magic-like control,
The course of present thought has quickly
broken,

And stirr'd the fountains of my inmost soul.

The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow,
The fairest trophies of the limner's fame,
To my fond fancy, Mary, seem to borrow
Celestial halos from thy gentle name:
The Grecian artist glean'd from many faces,
And in a perfect whole the parts combined,
So have I counted o'er dear woman's graces
To form the Mary of my ardent mind.
And marvel not I thus call my ideal-
We inly paint as we would have things be-
The fanciful springs ever from the real,
As Aphrodite rose from out the sea.
Who smiled upon me kindly day by day,
In a far land where I was sad and lone ?
Whose presence now is my delight away?

Both angels must the same bless'd title own. What spirits round my weary way are flying. What fortunes on my future life await, Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing,

Are all unknown-in trust I bide my fate;

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