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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 !"
Then into the chamber turning,
Somewhat louder than before.
And this mystery explore.
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
Then this ebony bird beguiling
Of the countenance it wore,
Wandering from the Nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is
On the Night's Plutonian shore "
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Little relevancy bore;
Bird above his chamber door
Bust above his chamber door,
Startled at the stillness broken
It is only stock and store
Till his songs one burden bore-
Melancholy burden bore
Of. Nevermore,'—of. Nevermore.'”
Front of bird and bust and door ;
What this ominous bird of yore-
Gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore."
Burn'd into my bosom's core ;
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,” ! 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.”
Tempest toss'd thee here ashore,
Tell me truly, I implore-
Tell me-tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the raven, “ Nevermore."
By that God we both adóre-
But the raven sitting lonely
That one word he did outpour.
" Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, As my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
It writhes !-it writhes !-with mortal pangs,
The mimes become its food,
In human gore imbued.
out all ! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with a rush of a storm,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
Edgar A. Poe.-Born 1811, Died 1849.
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."
And the Night's Plutonian shore !
Quit the bust above my door!
And take thy form from off my door !"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
Just above my chamber door ;
Throws his shadow on the floor ;
That lies floating on the floor
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,
A play of hopes and fears,
The music of the spheres.
Mutter and mumble low,
Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
It shall not be forgot!
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 !
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
greetedWhat 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,
Like patriot music or affection's tone-
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 beThe 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; .
But if one blessing I might crave from An Eldorado in the grass have found,
Which not the rich earth's ample round 'Twould be that Mary should my being May match in wealth-thou art more dear cheer,
to me Hang o'er me when the chord of life is riven, Than all the prouder summer-blooms may Be my dear household word, and my last be. accent here.
Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish Henry T. Tuckerman,-Born 1813.
prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Cf age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 1910.-FLORENCE.
'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters
now Princes, when soften'd in thy sweet embrace,
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand Yearn for no conquest but the realm of grace,
To take it at God's valoe, but pass by And thus redeem'd, Lorenzo's fair domain
The offer'd wealth with unrewarded eye. Smiled in the light of Art's propitious reign. Delightful Florence! though the northern Thou art my trophies and mine Italy; gale
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; Will sometimes rave around thy lovely vale,
The eyes thou givest me Can I forget how softly Autumn threw Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Beneath thy skies her robes of ruddy hue, Not in mid June the golden-cuirass'd bee Through what long days of balminess and Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment peace,
In the white lily's breezy tint, From wintry bonds spring won thy mild His conquer'd Sybaris, than I, when first release ?
From the dark green thy yellow circles Along the Arno then I loved to pass,
burst. And watch the violets peeping from the grass, Mark the grey kine each chestnut grove
Then think I of deep shadows on the grassbetween,
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Startle the pheasants on the lawny green,
Where, as the breezes pass, Or down long vistas hail the mountain snow,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand waysLike lofty shrines the purple clouds below.
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Within thy halls, when veil'd the sunny rays,
Or whiten in the wind-of waters wlue Marvels of art await the ardent gaze,
That from the distance sparkle through And liquid words from lips of beauty start,
Some woodland gap--and of a sky above, With social joy to warm the stranger's heart.
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb
doth move. How beautiful at moonlight's hallow'd hour, Thy graceful bridges, and celestial tower !
My childhood's earliest thoughts are link'a The girdling hills enchanted seem to hang
with thee; Round the fair scene whence modern genius The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, sprang ;
Who, from the dark old tree O'er the dark ranges of thy palace walls
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, The silver beam on dome and cornice falls;
And I, secure in childish piety, The statues cluster'd in thy ancient square, Listen'd as if I heard an angel sing Like mighty spirits print the solemn air ;
With news from heaven, which he did Silence meets beauty with nnbroken reign,
bring Save when invaded by a choral strain,
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, Whose distant cadence falls upon the ear, When birds and flowers and I were happy To fill the bosom with poetic cheer!
peers. Henry T. Tuckerman.-Born 1813.
How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart, 1911.-TO THE DANDELION.
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Dear common flower, that grow'st beside
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret the way,
show, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, up
On all these living pages of God's book. hold,
James R. Lowell.-Born 1819. High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoy'd that
And still his deathless words of light are
swimming In the old days of awe and keen-eyed wonder, Serene throughout the great, deep infinite The Poet's song with blood-warm truth was Of human soul, unwaning and undimming, rife;
To cheer and guide the mariner at night. He saw the mysteries which circle under But now the Poet is an empty rhymer,
The outward shell and skin of daily life. Who lies with idle elbow on the grass, Nothing to him were fleeting time and fashion, And fits his singing, like a cunning timer, His soul was led by the eternal law;
To all men's prides and fancies as they There was in him no hope of fame, no passion, pass.
But with calm, godlike eyes, he only saw. Not his the song, which, in its metre holy, He did not sigh o'er heroes dead and buried, Chimes with the music of the eternal
Chief mourner at the Golden Age's hearse, stars, Nor deem that souls whom Charon grim had Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly, ferried
And sending sun through the soul's prisonAlone were fitting themes of epic verse :
bars. He could believe the promise of to-morrow, Maker no more,-0, no! unmaker rather,
And feel the wondrous meaning of to-day; For he unmakes who doth not all put forth He had a deeper faith in holy sorrow
The power given by our loving Father Than the world's seeming loss could take To show the body's dross, the spirit's away.
worth. To know the heart of all things was his duty, Awake! great spirit of the ages olden ! All things did sing to him to make him Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, wise,
And let man's soul be yet again beholden And, with a sorrowful and conquering beauty, To thee for wings to soar to her desire.
The soul of all look'd grandly from his eyes. 0, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendour, He gazed on all within him and without him, Be no more shame-faced to speak out for
He watch'd the flowing of Time's steady tide, Truth, And shapes of glory floated all about him, Lay on her altar all the gushings tender,
And whisper'd to him, and he prophesied. The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth ! Than all men he more fearless was and freer, O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming,
And all his brethren cried with one accord, - Say not his onward footsteps thou canst “Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer!
hear Him who hath spoken with the unseen In the dim void, like to the awful humming Lord !”
Of the great wings of some new-lighted He to his heart with large embrace had taken sphere! The universal sorrow of mankind,
0, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, This longing was but granted unto thee
The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind. That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and He could interpret well the wondrous voices know it,
Which to the calm and silent spirit come; That beauty in its highest thou couldst be. He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices O, thou who moanest, tost with sealike long
In the star's anthem than the insect's hum. ings, He in his heart was ever meek and humble, Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,
And yet with kindly pomp his numbers ran, Whose soul is overfill’d with mighty throng. As he foresaw how all things false should ings crumble
Of love, and fear, and glorious agony, Before the free uplifted soul of man: Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews And, when he was made full to overflowing And soul by Mother Earth with freedom
With all the loveliness of heaven and earth, fed, Out rush'd his song, like molten iron glowing, In whom the hero-spirit yet continues, To show God sitting by the humblest The old free nature is not chain'd or dead, hearth.
Arouse ! let thy soul break in music-thunder, With calmest courage he was ever ready Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, To teach that action was the truth of Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy thought,
wonder, And, with strong arm and purpose firm and And tell the age what all its signs have steady,
meant. The anchor of the drifting world he Where'er thy wilder'd crowd of brethren wrought,
jostles, So did he make the meanest man partaker Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong,
Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; There still is need of martyrs and apostles, All souls did reverence him and name him There still are texts for never-dying song; Maker,
From age to age man's still aspiring spirit And when he died heap'd temples on his Finds wider scope and sees with clearer grave.
And thon in larger measure dost inherit This, this is he for whom the world is waiting What made thy great forerunners free and To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, wise.
I'oo long hath it been patient with the grating Sit thou enthronèd where the Poet's moun Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed
Art. Above the thunder lifts its silent peak, To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, And roll thy songs down like a gathering foun Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside, tain,
And once again in every eye shall glisten That all may drink and find the rest they The glory of a nature satisfied. seek.
His verse shall have a great, commanding Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and motion, heaven,
Heaving and swelling with a melody A silence of deep awe and wondering ; Learnt of the sky, the river, and the ocean, For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even And all the pure, majestic things that be. To hear a mortal like an angel sing. Awake, then, thou ! we pine for thy great
presence Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking To make us feel the soul once more sublime,
For one to bring the Maker's name to light, We are of far too infinite an essence To be the voice of that almighty speaking To rest contented with the lies of Time.
Which every age demands to do it right. Speak out! and, lo! a hush of deepest wonder Proprieties our silken bards environ ;
Shall sink o'er all his many-voiced scene, He who would be the tongue of this wide As when a sudden burst of rattling thunder land
Shatters the blueness of a sky serene. Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron
J. R. Lowell.-Born 1819. And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand; One who hath dwelt with Nature well-at
tended, Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,
1913.—THE SIRENS. Whose soul with all her countless lives hath The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, blended,
The sea is restless and uneasy ;
Wandering thou knowest not whither ;pamper'd,
Our little isle is green and breezy, Who as the clear north-western wind is Come and rest thee! O come hither! free,
Come to this peaceful home of ours, Who walks with Forin's observances
Where evermore unhamper'd,
The low west wind creeps panting up the And follows the One Will obediently ;
shore Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit, To be at rest among the flowers ;
Control a lovely prospect every way; Full of rest, the green moss lifts, Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly As the dark waves of the sea plummet,
Draw in and out of rocky rifts,
" To the shore
Look how the grey old Ocean
From the depth of his heart rejoices,
When he hears our restful voices;
Chiming with our melody;
That murmurs over the weary sea, -
For being gently patient with the wrong, Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar; Who sees a brother in the evildoer,
Turn thy curvèd prow ashore, And finds in Love the heart's blood of his And in our green isle rest for evermore! song :