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 whisper'd word "Lenore!"

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word "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 ex

plore :

'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 a minute stopp'd or stay'd he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door

Perch'd upon the bust of Pallas, just above my chamber

door;

Perch'd and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebon 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 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."

And 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 utter'd;
Not a feather then he flutter'd ;

Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "Other friends have fled before;

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "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 upon fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of

yore,――

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird

of yore,

Meant in croaking "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 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

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 Dæmon's that is dreaming;

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor:

And my soul from out the shadow that lies floating on the

floor,

Shall be lifted-"Nevermore."

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me!
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear

eyes

(Blest be the art that can immortalise,

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it!) here shines on me still the same;
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long:
I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own: