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 the 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 dæmon's that is dreaming,

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that is floating on the floor

Shall be lifted 'Nevermore.'

E. A. Poe

XCVIII

THE NIX

The crafty Nix, more false than fair
Whose haunt in arrowy Iser lies,
She envied me my golden hair,
She envied me my azure eyes.

The moon with silvery ciphers traced

The leaves, and on the waters play'd;

She rose, she caught me round the waist,
She said, 'Come down with me, fair maid.'

She led me to her crystal grot,

She set me in her coral chair,

She waved her hand, and I had not
Or azure eyes or golden hair.

Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame
Were mine, and hers my semblance fair;

'O make me, Nix, again the same,
O give me back my golden hair!'

She smiles in scorn, she disappears,
And here I sit and see no sun,
My eyes of fire are quenched in tears,
And all my darksome locks undone.

R. Garnett

XCIX

THE SEVEN SISTERS;

OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

I

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,

All children of one mother:

You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies wrought !
Seven sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.
Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

2

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a rover brave

To Binnorie is steering :.

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne ;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the leader of the band

Hath blown his bugle horn.
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

3

Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly, to left, to right—
Of your fair household, father-knight,
Methinks you take small heed !
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

4

Away the seven fair Campbells fly;

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, 'Your father loves to roam : Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!'

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

5

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run and cry, 'Nay let us die,
And let us die together.'

A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There foot had never been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

6

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

W. Wordsworth

C

THE BEGGAR MAID

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say ; Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the King Cophetua.

In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; 'It is no wonder,' said the lords, 'She is more beautiful than day.'

As shines the moon in clouded skies,
She in her poor attire was seen :
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
So sweet a face, such angel grace,

In all that land had never been:

Cophetua swore a royal oath :

'This beggar maid shall be my queen.'

A. Tennyson

СІ

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lords pursue.