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 The moon with silvery ciphers traced The leaves, and on the waters play'd; She rose, she caught me round the waist, She led me to her crystal grot, She set me in her coral chair, She waved her hand, and I had not Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame 'O make me, Nix, again the same, She smiles in scorn, she disappears, 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 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. 3 Beside a grotto of their own, 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, Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! 5 Some close behind, some side by side, They run and cry, 'Nay let us die, A lake was near; the shore was steep; They ran, and with a desperate leap Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 6 The stream that flows out of the lake, 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, 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, |