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That one word, as if his soul in that one word he

did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather

then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, “ Other

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

have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore !”

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly

spoken, “Doubtless," said I, “what it utters is its only

stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom un

merciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his song one

burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden

bore,
Of Nevermore,-nevermore!'"

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into

smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned 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 yoreWhat 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 burned 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! 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 the memories

of Lenore ! Quaff, 0, 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 tossed

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!'

66

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 fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels

name Lenore !" Quoth the raven,

“ Nevermore! “ Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !”

I shrieked, 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 ALLAN POE.

KUBLA KHAN.*

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran,
Through caverns measureless to man,
Down to a sunless sea.

*“In the summer of the year 1797 the author, then in ill-health, had retired to a lonely farmhouse between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effect of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's “Pilgrimage”: Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto: and thus ten miles of fertile ground were enclosed with a wall.' The author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and, taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away, like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas ! without the after restoration of the latter.”The Author, 1816.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens, bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Infolding sunny spots of greenery.
But O that deep romantic chasm, which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced,
Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail;
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale, the sacred river ran,-
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean,
And mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war.

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves
Where was heard the mingled measure

From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,-
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw;

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